Page 59 of Serpent King's Revenge

We moved, darting past flailing fists and dodging debris. The crowd was a living entity, unpredictable and wild, but Nathan's presence was grounding. When a bottle flew dangerously close, his hand shot out reflexively, his protective instinct on full display.

"Watch it," he murmured, his gaze never leaving our path.

"Thanks," I breathed out, grateful yet again for his fierce protectiveness. In moments like these, his reputation for ruthless violence seemed distant; he was just Nathan, and I was just Abby, and we were both fighting for something beyond ourselves.

For our future.

Our baby.

And as much as it surprised me…for the Serpents.

As we neared the staff exit, he glanced back at me, his expression softening for a fraction of a second before hardening into steel once more. He was about to pull away, to ensure my safety even if it meant putting himself in danger.

"Don't," I said sharply, gripping his arm tighter. "Together."

He hesitated, the tension in his muscles betraying his conflict. And then he nodded, that silent promise binding us as we plunged into the uncertainty ahead. I fumbled with the keys, but only for a minute. Soon, we were out.

Our sprint to freedom was a mad dash against the clock, the courtyard's chaos closing in like walls in a shrinking room. I dodged an elbow here, a swinging punch there, Nathan's hand an iron clamp around mine, never letting go.

"Almost there," he grunted, his voice barely audible over the roar of the crowd.

But our path was a maze with no clear exit, bodies pressing in from all sides, each step forward bought with sheer force. In the thick of the fray, we were just two more souls caught in the storm, desperately seeking the calm of open skies.

Then, like a sharp turn in a dark narrative, Knuckles and his crew crashed into the scene. It was as if they tore through the fabric of the riot itself, their presence a sudden calm in the eye of the hurricane. Knuckles, surveyed the pandemonium with eyes that had seen—and orchestrated—a hundred chaotic nights like this one.

"Keep moving!" Knuckles roared, razor-sharp focus cutting through the disorder. His men moved like cogs in a well-oiled machine, their actions speaking a language of violence and precision–some in prison clothes, some in guard uniforms, and others in street clothes. They created a bubble of space in the choking press of the riot—a brief respite where breaths could be drawn and plans made.

"Split up," Knuckles commanded, his voice a beacon amid the bedlam. In a fluid motion, he pulled a small object from his jacket and tossed it to Nathan. The satellite phone landed in his palm with the weight of hope—the promise of a lifeline in this anarchic world.

Nathan caught it without missing a beat, his fingers wrapping around it with practiced ease. "Got it," he said, briefly meeting Knuckles' gaze before turning to me. His look was one of unspoken determination; whatever lay ahead, we were in it together.

"Let's move," Nathan said, his hold on my hand tightening once more. With a final nod to Knuckles, whose attention had already shifted back to commanding his gang, we wove our way through the madness, inching ever closer to the elusive safety beyond the courtyard's grasp.

And then…

…oh my god.

We were free.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Abby

The steel gates clanged shut behind us, the finality of it ringing in my ears.

My heart hammered in my chest as I blinked at the sudden shift from the sterile light of the prison to the murky twilight outside. The growl of motorcycle engines filled the air, a rough chorus that sent a shiver of urgency down my spine.

I squinted against the dimming sky, taking in the sight of bikes lined up like soldiers ready for battle. Chrome caught what little light there was, winking at me as if in silent conspiracy. Alex and Neon had come through—there were tons of vehicles right outside the gates.

The plan was working.

But we had to get away before they caught Nathan again. Before they caught all of us.

Alex and Jack stood by one of the bikes, a beast of black metal that hummed with a life of its own. His eyes found mine across the distance, and something in his steady gaze told me this was no time for hesitation. Nathan, still clad in the drab prison uniform, exchanged a nod with his brother. An understanding passed between them, one that didn't need voicing; years of living in a world where blind trust was sometimes necessary.

"Time to go," Nathan's voice cut through the rumble, sharp and commanding. I didn't need telling twice. The adrenaline that had been coursing through my veins since the moment of my calculated risk now propelled me forward.

My sneakers pounded against the gravel as we made a break for the bike Alex had singled out. It vibrated with eagerness, engine purring like a prowling predator awaiting its master's command.

"Get on," he said, his voice low but clear over the hum of idling engines.

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