3. Chapter Three Nathan

Chapter Three: Nathan

I was laughing, laughing…and I couldn't fucking stop.

Even with the knife pressed to my throat, even with Abby's wet pussy still clenching around me, I couldn't shut up. There was no point, anyway; she could kill me now, fuck me, it didn't matter.

We were both doomed.

The laughter died in my throat as Abby's voice cut through the silence, sharp and direct. "Why the hell are you laughing?" Her grip on the knife didn't waver, the blade pressed tight against my skin.

I went quiet, tilting my head up to meet her gaze. The cold steel bit deeper into my flesh, a thin line of blood trickling down my neck to join the FBI agent's blood still pooling on the floor.

"Isn't it obvious?" My voice was low, almost a whisper. "You've fucked me, Abby."

Her eyebrows knotted together, confusion flickering across her face. "I'm aware," she said, her voice laced with a mix of sarcasm and something else I couldn't place. "Considering you're still inside me. And by the way, still hard."

"Jesus, Abby." I shook my head; even now she had to turn everything into a joke. "Not like that. I mean you've really done it. You've fucked us both over. Because once my father finds out about this mess, he won't just sit back. He'll have us both killed."

The revelation seemed to sober her up quick. Her hand steadied, and the knife pulled away ever so slightly.

That was my chance.

With a swift, calculated move, I twisted, forcing the blade to skim dangerously against my skin. A sharp gasp escaped Abby's lips as she realized what had happened—I was bleeding, but not enough to drop me. Just a cruel kiss from the edge of her weapon.

"I knew you wouldn't kill me," I growled, locking eyes with her. The pain in my neck was a dull roar compared to the betrayal that seeped through my veins. "We're tied together in this now."

Before she could protest, I surged upwards, knocking her off-balance and onto the floor beside Tyler's lifeless body. His blood, still warm, seeped into the fabric of the floral-print robe she wore, a macabre reminder of the chaos we'd descended into. She didn't seem to care, staring into my eyes, her pussy throbbing.

I hitched her leg up over my shoulder, turned my head, grazed my teeth over her skin…and I bit her, just enough to make her gasp and moan.

I couldn't stop.

Couldn't stop fucking her, couldn't stop loving her, even after she'd stabbed me in the back.

I started thrusting again, harder this time, our bodies slipping slightly in the blood. Abby gasped, groaned—locked her legs around me so I wouldn't slide out, because we were both bloody, broken freaks with nothing to lose.

"You like this, huh?" I snarled. "You like hurting me…you like to be hurt, you like the violence. This pussy was made for me, baby…this psychotic fucking pussy."

She groaned, fingers gripping for purchase where the floor was still clear. I couldn't believe how good she felt, even looking like the goddess of death. My neck stung from the wound she'd left on me, my blood dripping onto her bare breasts, and I leaned down to lick them clean.

"I'm gonna come inside you again, baby," I rasped. "Fuck, you feel so fucking good—"

I didn't give her the chance to respond, my hips pounding into her with a relentless rhythm that spoke of pent-up rage and raw need. The pleasure spiraled, tightened, until it was all I could feel, all I could want.

And then, with a final thrust, I let go, spilling myself inside her once more.

We stilled—just for a second. She reached for me, like she was going to touch me and break me.

I knew she was capable of it, so I tore myself away.

With a ragged breath, I pulled out and scrambled to my feet, jerked my pants up again, feeling the weight of everything crashing down on me. I stalked across the room, raking my hands through my hair, the metallic scent of blood mixing with sex heavy in the air. My pulse hammered in my ears; my vision blurred at the edges.

"Fuck," I muttered under my breath, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. This wasn't just a loss of control—it felt like a dam had broken, the floodwaters rushing in…and I was drowning.

"Hey," Abby's voice was soft but firm as she came up behind me.

Her hand touched my elbow, and I jerked away at the way her touch burned.

"Don't fucking touch me," I spat, whirling on her, eyes wild with betrayal and hurt. "Don't."

But she stood her ground, looking up at me with those clear, steady eyes that had fooled me for so long. "Nathan," she said, her voice unwavering, "I meant every word I said. Yes, I'm FBI, but I love you. I really do."

There was something about the conviction in her voice that punched through the haze of my anger. It was the same tone she'd used when she told me she was on my side, before all this mess. I wanted to believe her, to cling to that glimmer of truth amidst the lies.

But how could I? How could I trust anything now?

"Love?" I echoed, the word tasting bitter. "You've got a real fucked up way of showing it."

"Nathan, please," she repeated, voice soft and desperate. "I love you—"

My hand found the vase of roses as if it had a mind of its own, and without a second thought, I hurled it against the floor. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the kitchen as petals and water scattered, mixing with the crimson that had already tainted the tiles.

But Abby—she didn't even flinch.

She just crossed her arms and looked at me with those damn steady green eyes.

"Go ahead," she said, her voice annoyingly calm. "Break everything if it makes you feel better. I'm not leaving."

I stared at the broken vase, at the roses littering the floor, now covered in Tyler Matthews' blood. It was nothing compared to the chaos raging inside me. My chest tightened, breath hitching, and for a moment, I couldn't tell if it was from anger or something else.

Then it hit me like a punch to the gut—the recognition. Just like that night what felt like a lifetime ago, when I'd first realized she wasn't an ordinary girl.

How many times had I seen her face down fear without batting an eye? The way she handled herself when guns were drawn, or when blood spilled. She was trained for this—trained by the FBI at Quantico.

It all made sense now.

Her resilience wasn't just impressive; it was professional.

"Did you know?" I asked, the words rough as they clawed their way out. "From the start, did you know who I was? Were you sent to spy on me?"

Abby shook her head, her gaze never wavering. "No, Nathan. I didn't know it was you. I was assigned to keep an eye on the Serpents at the cafe, that's all. The FBI doesn't have names...unless Tyler knew something we didn't. In case you've forgotten, you've kept a tight leash on my communications—and even if you hadn't I wouldn't have told them. Because like I said, I love—"

"Is anyone else coming after us?" I demanded, the urgency tightening my voice.

"Matthews should be the only one," she replied, a hint of assurance in her tone that somehow made me want to believe her.

With a heavy sigh, I turned away and strode to the liquor cabinet. My hands trembled slightly as I grabbed two glasses and poured whiskey into them.

It wasn't even nine in the morning, and here I was, reaching for booze like it was a lifeline.

"What are you doing?" Abby's voice cut through the haze in my brain. She eyed the whiskey with a raised brow.

"Trust me," I said, pushing one of the glasses towards her. "We'll need the liquid courage for what comes next."

"Which is…?"

I set my glass down with a clink that seemed to echo against the walls of our precarious reality. Abby's gaze was fixed on me, her expression unreadable. I reached for a kitchen cabinet, not allowing myself to hesitate as I pulled out the tool that demanded a different kind of courage.

"What is that?" Her voice was a whisper, but it carried the weight of dread.

"This," I said, placing the electric saw on the counter, "is an electric saw."

"I see that." Her face drained of color, and I watched the realization dawn in her eyes. It was a grim acknowledgment of the lengths we'd have to go to survive this mess—of the things I would ask her to stomach. "And what do we need that for, exactly?"

I shrugged.

"Your partner's body isn't going to fit in the composter downstairs all in one piece. We need to make him more compact first."