Bonds of Obsession (Pretty Ruthless Monsters #3)

20. Killian

20

KILLIAN

My shoulders tense the second Nico’s phone lights up with Zoey’s name. The fucking traitor has some nerve, calling here after turning the other Princes—our fucking family—against us.

Atlas straightens in his chair, seemingly oblivious to his injuries, and Quinn’s hand slides to rest at the spot on her hip near where she normally tucks her gun—a reflex none of us can shake these days.

“What do you want?” Nico’s voice is ice cold. He never was one for pleasantries, but there’s a new edge to his tone now. The kind that comes from betrayal.

I can’t hear what Zoey is saying, but her tone carries that same fake sweetness she always used when she wanted something. Watching Nico’s jaw clench, I know exactly what’s coming before he says it.

“A meeting.” He barks out a harsh laugh. “You want to meet after what you pulled?”

Quinn’s eyes narrow. No doubt she’s thinking the same thing I am—this reeks of a trap.

“Fine.” Nico’s lip curls. “But we do this at the old corner store at the eastern edge of our—of what used to be the Princes’ territory. Middle of the day, right there in the parking lot.”

Smart. That side of town is run down enough that nobody is going to bat an eye when a dozen bikers show up, but still wide open enough that even Zoey won’t be stupid enough to try anything there. “Two hours.”

He hangs up without waiting for her response, tossing the phone back onto the counter like it’s burned him. “She says she has a proposition for us.”

“Fuck that,” Atlas growls, then winces as the movement pulls at his stitches. “But I’m going. Just so I can see her face when you tell her to fuck off.”

“Like hell you are,” Quinn snaps, but there’s an undercurrent of fear beneath the irritation in her voice. “You can barely walk two feet without falling over.”

“Try to fucking stop me.” Atlas meets her gaze, unflinching. “I didn’t get shot and tortured just to sit on my ass while you all walk head first into whatever bullshit she’s planning.”

I watch Quinn’s face as she processes that. The terror of almost losing him is still fresh—I can see it in the way she hasn’t stopped touching him since we got him back. But she also knows Atlas well enough by now to recognize when he won’t be swayed.

“Fine,” she finally says, jaw clenched tight. “But we stay together. And you stay behind me.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but I cut him off. “Behind all of us,” I add, leaving no room for debate. Atlas may be acting tough, but I can see the way he’s favoring his left side, how shallow his breathing is.

Quinn shoots me a grateful look. She won’t say it out loud, but I know she’s relieved to have backup in protecting his stubborn ass. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed since this all started—we take care of our own.

Nico stands, already planning ten steps ahead like always. “We need to move. If Zoey has something planned, I want us ready.” His dark eyes scan over Atlas. “Think you can ride?”

“Try to fucking stop me,” Atlas repeats, but there’s a ghost of a smile this time.

As we eat breakfast quickly, it strikes me in a sudden rush just how much has changed. A few months ago, we wouldn’t have trusted Quinn to watch our backs. Now I know without question she’d die to protect any one of us. Just like we would for her.

Looking over at Atlas, I can’t help but think back to the mark I saw on his chest—the one Quinn must have put there sometime last night. Fresh ink, still raised and red around the edges where I had to restitch him. Even through the blood, I could see how perfectly she’d done it—strong, sure lines marking him as hers.

I’ve always thought tattoos were fucking pointless. Body modification, unnecessary marks that only draw attention. But watching Atlas’s face when he looked at that place on his chest… There was something primal there. Something that called to the part of me that wants to possess and be possessed.

My fingers drift to my own chest, and I picture my unmarked skin beneath my shirt. I’ve never wanted anyone’s mark on me before. Never wanted to belong to anyone but myself. But seeing her claim on Atlas, knowing he carries a piece of her wherever he goes—it stirs something visceral in my gut. Something that suggests I might’ve been wrong about this, like I was wrong about so many things before Quinn.

Atlas pushes back from the table, grimacing as he stands. “I should probably shower before we go.”

He’s wearing a clean shirt, but there are already a couple of small blood spots from the fresh stitches I gave him.

“You’re gonna need help changing out those bandages.” Quinn is already moving to support him, and there’s steel in her voice that says she won’t be taking no for an answer.

