Serpent King's Bride: A Dark Mafia Romance Trilogy

Iwas finally getting a look at what was behind that last locked door.

The morning light had barely begun to filter through the blinds of Nathan’s apartment when I found myself in a situation I never trained for at Quantico. My hands, though steady, were slick with a cold sweat as I helped Nathan drag Tyler Matthews’ heavy form across the hardwood floor. We worked together wordlessly, with him pointing and grunting what I needed to do.

It was only then that my eyes flicked across the clear floor, and the realization struck me that he wasn’t just a minimalist.

He kept the floors clear in case someone died here.

Someone like Tyler.

“We’re taking him downstairs,” Nathan said after we’d gotten him to the mysterious door.

“You ever just, like, think about what’s down there? When you’re washing dishes or something?” I asked, more to distract myself from the weight of dead flesh between us than out of curiosity.

Nathan’s face was a mask of regret under the strain. “I wish you’d never had to find out,” he replied, his voice low and edged with something I couldn’t quite place—was it guilt?

Then he shook his head.

“Come on,” he said. “The longer we wait, the more unpleasant this gets.”

We moved to the locked door, where Nathan punched in a passcode on a keypad; then the lock clicked, a sound far too ordinary for what lay beyond. He pushed open the door, revealing nothing but darkness. A shiver threatened to run down my spine—not from fear, but from the chill that seeped from the stairwell before us. Nathan reached for a switch, and the lights flickered to life.

Stairs, going down, down…

As we descended the stairs, the smell hit me—a potent mix of earth and decay that seemed to cling to the back of my throat. I tried not to gag, focusing instead on the solid feel of the cement underfoot and the sterile space that came into view with each step we took.

“God, that stench,” I muttered, trying to keep my breathing shallow.

“It’s going to get worse,” he said matter-of-factly. “Just try not to throw up.”

“It’s going to get worse?” I said, my voice catching in my throat.

Nathan didn’t reply, but I saw his jaw tighten. The muscles screamed under the weight of our burden, reminding me that the dead man between us used to be someone who walked and talked, who made bad jokes and worse decisions. Nathan went first, his muscles shifting as he moved, his skin glistening with sweat. Tyler’s form swayed, dead eyes staring upwards, the electric saw from the kitchen wedged into his jacket. Tyler was still warm. It made me want to throw up.

I could drop him, bolt up those stairs, escape into the daylight. But I knew better. I was in this now; I couldn’t—wouldn’t—run.

The idea scared me less than it should have.

We reached the bottom, and my gaze fell upon an almost empty room with cement walls and floor, so clean it could double as a surgical suite—if not for the giant industrial composter squatting like a malevolent deity at the far side. It hummed softly, the sound a grotesque lullaby for what was to come.

“Nice place you got here,” I said, trying to keep the quiver out of my voice.

“Thanks. Decorated it myself,” he said, then his expression sobered. “Efficiency is key in any business, Abby.”

I swallowed hard, the reality of it all sinking in like a body in a bog. This was where Nathan did his dirty work. The realization should have repulsed me, sent me running for the hills—but it didn’t. And maybe that realization was the most terrifying part of all.

I watched Nathan stride over to the room’s only other piece of furniture: a nondescript white cabinet. With a swift pull, he opened it, unveiling an array of saws and other tools that glinted with ominous promise under the harsh fluorescent lights.

“Help me with this,” he said, gesturing toward a rolled-up tarp leaning against the wall beside the cabinet.

Together, we spread it out on the floor, the plastic crinkling loudly in the silence. Then, with a precision that suggested disturbing but obvious familiarity, Nathan began to line up the tools beside the still form of Matthews. Each item was placed with care, like a surgeon laying out instruments for a life-saving operation—only this was anything but.

“Did you bring the saw?” Nathan asked, his voice barely above a murmur.

“Uh, yeah.” I reached for the electric saw we’d brought down from the kitchen, carefully pulling it out of Tyler’s jacket. My hands shook slightly as I handed it to him. “You don’t actually use this for both food and bodies, do you?”

“Last Thanksgiving, I found myself needing to carve a turkey.” He glanced at the saw, then back at me, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “There wasn’t a proper one upstairs. It was a matter of convenience.”

“Convenience?” I echoed, my stomach churning. “You’re truly psychotic, you know that?”