Bonds of Obsession (Pretty Ruthless Monsters #3)

45. Quinn

45

QUINN

I watch the blood pool beneath Ambrose’s body. His eyes are still open, but they’re empty now. Part of me wants to shoot him again, to empty my entire clip into his corpse. But he’s already gone. The terror that’s been haunting me is nothing but cooling meat on the ground.

My boot is still planted on his chest where the bullet tore through him, and I grind down one last time, feeling his dead flesh give beneath the pressure. After everything he’s done, I deserve a little extra satisfaction.

His final words echo in my head, making my jaw clench. Even dying, the fucker found a way to get under my skin one last time. That bloody smile of his, like he knew something I didn’t. Like maybe death wasn’t the end of his plans.

I force myself to look away from his face. He can’t hurt me anymore. None of his games or threats matter now. He’s gone, and that’s what counts. He can’t come after my men, can’t burn anything else to the ground, can’t rip apart anything else I’ve built.

“Thanks,” I tell Elliot’s hired gun who took the shot. He just stares back with a cold, almost clinical expression.

“I was just following orders,” he says flatly, already turning away as sirens blare in the distance.

“We need to move,” Nico says, already backing away from Ambrose’s body. The sirens are getting closer and the noise is starting to bounce off the buildings around us. “Leave him,” he adds when I hesitate for a split second. “Let the cops deal with the cleanup.”

He’s right. Most of Ambrose’s men are dead or have fled, and the ones who aren’t won’t stick around to get arrested. The Dark Lotus muscle is already melting away into the shadows now that their job is done. It’s time for us to do the same.

We sprint back toward where we left the bikes, my boots pounding against the pavement. My heart is racing, but not from the run. Ambrose is dead. He’s actually fucking dead. After weeks of him stalking and terrorizing us, he’s just… gone.

“Two to a bike,” Killian calls out as soon as we reach him and Atlas, his voice tight with pain. He’s limping and he’s way too pale after losing so much blood, but he’s moving. That’s what matters.

Atlas swings onto one of the bikes, and I climb on behind him without hesitating. My arms wrap around his waist, and for a second, the solid feel of him grounds me.

The bikes roar to life, and we tear out of there just as red and blue lights start flashing at the end of the street. My hands are shaking where they grip Atlas’s jacket, the adrenaline starting to crash now that it’s all over.

But is it really over? Ambrose’s last words nag at me, along with that smug fucking smile of his.

I press my face against Atlas’s back, trying to focus on the rumble of the bike beneath us and on the fact that we’re all alive and together. We got what we came for. Ambrose is dead, and his reign of terror is finished.

The city blurs past as we ride. My arms are locked around Atlas’s waist, and for the first time since this shit started, I can actually breathe.

We trudge into the condo looking like we just crawled out of hell. Blood, sweat, and grime cling to us, and Killian is limping hard now that the adrenaline is wearing off. My stomach twists seeing the blood matted in his hair and the angry, raw road rash on his skin.

“Meet me in the bathroom,” I tell him, my voice leaving no room for argument. “Now.”

He starts to protest anyway, but I silence him with a look. Atlas and Nico share a glance—they know that look too. They head off to secure the place while I steer Killian toward the bathroom.

The bright lights are harsh, and they highlight every scrape and gash on his body as I help him peel off his shirt. His shoulder is swollen where he had to pop it back in, and dried blood cakes the side of his face. Seeing him torn up like this makes my chest ache. It makes me want to bring Ambrose back to life just so I can kill him again.

“Sit,” I order, grabbing the first aid kit. Killian obeys, perching on the edge of the massive marble tub. His eyes follow me as I wet a cloth, something intense burning in his gaze.

“You’re bleeding too,” he says quietly.

I glance in the mirror. There’s a cut above my eyebrow I can’t even feel. “I’m fine. You look like you went ten rounds with a cheese grater.”

He huffs out a laugh that turns into a wince. I step between his legs, carefully cleaning the gash on his temple first. His hands settle on my hips, steadying me or himself, I’m not sure which.

