Bonds of Obsession (Pretty Ruthless Monsters #3)

33. Quinn

33

QUINN

The drive to my house feels like a funeral procession. My throat feels tighter with each block we pass until finally we turn onto my street. The firefighters are gone, leaving behind only the wet, charred husk of what used to be my home.

“Fuck,” I whisper, the word scraping raw from my throat. I’m out of the car before it fully stops, my boots crunching over broken glass and debris as I approach what remains of my front door.

“Quinn, wait,” Killian calls after me, but I can’t wait. I have to see.

The awful smell of smoke still hangs in the air, making my eyes water, even though I’m too fucking numb to cry real tears right now. My chest feels empty as I stare at the blackened walls, the collapsed roof, the complete destruction of everything I owned.

“His watch,” I choke out, remembering one of the few personal belongings of his that I still have. Had. “It was in my bedroom drawer. And the photos… all those pictures…”

“Mia cara,” Nico’s voice is gentle as he reaches for me, but I step away.

My fingers drift unconsciously to my shoulder where my tattoo used to be, the one he gave me, but even that’s gone now—burned away by the Syndicate’s brands. “I have nothing left of him. Not one fucking thing.”

“You have his strength,” Atlas says firmly. “And his leadership. Those aren’t things Ambrose can burn.”

“Some leader I turned out to be.” I kick a piece of charred wood, sending it skittering across what used to be my living room floor. “My gang’s disbanded, my home’s destroyed, and I’m in debt to people who would rather see me dead.”

Killian’s hand lands heavy on my shoulder. “You’re still breathing. You’re still fighting. That’s what matters.”

“Quinn.” Atlas comes up next to me, the concern for me as evident in his tone as it is on his face. “We should go. Standing here won’t change anything.”

He’s right. There’s nothing left here for me. For us.

“We need supplies,” I sigh, feeling like a hollowed-out shell. “Clothes. Toiletries. The basics.”

“We should split up,” Nico offers. “We’ll cover more ground that way.”

“Like hell.” I spin around to face him. “Ambrose is still out there somewhere. He’s just waiting for us to fuck up so he can pick us off one at a time. No, we stay together.”

All three men look around as if they’re half-expecting Ambrose to pop out of the hedges surrounding what used to be my back yard.

“You’re right,” Nico says, already moving to guide me back to the car. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“None of us are,” I lean over to give him a quick kiss. “Just one more reason to stick together.”

“You look like shit,” Killian tells Atlas as we pile back into the car. It’s harsh but true, and it’s obvious that Atlas has been favoring his left side. “You should’ve stayed in the car.”

“Fuck that.” Atlas clenches his jaw. “We have shit to do and people to kill. I’m not gonna sit back while you and Nico do all the heavy lifting.”

I can’t help but smile to myself. In spite of everything that’s going on, my men still have a pretty clear idea of what we need to do—keep me safe and kill our enemies.

Simple. Clear. Uncomplicated.

We hit the stores as they open. None of us have slept yet, but that’s nothing new. My head is pounding, and every muscle in my body is aching from the night’s bullshit.

Together, we move from store to store, department to department, grabbing clothes, toiletries, and food. The entire time, we’re all jumping at shadows and looking back over our shoulders, ready for anything or anyone who might come after us.

“You need better shirts than these,” Killian says, frowning at the tank tops I’ve just tossed into our cart. “You can’t run a proper op looking like you’ve just rolled out of bed.”

“I’m not running ops anymore,” I remind him. “I don’t have a gang, remember?”

“That’s just a temporary setback.” Atlas’s voice is firm behind me.

I’m going through motions and grabbing whatever looks useful, but my mind is stuck on the burned out shells of my house and the tattoo parlor. Fuck, how many people have I let down over the past few hours?

“Hey.” Atlas catches my arm as I start grabbing random shirts off a rack. “You just got three of the same thing.”

I look down. He’s right. “Shit.”

He starts sorting through the racks, picking out practical shit we can wear. “Let me handle this part.”