“Careful, vicious,” Atlas teases. “People might think you actually give a shit about me.”

“Shut up before I change my mind and let you fall on your ass.” But her fingers tighten on his arm, betraying her words.

His lips curl into that familiar cocky grin. “Pretty sure that once I get you alone in that shower with me, the only thing you’ll be helping is getting me hard.”

Fucking hell. It’s like living with a damn teenager.

I muster the most serious look I can, given the circumstances. “You pop those stitches again and I’ll stitch your dick to your thigh.” But the threat sounds as hollow as it is. Can’t blame the bastard for wanting her, even when he’s half dead.

“Worth it,” Atlas grunts. “Some things are worth bleeding for.”

“Keep it in your pants,” Nico says as he starts to clear away our plates. “We don’t have time to restitch you every five fucking minutes.”

“He’s right.” Quinn shoots Atlas a quelling look. “They’re both right. No fucking in the shower. You can barely stand as it is.”

“That’s what the wall is for,” Atlas growls, pulling her closer. But I can see the way his muscles tremble from just that small movement. The stubborn fuck is running on empty.

“Jesus Christ,” Quinn mutters. “Even half dead, you’re still thinking with your dick.”

“Only around you.” Atlas nips at her ear. “I just can’t help myself.”

“You’re gonna have to put it on ice for now,” she smirks, tossing a pointed look toward his crotch. “We need to get you cleaned up and then we’re going to this meeting.” She pauses, and her voice softens slightly. “I just got you back. I’m not letting you hurt yourself worse.”

The raw honesty in her words hits like a punch to the gut. Atlas must feel it too, because he stops arguing and lets her lead him toward the stairs.

I watch Quinn help Atlas up to the second floor, his arm slung over her shoulders as she takes his weight. My chest tightens at the sight—not with jealousy or possession like it might have before, but with something deeper. Something that feels dangerously close to peace.

The feeling catches me off guard. Peace isn’t something I’ve known since I was eight years old, watching my mother’s body sink beneath dark water. Even after finding Nico and Atlas, there was always an edge of violence to our brotherhood, a readiness for war that never quite settled.

But watching Quinn with Atlas, seeing how naturally she fits into the spaces between us… It shifts something in my chest. Makes me realize we weren’t just missing a fourth person in our lives. We were missing the thread that could stitch our jagged pieces into something whole.

Fuck. When did I start thinking like this? I’m the psychopath, the one who doesn’t feel. The killer who’s only kept in check by my brothers. Yet here I am, feeling my chest expand with emotions I can barely name as I watch Quinn take care of one of our own.

Our own. That’s what she is now. What we all are together. Not just a brotherhood anymore, but something more. Something I never thought I’d have after what my mother did to me.

A family.

The word should terrify me. Should make me want to run, to kill, to destroy before it can be taken away. Instead, it settles into my bones like it belongs there. Like maybe this is what I’ve been carved hollow for all these years—just waiting to be filled.

I shake my head, pushing away from these dangerous thoughts. Can’t afford to get soft, not with everything bearing down on us. But the feeling lingers, warm and steady in my chest, as their footsteps fade upstairs.

I need to be productive, to get my mind off… everything I’ve been thinking about. And since we’re about to throw ourselves willingly into a pit of vipers, the most productive thing I can do right now is to make sure we’re prepared.

The stairs down to the basement creak under my weight, and the fluorescent lights flicker and buzz for a moment before bathing the entire area in a bright, almost clinical light. The basement of Quinn’s house is my sanctuary—the place where we store our supplies and our weapons.

Unlike mysterious, nebulous feelings and emotions, I can reach out and touch and count and take inventory of everything down here.

As my eyes move from shelf to shelf, I catalog our arsenal with practiced efficiency. Nine millimeters, clean and oiled. Combat knives, edges honed razor-sharp. The satisfying weight of brass knuckles in my palm as I reach out to absently lift them before setting them back in their designated place.

We’ve accumulated a good stockpile, considering how our old clubhouse was destroyed and everything Quinn had at Blood and Ink was raided. But it’s not enough.