“It could’ve gone a lot worse,” he mutters. “If that Dark Lotus backup hadn’t shown…”

“Don’t.” My hands shake slightly as I clean his wounds. “We made it. That’s what matters.”

His fingers tighten on my hips. We both know how close it was and how easily this night could’ve ended with one or all of us dead instead of Ambrose.

“This needs stitches,” I mutter, probing the deepest gash on Killian’s temple. He doesn’t flinch, just watches me with that intense stare of his as I thread the needle.

“This isn’t the first time we’ve done this,” he says with a grunt. “Although usually I’m the one stitching you up.”

I smile in acknowledgment, remembering the times his steady hands have pieced me back together. The first stitch goes in, and his muscles tense under my free hand.

“Hold still,” I tell him, although he hasn’t really moved. His fingers flex on my hips, and I focus on making the stitches as neat as possible. Just because we live in a world where there aren’t any fucking rules doesn’t mean I have to be sloppy about patching him up.

“I think I like this better when the roles are reversed,” he says, studying my face as I work.

That makes me pause, meeting his gaze. “I don’t.”

Surprise flickers in his eyes. “No?”

“Fuck no.” I tie off another stitch, my throat tight. “I’d prefer if none of us needed stitching up. I hate that you got hurt at all. Don’t ever fucking die on me, okay?”

The words come out rougher than I mean them to, raw with everything I’m feeling. His eyes darken, and suddenly his hand is in my hair, pulling me down until our foreheads touch.

“Why would I?” he murmurs against my lips. “When you’ve given me something to live for?”

Something breaks open in my chest, and I kiss him hard. His hands slide up my back, pulling me closer, and for a moment I lose myself in him. In the solid proof that he’s alive and that we all made it.

When I pull back, his eyes are heavy-lidded and hungry, but that gash still needs closing.

“Let me finish,” I tell him. “Then we can celebrate being alive properly.”

His answering smile is pure sin. “Whatever you say, siren.”

We join Nico and Atlas in the living room once I’ve finished cleaning and stitching Killian’s wounds. Atlas is stretched out on the couch, looking beat to hell but alive. Nico is standing by the window, watchful as always. The sight of all three of them here, safe with me, makes my chest tight.

“So what now?” Atlas asks, his voice rough with exhaustion. “Ambrose is dead. That nightmare is over.”

I sink into an armchair, suddenly aware of every aching muscle in my body. “We rebuild. I’ll probably start with getting Enigma back together, if any of them still want me as their leader.”

“Your people will come back,” Nico says, turning from the window. “They’re loyal to you. They just needed time to get clear of the crossfire. You gave them that time.”

He’s right. I disbanded Enigma to protect my members, but now that Ambrose is gone… “We’ll need to be stronger this time. And more unified.”

“Speaking of unified,” Killian growls from where he’s leaning against the wall. “Maybe it’s time we dealt with Zoey and her Twisted Tyrant fuckers.”

The energy in the room shifts. I can see the hunger in their eyes at the thought of taking back what’s theirs. The club they built, that Zoey and Stefan stole out from under them.

“I think we should definitely make time for that,” I say, already thinking about combining our forces and making something new. Something stronger than Enigma or the Princes of Carnage ever were alone.

“We could do it,” Atlas says, sitting up despite his injuries. “Between your people and the ones who stayed loyal to us?—”

My burner phone rings, cutting him off. My stomach drops as I recognize the number.

Of course it’s Malcolm.

“Fuck,” I mutter, answering it. The guys tense, watching my face as I listen to what he has to say.

When I hang up, my hands are shaking. “We have a Dark Lotus meeting to attend. Now.”

“They can’t be happy about how you called in that last votum,” Nico says carefully.

“You did what you had to do,” Atlas says, but I can see the worry in his eyes. None of us trust the Dark Lotus Syndicate. Not after seeing how they operate.

“Yeah, well.” I push to my feet, ignoring how my muscles scream in protest. “Let’s hope they see it that way.”

Nico steps closer, his expression grim. “You know they won’t. They’ve been looking for an excuse since you joined.”

He’s right. I’ve felt their judgment and suspicion. I’ve seen the way they look at me like I’m a bomb about to go off in their midst.