My phone buzzes, and everyone tenses. Our hands move to weapons, a reflex after too many calls saying someone is either dead or about to be.

“It’s Imogen,” I say, checking the screen. The guys relax, but not much. She might seem like one of the more trustworthy members of the Syndicate, but she’s still one of them.

We confirm the address and a few more details, then head downtown to the luxuriously modern high rise. The building is all glass and steel that reaches up into the sky. Imogen is waiting in the lobby, looking bored and annoyed but expensive as hell in a fitted black dress.

“Took you long enough,” she says, eyeing our shopping bags. “Follow me.”

The private elevator has got a glass wall showing Detroit sprawling below us. Above us, there are mirrors on the ceiling. Nico positions himself between me and Imogen.

I really don’t think she’s a threat, but I’m not gonna complain about the extra bit of protection.

“The penthouse has been secured,” she says, punching in a code. “I’ve added cameras, motion sensors, and reinforced the doors. Nobody gets in without you knowing.”

“Are there any weapons here?” Killian asks, holding the cat carrier.

“There’s a cache behind the living room wall panel.” She rattles off the combination to the wall safe and looks up at our reflection in the mirrored ceiling. “I’ve left you some handguns, rifles, and enough ammo to start a small war. There’s a panic room too, with a hidden entrance in the master closet.”

“Who else knows about these security measures?” Nico asks.

“Just the other Syndicate members. And now you.” Imogen arches a brow. “Is that a problem?”

“Yeah. Too many people know our escape routes.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, honey.”

The elevator keeps climbing. I hate that we have to be here, that we have to do any of this. We should all be curled up in bed right now—in my bed, naked, enjoying each other’s bodies. Instead, we’re taking charity from someone I barely know and definitely don’t trust.

“The building has private security,” Imogen continues. “They’ve been informed you’re VIP guests. No questions asked, and no one else gets up here without clearance.”

“Sounds like a fucking cage,” Atlas mutters.

“A gilded one,” Imogen agrees. “But it’s the safest cage in Detroit right now.”

The elevator doors open directly into the penthouse. It’s bright and spacious with floor-to-ceiling windows, modern furniture, and tasteful but muted art pieces.

“The kitchen is fully stocked,” Imogen says, walking us through. “I normally keep a chef on call for high rollers, but I wouldn’t advise bringing anyone up here unless you know them well enough to trust them with your lives. The bedrooms are down that hall, and the master suite is through there.” She hands me a set of keys. “These are the only copies I have. Don’t lose them.”

“Who comes to clean?” Killian asks, already checking sight lines and exits.

“Nobody without your approval first.” Imogen watches him case the place. “Smart man. Every room in here is also effectively soundproof, so no need to worry about disturbing each other.” Her gaze slides over the four of us. “Or whatever arrangement you all have.”

I take the keys and start to thank her, but she puts a finger up, interrupting me.

“Don’t thank me yet.” Imogen’s smile turns sharp. “Remember what I said earlier. The Syndicate’s protection only lasts as long as you stay loyal. Cross us, and there’s nowhere you can hide. Not even here.”

She turns on her heel and walks out while the guys immediately start checking every room, every closet, every possible hiding place.

I stand at the windows, staring out at my city. Somewhere out there, Ambrose is planning his next move. And we’re stuck up here in our expensive new prison, playing by the Syndicate’s rules.

“I need a shower,” I announce to nobody in particular, then turn and walk through the master suite to one of the biggest bathrooms I’ve ever seen. There’s a walk-in shower that has enough room for all four of us at the same time, and a separate tub that’s on a raised platform with a breathtaking view of the entire city below.

The shower itself is fancy as hell, with multiple heads and jets and settings I don’t bother trying to figure out right now. I just turn it as hot as it’ll go and step under the spray. The water feels good beating against my skin, but it can’t wash away the shit storm in my head.

Just outside the bathroom, I hear Atlas and Nico arguing about security placement.

“That camera angle has a blind spot,” Atlas says.