Not with Ambrose still out there, not with the Dark Lotus Syndicate’s hooks in Quinn, not with our old club turned against us. The air feels heavy, charged like the moment before lightning strikes. Every instinct I’ve honed through years of violence screams that this is just the calm before the storm.

I move to the medical supplies next, checking gauze, sutures, antibiotics. After seeing Atlas’s wounds, I know we’ll need more. The number of threats circling us is growing, and blood always flows before the end.

My hands work automatically, counting vials and bandages, but my mind catalogs the dangers until the medical kit clicks shut with the kind of certainty and finality that makes this process as soothing as it is satisfying. No matter what’s coming, I know I’ll be ready. Now that I have something worth protecting, I’ll paint the fucking streets red before I let anyone take it from me.

The storm is coming. Let it come. This time, I have more than just brothers at my back. I have a family. And I almost pity the poor bastards who try to break it apart.

Quinn appears in the doorway as I’m double-checking the weapons we’ll take to the meeting. One look at her, and I can’t help myself—I cross the room in three strides and crush my mouth to hers.

She makes a surprised sound against my lips but melts into it, her fingers curling into my shirt. When I finally break the kiss, her eyes are dark and questioning.

“Thank you,” I say, “for taking care of him.”

She shakes her head, a gorgeous shade of pink tinting her cheeks. “You did more than me. You’re the one who has to keep stitching him up every time he pops them.”

“That’s not what I mean.” My fingers find her chin, tilting her face up. “You gave him something to hold on to when Ambrose had him. Something worth surviving for.”

Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed by that fierce protectiveness that makes my cock hard and my chest ache at the same time. “You’re mine,” she says simply. “All of you. I protect what’s mine.”

Fuck. The possession in her voice hits me like a drug, spreading heat through my veins. I crash my mouth to hers again, backing her up against the wall. She gasps as I bite her bottom lip, and I swallow the sound, losing myself in the taste of her.

Her nails dig into my shoulders as I grind against her, and for a moment I consider saying fuck the meeting, fuck everything except burying myself inside her?—

“If you two are done trying to fuck through your clothes, we need to go.” Atlas’s voice cuts through the haze of desire in my head. He’s leaning in the doorway, cleaned up but still moving stiffly. Nico stands behind him, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

Quinn breaks the kiss with a breathless laugh. “You’re one to talk.”

“Maybe,” Atlas smirks. “But unlike some people, I had enough sense to get off this morning.”

I grunt, adjusting myself in my jeans. “Keep talking and I’ll pop the rest of your stitches.”

We head out to the bikes, the easy back and forth dying down as we focus on what’s coming. The ride to the old corner store is tense, even though we all know the area like the backs of our hands. We’re all watching for threats, for any sign that this might be a trap. Quinn rides between us, protected on all sides—though at this point, I’m not sure if we’re protecting her or if she’s protecting us.

The thought settles something in my chest. Whatever Zoey and her new “Twisted Tyrants” have planned, they’re about to learn what happens when you fuck with what’s ours.

The old Quick-Stop comes into view up ahead, a crumbling fixture in the local community where you can get a tank of gas, a hot sandwich, a bottle of whiskey, and a dime bag of weed without any trouble.

Hopefully there isn’t any trouble waiting for us today.

Just in case, I’m already counting threats as we pull into the lot and cut our engines. There are fourteen bikes besides Zoey’s, spread out in a loose semi-circle. A show of force.

Stefan stands at Zoey’s right hand like her personal attack dog, but it’s the faces behind them that interest me more.

One by one, at least half the guys around them shift their weight, avoiding Nico’s eyes. A couple of them keep glancing at Atlas, guilt written all over their fucking faces. They might wear Twisted Tyrants patches now, but loyalty isn’t something you can steal with a coup.

“Well, well.” Zoey’s smile is predatory as she takes in the four of us. There’s something manic in her eyes now, a hunger that wasn’t there before. Power suits some people. With others, it twists them inside out until they’re unrecognizable. “The mighty have fallen far enough to answer my call.”

Quinn’s hand brushes mine, a silent warning to stay calm. Smart woman. She knows I’m calculating exactly how many of these fuckers I could take out before they had a chance to draw their weapons.

