Page 11 of Ruthless Obsession (Royal Bastards MC Chicago, IL Chapter)

“Your boss stole from the wrong motherfuckers,” I growl, squeezing off two rounds. “No one robs us and walks away.”

Three more of his men come charging from the far end of the warehouse. They fire wild.

“Fuck this,” I snarl.

I dive out, sliding across the concrete on my back, firing as I go. My shots find their mark. All headshots. They drop before they hit the ground.

“Ruthless, no!” Webbs barks, but it’s already done.

I roll up to my feet, chest heaving. “Check the rest of the warehouse. We don’t leave witnesses.”

One guy’s still crawling, trying to make it to the front entrance. I stalk over, flip him onto his back, and grab his shirt. His chest is soaked in blood. I yank him eye level.

“Tell your boss,” I hiss. “Ruthless is coming for him.”

I drop him and turn to Flock. “Leave him outside nearby. Let him deliver the message.”

Flex rushes over, eyes wide. “Shit, you’ve been hit.”

I grunt and press my palm to my side. Warm blood coats my hand.

“Damn it. Not again,” I growl. Pain shoots through my ribs, but I push it down.

I've been shot before—the worst was when a bullet hit my dominant arm.

The pain was excruciating, yet strangely satisfying, as I shot the ones responsible and exacted revenge for my parents' murder.

The impending pain won't deter me from pursuing Toby either.

“Webbs, get the truck,” I bark.

“On it, brother,” he says, bolting out.

I grit my teeth and turn toward Flex. “Once the crates are loaded, light this bitch up.”

A slow grin spreads across his face. “Absofuckinglutely.”

As I move toward the door, blood seeping from my side, a grin pulls at my lips.

“Four warehouses down. Eight to go.”

We planned to hit three tonight. But this? This still feels damn good.

My brothers move through the warehouse like outlaw professionals—because we are. Trained by betrayal, sharpened by war, we take from those who’ve crossed us and burn the rest to the ground.

If the cops get called, I’ve got a dirty cop on speed dial. He’ll make sure the Royal Bastards stay ghosts in this city.

Legos and Flex watch the flames consume the building while Flock and I head for the truck.

Psycho scrambles to his feet as we approach. “Ruthless, how bad is it?”

“I’m good,” I lie to my best friend and brother.

Flock wordlessly guides my bike up the ramp of the box truck.

“Psycho, stay where you are. I need you to find out the ETA for the firemen and police.”

He nods. “Yeah, I’m on it, Ruthless.”

Legos plants a hand on Flex’s back. “Time to go, brother.”

They don’t realize how bad this is. I’m doing my best to walk it off like it’s a scratch. But the fire in my side says different.

Legos rushes to the truck and rips open the passenger door. He pulls a bandana from his pocket and presses it into my wound. “Apply pressure.”

Our eyes meet.

“Don’t hide that shit from us, Ruthless. We’re your family. We’ve got you.”

A weak grin tugs at my lips. “Tonya’s rubbing off on you behind closed doors. You’re getting soft.” The chuckle that follows turns into a cough. “I’ll be fine,” I lie again, holding the bandana against the wound.

My vision starts to blur at the edges—little black specks dancing in and out. Adrenaline’s done its job. Now the real pain kicks in.

“Fuck, Ruthless, you’re a terrible liar,” Legos snaps.

He hoists me up onto the passenger seat.

“Take me home,” I grit to Webbs behind the wheel.

He throws me a look. “You sure? You need the clubhouse infirmary—”

“No.” I wince, shaking my head. “Call Richard. Have him meet us there.”

Richard Cottingham—our underground doc—usually patches us up in the basement infirmary. But I need to get home to check on my captive.

The drive’s a blur. My head lolls more than once. When we pull up, Richard’s car is already parked near the gate. Webbs punches in the code, the iron gates part, and we circle around back to the garage.

Webbs and Flock practically carry me to the door; my arms draped over their shoulders. Each step feels like hell.

The mudroom door bursts open.

“Oh my God, Ruthless,” Tonya gasps.

“Sophie,” I rasp, voice cracking.

“Sophie,” I groan.

My eyelids flutter. “Where’s my woman?”

Tonya answers coldly. “Still locked up. In the torture chamber. Where you left her.”

“Oh, that’s right. She tried to leave me. So I… had…to lock her up. I’m never letting her go,” I murmur, half to her, half to myself.

“You’re bleeding out fast,” Richard says sharply.

The guys start guiding me toward the stairs, but my feet barely work. My eyelids flutter.

“Mom… Dad…” I murmur. “I think it’s time I join you two…”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Webbs growls, gripping tighter.

But I can’t feel my leg anymore.

And then everything goes black.

