Page 47 of Obsession
Eventually, Bricks disturbs the silence as he pulls to a stop, “Canon ever bring you to one of these?”
I throw a leg over the bike, Bricks dismounting after me and holding his hand out for the helmet. I hand it to him and shake out my curls. “No. I handled the numbers after.”
“Lucky you.”
I look at him properly then and catch something in the set of his jaw that makes my mouth go dry.
“What happens if this goes wrong?”
“Stay behind Saint.”
“What if I can’t?”
“Get behind me.” He says it like an instruction, not reassurance, and maybe that’s why I believe him. “If I’m not close enough, get behind Moth. He looks like paperwork, but he’s meaner than he dresses.”
That only makes the bit of anxiety growing in my chest worse but I fall silent anyway, taking in the old service warehouse near the edge of a loading district, the kind of place with cracked pavement, rusted roll-up doors, and enough empty space around it to make any approaching vehicle feel guilty. Two Obsidian bikes are already parked outside, Saint leaning beside the closest one, arms folded across his chest, his expression empty in a way that means every violent thing in him is organized and waiting.
Saint’s eyes move over my face, my shoulders, my hands, and something in my chest tightens because I recognize the inspection now. He’s checking whether I’m intact before deciding how angry to be that I’m here. He doesn’t apologize for sending Bricks. He doesn’t explain. He reaches onto the back of his bike and drags a cut off the seat.
Then he holds it out to me.
It’s black leather, heavier than my Rogue cut, with the Obsidian skull stark across the back. There are no officer patches, no title, nothing earned beyond the symbol itself, and somehow that makes it worse. Wearing it won’t make me one of them. It will tell the room Saint wants me seen that way.
“If we’re making this believable, you need to look like one of us,” Saint says. His voice is even, but his gaze doesn’t leave mine. “You don’t have to like it.”
My fingers close over the leather, and for one second the weight of it feels like betrayal. Rogue blood. Obsidian mark. Canon’s son wrapped in Saint’s colors in front of everyone. Then I think of Varina telling me to do my job for my family, and I think of Canon saying useful like it was the best thing I could become.
I slide the cut on as Saint reaches forward and adjusts the front with a sharp tug, the backs of his knuckles brushing my chest through my shirt. The touch is brief, but my breath catches anyway. Bricks looks away like he’s doing me a favor.
Saint steps back. “Stay close.”
I pull the front of the cut straight. “Bricks said Sol ordered me here.”
“He did.”
“Why?”
“Because my father likes testing pressure points when he should be solving problems.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one that matters right now.” Saint glances toward the warehouse door. “A buyer claims the product was bad. We’re going to have a conversation. If it stays a conversation, Sol gets to leave bored and everyone lives. If it goes sideways, he’s going to be pissed.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with this.”
Saint looks back at me immediately. “I know, but my father likes to create issues for the sake of proving a point,” Saint says, gaze already moving toward the sound of tires outside the lot. “My father has other ideas.”
A black bike cuts into the lot hard enough to send water spraying from a pothole. It stops crooked near the entrance, engine still growling, and Sol steps out like the entire world has been waiting for him and should be grateful he bothered toarrive. His eyes pass over Saint first, then Moth, then Bricks, before settling on me.
A small, unpleasant smile stretches across his face. “Pretty.”
Saint’s shoulders shift by a fraction. It’s barely there, but I see it.
Sol walks past us toward the door. “Let’s go see who thinks my son’s product has a problem.”
Inside, the warehouse smells like damp concrete, old oil, and fear trying to cover itself with cheap cologne. The buyer waits near a metal table with three men behind him. He’s younger than I expected, mid-thirties maybe, dressed too well for the room and sweating too much for the weather. His suit is expensive but not worn comfortably, the cuffs too stiff, the watch obviously out of place. He has the look of a man who bought his way into dangerous rooms and still hasn’t learned money doesn’t make them safe.
On the table sits a small foam case open to show six vials. I’ve never seen them up close and never had any desire to but the iridescent liquid is mesmerizing. XR3 looks too delicate for what it does. Almost beautiful. That’s part of the horror, though I doubt anyone in Obsidian would call it that. The vials look clean enough to make people forget they’re buying a version of themselves they may not want to live without afterward.