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Nico’s voice could freeze hell. “I wanted to see how many people you had left to hide behind.”

Zoey’s smile falters. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“How many of my old club members jumped ship when they realized what kind of ‘leadership’ you were offering?”

The flash of rage in her eyes confirms it. She’s been losing people—good riders who know what a real MC is supposed to be. Not this dictatorship she’s created.

“They were weak.” Stefan speaks up, his voice hard. “Couldn’t handle the changes needed to make us stronger.”

“Changes like what?” Atlas growls. “Breaking legs when someone questions orders? Threatening families?” His lip curls. “Word gets around, you know. This city isn’t that fucking big.”

One of the guys flinches at that. Interesting. It seems like Zoey’s new management style isn’t sitting well with everyone.

“At least we still have a club.” Zoey’s fingers drum against her bike’s handlebars. “What do you have? A whore and some borrowed territory?”

Quinn starts forward, but I catch her wrist. Not here. Not yet. Although judging by the way a couple of Zoey’s men tense up, I’m not the only one who noticed their new leader just made a dangerous mistake.

“Watch yourself.” Nico cuts through the bullshit. “Now, did you want something? Or did you drag us here just to measure dicks?”

“Maybe I just wanted to see how far you’ve fallen.” Her smile turns cruel. “The mighty Princes of Carnage, reduced to this. It’s almost?—”

“Enough.” Nico’s voice cracks like a whip. “Either say what you came to say, or we’re done here.”

I watch Zoey’s face carefully, reading the micro-expressions. The flicker of uncertainty. The way her eyes dart to Stefan before she speaks. Behind her, some of our old brothers still won’t meet our eyes.

She’s hiding something. And whatever it is, it’s big enough to make her nervous, even with all her borrowed muscle flexing around her.

“We want the territory between Fifth and Market.” Zoey’s tone hardens as she finally gets down to business. “All of it. Non-negotiable.”

“Fuck no.” Quinn and Nico speak in perfect sync, and I almost smile.

Almost.

Zoey’s lips curl up, like she’s been waiting for this. She raises two fingers, and movement catches my eye as a shadow seemingly detaches itself from behind one of the bikes.

The silence stretches out for a few seconds, and I force myself to stay calm and ready for whatever is about to happen. Even the Tyrants seem to hold their breath, watching Quinn. They know exactly whose face is about to step into the light.

My hand finds Quinn’s lower back, steadying her. Warning her. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Atlas shift his weight, ready to move even with all of his injuries. Nico has gone deadly still, the way he always does before the shit hits the fan.

We finally get a good look at the person walking up from the shadows, and everything goes sharp and cold.

Emmett. The fucking traitor who nearly got Quinn killed. The man who sold out his own club for a quick buck. The man who’ll die screaming if I have anything to say about it.

“We found this stray.” Zoey’s voice drips with smug satisfaction. “Poor thing needed a new home after burning all his bridges.”

Quinn goes stiff as a fucking board under my touch. The anger and pain that flashes across her face makes me want to peel Emmett’s skin off strip by fucking strip. I’ll take his hands first—the ones that gave information to Ambrose. Then his tongue, for all the lies he told. Then his eyes, so the last thing he sees is me coming for him.

“The Twisted Tyrants have graciously offered me protection.” Emmett’s voice wavers slightly as Quinn’s hand drops to her gun. Smart man, showing fear. He should be fucking terrified. “Since my previous… employment ended badly.”

Previous employment.

Like he didn’t betray the people who treated him like fucking family. Like he wasn’t indirectly responsible for Atlas being tortured. Like Quinn didn’t give him a home, a purpose, everything he had.

I’m already planning exactly how I’ll find him. How I’ll make him suffer before he dies. He thinks the Tyrants can protect him? I’ll stack their bodies like firewood to get to him. I’ll paint the streets with their blood. I’ll tear down every building in Detroit brick by fucking brick until I find where he sleeps.

Some people deserve more than death. They deserve to be unmade. To be torn apart so slowly they forget who they were before the pain started. To serve as an example of what happens when you betray family.

And I’m very, very good at unmaking people. And maybe it won’t be today, but by the time I’m done with Emmett, there won’t be enough left to identify the body.