“Fuck ’em,” Killian growls, wincing as he straightens up. “If they try anything?—”

“They won’t,” I cut him off, but my stomach is churning. “I played by their rules. I used my votum exactly how I was supposed to.”

But even as I say it, I know it’s not that simple. I’ve used all three of my votums now, burning through them like matches. First to save Atlas, then for a place to stay after Ambrose burned everything, and now my desperate call for backup.

I’m out of favors and out of leverage. And these aren’t the kind of people I’d ever want to owe anything to.

“We should go,” I say, checking my weapon out of habit. “If I make them wait, they’ll just have one more reason to be pissed.”

The guys fall in around me as we head out. My protectors. My family. At least with Ambrose dead, I only have one group of vipers to worry about.

We make the familiar trek to the luxurious day spa and down to the cavernous basement. The energy in the room hits me like a physical force when we walk in. Every member of the Dark Lotus Syndicate is already there, and none of them seem pleased to see me. Imogen and Cassandra share a surreptitious glance with each other, then turn their focus toward me with expressions I can’t read. Elliot is glaring daggers, probably pissed about having to send his men to help this morning.

My men flank me as I take my seat, and I keep my chin high. I won’t show these fuckers any weakness. Ever.

“Quinn, I’m glad you could join us,” Malcolm says smoothly. There’s something in his voice that sets my teeth on edge.

“I’m happy to show up and do my part,” I reply, matching his tone.

Imogen is watching me with those calculating eyes of hers, and Rafael won’t even look in my direction. The whole vibe is off, worse than usual. These meetings are always tense, but this feels different.

“Some of us had better things to do than answer your desperate call for help this morning,” Elliot snaps, his face mottled with anger. “Some of us have actual business to attend to.”

I bite back a snarl, but just barely. “The rules say when someone calls in a votum?—”

“Yes,” Malcolm cuts in. “The rules. Let’s talk about those, shall we?”

Beside me, I feel Atlas tense. His instincts are probably screaming as loud as mine.

I scan the room again, noticing for the first time how many armed guards are present. More than usual. Way fucking more.

“Is there a problem?” I keep my voice steady, but my hand inches toward my weapon under the table.

Malcolm’s smile is all teeth. “Oh, I think you know exactly what the problem is.”

Fuck. Something is wrong. Something is really wrong. But before I can figure out what, I hear the sound of multiple weapons being drawn.

“I heard the most interesting thing earlier,” Malcolm continues, leaning forward. “Just before he died, Ambrose had quite the conversation with one of Elliot’s men. About a woman named Celine.”

Fuck.

“Remember her?” Elliot sneers. “The pregnant wife you were supposed to kill? The one whose hand you brought us as proof?”

A chill runs through my veins. That’s what Ambrose meant. His last smile and those cryptic words. He knew. Somehow the fucker knew I’d let Celine live.

“The only inviolable rule of the Dark Lotus Syndicate,” Malcolm says, his voice hardening, “is that we honor each other’s votums. When Elliot called his in, you were quick to make us believe you’d done your part.” He shakes his head. “But you lied. You helped his enemy’s wife escape.”

“And then you had the audacity to keep asking for our help?” Elliot snarls. “After betraying us? After making me look weak?”

I keep my expression neutral, but my mind is racing. This is bad. This is so fucking bad.

“You’ve used all three of your votums,” Malcolm says. “You called on us for help and demanded our resources at a moment’s notice. And all the while, you were making a mockery of everything we stand for.”

Movement catches my eye—guards stepping closer, weapons ready. I feel a gun press against the back of my head. From the tension radiating off my men, I know they’re in the same position.

Malcolm’s eyes are cold as death when they meet mine. “You’ve betrayed the Syndicate, Quinn Kent. And there’s only one punishment for that.”

My heart pounds as his words sink in.

“Your life is forfeit.”

Princess of Vengeance , the final book in the Pretty Ruthless Monsters series, is onHERE .

Looking for another reverse harem series to get lost in? Try my angsty, spicy, forced proximity romance, Black Rose Kisses .