“Then we’ll add another one,” Nico snaps. “We’re not taking any fucking chances in this place. No one gets in. No one gets near her.”

The independent part of me wants to call out to them and let them know—in no uncertain terms—that I don’t need a babysitter or fifteen fucking security cameras pointed at me twenty-four-seven.

But honestly?

I don’t hate how protective they are. And I’m not so blinded by pride to realize I’m not in a place to turn down the help at the moment.

I close my eyes and surrender myself to the water for another minute or two. In my mind’s eye, I can’t stop picturing my dad’s face. I know he’d be relieved that I’m still alive, but I can’t help but think he’d be more than a little disappointed at how everything has turned out.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I fucked it all up, Dad.”

“Quinn?” Killian’s voice through the door. “You good in there?”

“Yeah.” My voice comes out rough with emotion, like I’ve been gargling with gravel. “I’m… I’m fine.”

“Liar,” he says, but he doesn’t push it.

I press my forehead against the cold tile. The guys are out there doing what needs to be done—checking exits, testing security, making this place safe. And I’m in here falling apart.

“Get your shit together,” I tell myself, but my voice breaks.

A thud against the wall makes me jump, followed by Atlas’s deep voice. “These goddamn cameras aren’t worth two shits.”

“Get your ass down from that ladder,” Nico says. “And let Killian take a look at those stitches.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding through your shirt, asshole.”

“Fuck off. I’m fine.”

At least some things don’t change.

I stay under the spray until the water runs cold, trying to numb the ache in my chest, but it doesn’t work.

I wrap a towel around myself and head for the bedroom to find some clean clothes. The sound of Killian’s voice stops me in the hallway.

“Easy there, little killer,” he says softly. “Nobody’s gonna hurt you here. I promise.”

I peek around the doorframe and see Killian sitting cross-legged on the floor, setting up a litter box. The cat is investigating from under the bed, all huge eyes and careful steps.

“Look what I got you,” he says, pulling something from a bag. “This is all premium shit. No cheap food for you.”

“Come on out,” he coaxes. “Got some fancy food for you. Better than that cheap shit they were feeding you. Even got you one of those little mice filled with catnip.”

My heart clenches watching him. This is the man who can intimidate stone cold killers and torture other men without flinching. The man other gangs whisper about in fear.

The cat creeps closer to him, and Killian stays perfectly still. When it finally gets close enough to sniff his hand, his whole face softens.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Not so bad, right? Just you and me, figuring shit out.”

“And Quinn,” Atlas says from behind me, making me jump. “When she’s not spying.”

I turn to glare at him, but he just grins. The cat startles at his voice and darts back under the bed.

“For fuck’s sake,” Killian growls. “We were making progress.”

“Found some bowls in the kitchen,” Atlas adds, ignoring Killian. “Figured the little killer needed a proper setup.”

“Little killer?” I can’t help but smile, stepping into the room.

Killian shrugs, his eyes darkening as they track over my towel-clad body. “I saw her take down a moth earlier. She’s got potential.”

“Like owner, like cat,” Atlas says, but his eyes are on Killian’s face, something soft in his expression before he walks away.

Something in my chest loosens as I listen to their banter and watch Killian with this tiny, helpless creature. Even after everything we’ve lost, he’s still capable of this gentleness. And all three of them are still capable of surprising me.

“Why don’t you hate me?” The words spill out before I can stop them.

Killian looks up from the cat, his expression sharpening. “What?”

“I did to you what Ambrose just did to me.” My voice shakes. “I burned your club to the ground. I destroyed everything the three of you built. So why don’t you hate my fucking guts?”

“Do you want me to hate you?” Killian’s voice goes low and dangerous, and the cat skitters back under the bed.

“I want to understand.” I grip the towel tighter. “Everything I touch turns to shit. I got my own gang destroyed, got Atlas shot, got us tangled up with the Syndicate?—”

“Stop.” He rises in one fluid motion. “Is that really what you think? That you’re some kind of fucking curse?”

