Page 40 of Serpent King's Revenge

My hands clung to the porcelain sink, knuckles turning white as I stared at my reflection in the mirror—a woman caught between two worlds.

And then there was the life growing inside me, thriving against all odds in this den of vipers. My fingers traced the still-flat plane of my abdomen, a silent promise to the child who knew nothing of treachery or honor—only the steady rhythm of a heart that fought for justice.

If Nathan was here…fuck, I didn’t even know what he would do. But his absence made me ache.

"Get it together, Harper," I whispered to myself, steeling my nerve for the night ahead.

I splashed cold water onto my face, pushing away thoughts of vulnerability, focusing instead on the man who had bound himself to my fate. Nathan—his very name conjured images of his smile, of the way his arms felt wrapped around my body.

"Damn you, Nathan Zhou," I murmured, "for making me question everything."

But there was no indecision.

Not anymore.

My allegiances were only to Nathan…and to my child.

And if I had to kill every single guard in that convoy to get my baby’s father back to my side, where he rightfully belonged, then I would sure as fuck do it.

FBI badge be damned.

Chapter Eighteen: Nathan

Time was running out to get me out of FBI custody.

I was still dizzy, the clinic meds coursing through my veins when they came for me. Two bulky guards, all muscle and no talk. I pushed off the thin mattress, but my legs were noodles. They gripped my arms, a vice on either side, and hauled me up. The corridor spun a little less each step we took.

"Where to?" I croaked, voice like gravel in a tin can.

Silence. Just the echo of our footsteps bouncing off the cold walls.

The processing room was sterile and bright, too bright. One of the guards peeled my shirt off. It stuck to my back where the bruises had started to heal. I winced, but the pain was a dull roar in the back of my mind. They had me strip down to nothing, and I caught a glimpse of myself in the steel mirror bolted to the wall.

I was a canvas of black and blue.

Fuck.

"Turn around," one guard barked.

I complied, wincing as his hands ran over my ribs. Each touch was a jolt of pain, confirming what I already suspected—a couple of them were probably cracked. I bit down on my lip, tasting blood, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing me flinch any more than I had to.

"Spread your legs," came the next order, cold and impersonal.

I did as I was told, feeling every bruise protest the movement.

The search was thorough, invasive, leaving no part of me untouched or unexamined. It was just another way to remind me who was in control here, another way to try and break me.

"Done," the guard announced, his voice void of emotion.

"Good," I said, my own voice rough, "Because you're not my type."

There was no laugh, no reaction. Just the sound of my clothes being tossed at me—an order to cover up and get ready for whatever came next.

Dressed again, such as it was in the worn jumpsuit that barely clung to my bruised body, the guards didn't bother with niceties. Cuffs snapped around my wrists, the cool metal an unwelcome bite after the invasive search. Then came the shackles, a harsh clang of finality as they closed around my ankles.

The whole thing felt like overkill; I could barely stand, let alone make a run for it.

"Walk," one of the guards grunted, nudging me forward with his baton.

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