∞

My eyes crack open, heavy as hell. The room’s dim, but the burn in my throat is what really wakes me up.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I rasp, voice raw like I swallowed a fistful of sandpaper.

“Shut the fuck up,” Prez snaps, shoving a glass of water toward me. I don’t argue.

My lips close around the straw, and I gulp like a dying man. The cold water is a shot of life down my throat.

“Dr. Cottingham, Ruthless is awake,” Prez calls out.

The doc strides in, calm like he hasn’t been hovering over my half-dead body for days. “Good to see you finally came back to the land of the living,” he says, checking my bandages. “You were touch and go for a while.”

“How long was I out?”

“Four days.”

“Shit.”

Prez crosses his thick arms over his chest. “Problem?”

He knows damn well what’s wrong.

“Doc, how long until I’m back on my feet?”

“A couple of weeks—if you actually rest. But I want you on your feet today. Slowly. Start walking. You’ve got a way to go, but you’re healing.”

“I understand, doc.”

I push myself up a few inches, jaw tight as pain flares deep in my side. My eyes land on the red Jello cup on the nightstand. “That for me?”

Doc nods. “Yeah. I’ll be monitoring your vitals for the next few hours.”

“Appreciate it, Doc.”

“Try not to get shot again,” he says before heading out.

Once he’s gone, Prez plants his ass at the foot of my bed like a damn bodyguard.

“The crates you boys snagged on your last run? Rocket launchers,” he says casually.

I blink. “So Toby’s running more than stolen guns. He’s fucking dealing in heavy military grade.”

“Looks that way. There’s a good chance he sold our original shipment.”

My fists clench over the blanket. “Motherfucker.”

“Two prospects are hauling two crates to Jameson in New Orleans like you asked. At least we’ll get something out of this shitstorm.”

I nod. “Good.”

“Take me on that walk, cousin.”

“You overdo it, you’re back in that bed.”

“I won’t.” Yeah, I’m lying. But he already knows that.

Later that evening, after Doc and Prez left, I grip the banister and slowly descend the stairs, each step a throb in my side. I’m barefoot, wearing nothing but black sweat shorts, my body’s aching but my mind focused.

From the living room, Legos and Tonya shoot to their feet like they’ve been caught slacking.

“Prez told us to stay and keep an eye on you,” Lego states with his fists curled at his sides.

His massive frame doesn’t bother me. His leather Royal Bastards cut draped over his shoulders like armor.

Worn jeans, black boots beat to hell, and a chain snaking from his back pocket—he’s not someone most people would test. But I’m not most people.

His blue eyes narrow. He’s pissed. Maybe worried. Maybe thinking he’ll have to march me back up to my room.

Tonya steps forward. Her long hair is pulled back into a low ponytail. She’s wearing one of her signature tank tops. This one is black with silver lettering that says property of the Royal Bastards MC. That statement gives me comfort. I want someone else to be property of the Royal Bastards MC.

“Make yourselves at home. If I need you pretty sure you’ll know.”

“You sure you don’t want me to help you with her?” Tonya asks.

She knows how I feel about this woman. And knows I’m going to see her.

“No,” I rasp out.

“Sit, continue watching your movie.”

“No.” Tonya walks toward the kitchen. “I’ll warm up the chicken noodle soup.”

A smirk lifts my lips as I nod before walking toward the basement. My forearm rest at my side as I descend the stairs.

Once I reach the bottom, the smell of bleach hits my nostrils. I walk into the torture chamber and unlock the cell door. Sophie’s curled up on the floor in a ball, long dark hair veiling her face like a shield.

I drop to my knees before her and searing pain rips through my side. Shit, it’s time for my next dose of pain meds. I brush her wild thick dark hair out of her face.

Her eyes pop open. “What do you want?” she snarls.

“I fucking hate you,” she bites out.

“I know,” I mutter, reaching for her zip-tied wrist.

She flinches as I slice the tie with my switchblade. Her arm drops to her lap, and she rubs her raw wrist, red and tender.

“Do you feel good about yourself? Locking me away like this?”

She winces as she slowly pushes herself upright. When I reach for her wrist to check the damage, she jerks away like I burned her.

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Get up, Sophie.”

“What part of captive didn’t you understand? You are my captive which means if you try to escape there are fucking consequences,” I bite out.

Instead, she lashes out, planting her foot square in my chest. I stumble back, crashing to the floor.

“Fuck,” I grunt, the pain nearly knocking the wind out of me.

“You left me here to rot,” she whispers, voice cracking.

“I got hurt the other day trying to bring down your fucking ex-boyfriend, so excuse me if I wasn’t conscious,” I growl.

A flash of concern mares her features briefly before her masks falls back into place.

I ease up on my knees again and use the wall for support to stand.

“Not going to run?” I ask.

“What good would that do? One of your biker brothers will just drag me back.”