“Look around.” I gesture wildly. “Everything is gone. Just like your club. Just like?—”

“That’s not the same thing.” He crosses the room in two strides. “You didn’t destroy us. You freed us.”

“Bullshit.”

“What did we really have, anyway? A club that turned on us? Members who would rather follow Zoey than stay loyal?” His eyes burn into mine. “You showed us who our real enemies were.”

“When we had you captive,” Killian continues, backing me against the wall, “I wanted to break you. That’s what I do. It’s what I’ve always done.”

My breath catches. We don’t talk about those days often.

“But I couldn’t.” His voice roughens. “Every time I pushed you, every time I heard you scream, something inside me…” He breaks off, his jaw clenching so hard I can see the muscle jump.

“What?” I whisper.

“It fucking hurt.” He presses his forehead to mine. “And that’s never happened before. I’ve never cared before. Ever. Not with anyone. But hurting you? It was like cutting myself open.”

“Killian—”

“I’m a killer. A monster on the inside. I always have been. Ask anyone who thinks they know me.”

“That’s not true.”

“No?” His laugh is harsh. “You’ve seen what I’ve done to the people who’ve crossed us.”

“I also just saw you setting up a cat bed and buying premium kitty food.”

His hands frame my face, rough and gentle at once. “Only for my family.”

The word hits me like a punch to the gut. Family. That’s what we’ve become.

“I could have killed you that first night we held you captive,” he says, but there’s no heat in it. “Things would’ve been simpler.”

“Yeah?” I lean into his touch. “When did you know you couldn’t?”

His thumb traces my bottom lip. “When you kneed me and head-butted me and spat in my face. When you told me over and over to go fuck myself. And I realized there was a part of me that still wanted to let you go.”

“But why?” My voice catches. “Why couldn’t you hurt me?”

Killian steps back suddenly. Before I can process it, he’s walking out of the room. My heart slams against my ribs—did I push too far? Did I say too much?

Almost in a daze, I turn to follow him, but he’s already back with something in his hand.

A tattoo kit.

I don’t recognize it, which means Imogen must’ve left it here along with all the other supplies she provided.

I frown, unsure of what the hell is about to happen. Killian has never wanted tattoos. He’s made that clear from day one. He’s said—from his own lips—that tattoos were pointless modifications, unnecessary marks that didn’t mean shit.

“What are you doing?” My voice comes out so quiet it’s barely above a whisper.

He sets the kit down carefully, like it’s something so precious or so dangerous that he’s almost scared to fuck with it.

“When I was a kid on the streets,” he says, his eyes locked on to that kit. “My mother’s marks were all over my body. My arms, my legs, my back… everywhere. I couldn’t get rid of them and couldn’t change them.”

I know what he means. The scars. The burn marks. The evidence of everything she did to him.

“I swore I’d never voluntarily mark my body.” His deep voice is so low and rumbling that I have to lean in to hear. “I swore I’d never let anyone leave their mark on me.”

“Killian—”

“But I want yours.” He finally meets my eyes. “I want your ring, like Nico and Atlas have. I want everyone to know that I belong to you and that you belong to me.”

My hands are shaking as I reach for the kit. “Are you sure about this?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t.”

“But you hate tattoos.” I have to say it. I have to give him one last chance to back out. “You just said you’ve always hated them.”

“No.” He catches my wrist. “I just said I hated the idea of being marked. Of being owned.” His grip tightens. “But I’m already yours. I have been for a while now.”

Heat floods my chest. Through the doorway, I catch Atlas’s small smile before he backs away, giving us privacy.

“It’ll hurt,” I warn, but we both know that’s not what this is about.

“Good.” His eyes lock on mine. “I want to feel you marking me. I want to remember this moment every time I look at it.”

My towel is slipping as I reach for the tattoo gun, but I don’t care. The thought of tattooing him while I’m naked makes the moment even more intimate.

“Where?” I ask.

He taps his chest, right over his heart. The same place Atlas and Nico wear my ring.

“Do it,” he says without any hesitation in his tone. “Make me yours.”