Serpent King's Bride: A Dark Mafia Romance Trilogy

“Ow, damn…” I winced, gritting my teeth while he worked. The blade had really just nicked me—no organs hit, just flesh—but it was a bleeder alright.

“Abby, you need stitches,” Justin said, echoing my own assessment.

“I know,” I responded, pain sharpening my voice. “I’ll do it myself.”

“Are you sure?” He looked at me, concern and disbelief mingling in his expression. “We could call Lily, she’s a med student…”

“There’s no time.” I met his gaze, hoping to convey confidence I was far from feeling. “And I want her to stay put and safe. Not involved with us. Not right now.”

I’d stitched up injuries before, taken all the basic field medicine classes; a shallow knife wound was no problem.

Except, of course, when the skin you’re sewing is your own.

“Hand me the needle and thread,” I instructed, preparing to cross yet another line in the long list of things I never thought I’d do. Justin complied, placing them in my hand with a steadiness that contradicted the chaos of our situation.

Taking a deep breath, I threaded the needle, the eye winking mockingly up at me. This was it—time to add amateur surgeon to my ever-growing resume.

Fuck, there was no training for this back at Quantico.

“Damn it,” Derek muttered, glancing over with a queasy expression before quickly averting his eyes. “I think I need to sit down.”

“Go ahead–and keep the cat away so she doesn’t get a taste for blood.” I didn’t look up from the task at hand, focusing on the rhythmic pull of the needle through my flesh. The sting was sharp with each entry and exit, but I welcomed the pain—it kept my mind off the mess we were in.

“Here, let me help with that,” Justin offered, stepping closer to assist. His hands, clearly more accustomed to textbooks than triage, trembled slightly as he handed me a pair of small scissors to snip the thread. I nodded my thanks, tying off the last stitch with practiced efficiency.

“Bandages?” I asked, holding out my hand while pressing down on the wound with the other to stem any residual bleeding.

“Right, bandages,” Justin said, his voice tight. He rummaged through the first aid kit, finding a roll of gauze and a packet of adhesive strips. He passed them to me, his hands shaking slightly.

“Thanks,” I murmured, wrapping the bandage tightly around the stitched-up skin. My hand was steady, even if my heart wasn’t. There were too many unknowns, too many variables we couldn’t control.

But this, standard first aid, I could do it with my eyes closed. Just wish I didn’t have to do it right after I’d gotten stabbed.

“Good as new,” I said, trying for a lighthearted tone. The joke fell flat in the heavy silence of the safehouse. But we were alive, and for now, that would have to be enough.

I finished securing the bandage with a piece of tape and flexed my hand, testing the give. Pain throbbed at the edges of the makeshift dressing, but it was manageable—a dull ache rather than the sharp bite from before.

“Nice work,” Derek muttered from his seat against the wall, his face still a shade paler than usual. He wasn’t cut out for this; neither of them were.

Justin paced the length of the room, a frown creasing his brow as he glanced my way. His steps halted, and he locked eyes with me. “You’re not just an art history student, are you?” The question hung heavy in the air, a challenge wrapped in genuine curiosity.

“No,” I admitted, meeting his gaze squarely. “I’m an FBI agent.”

His reaction was a beat too late, registering shock, then suspicion. It was clear that this revelation shifted the ground beneath us, adding layers to an already complicated situation. But there was no time for second-guessing now. The truth was out, and we had to deal with it.

“Does Nathan know?” Justin’s voice cut through the silence, sharp as broken glass.

“Yes,” I replied, the word heavy on my tongue. “He knows.”

Derek stumbled to his feet, a mix of confusion and fear in his eyes. “What the hell is going on?”

Justin ran a hand through his hair, his usual composure fraying at the edges. “Family business,” he said with a hollow laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Turns out our family tree is more like a noose. We’re Triad, Derek.”

The humor was dark, the kind that leaves a bitter taste. It bounced around the safehouse walls, and for a moment, we all shared a grim smile, acknowledging the absurdity of it all.

“Triad?” Derek echoed, his voice a notch higher than usual. “As in organized crime? Your family?”

“Yep,” Justin confirmed, dropping onto a chair like his strings had been cut. “And there’s no getting out. Not for me, not for Nathan.”