The Wounded Serpent
Author's note: \[The next few chapters are going to be Santiago and Gabe's story\]
Moonlight Pages smelled of ink, old paper, and cinnamon tea. Gabe had been burning the last of a candle while sorting through the poetry shelf—his safe, quiet little kingdom. The streets outside hummed faintly, but the bookstore was still, tucked between neon bars and the occasional rumble of motorcycle engines down the block. It was nearly midnight when the bell above the door rang. The sound jolted Gabe like a gunshot. His shop wasn’t open twenty-four hours; people didn’t wander in this late unless they were lost, drunk, or both. He set aside the slim book in his hands, brushing dust from his fingers, already rehearsing the polite dismissal: Sorry, we’re closed. Come back tomorrow.
Then he saw him. The man in the doorway looked like he’d walked out of a storm and lost a fight with it. His leather jacket was torn, shirt was sticking to his ribs with blood. He was tall—six-two, maybe taller—with broad shoulders that filled the frame of the door. His hair was dark, wet with rain or sweat, and his eyes—sharp, heavy-lidded—carried the kind of weight that made Gabe’s stomach twist.
“Wrong place,” the stranger rasped, leaning hard against the frame. His voice was rough gravel, like it had been dragged across the road. “Didn’t… mean to—”
He didn’t finish. His knees buckled.
“Jesus Christ,” Gabe cursed, instincts snapping faster than fear. He darted forward, catching the man’s arm. It was like grabbing a tree trunk—solid muscle, heavy and unyielding—but Gabe dug his heels in, half-guiding, half-dragging him toward the old couch near the reading nook. The stranger collapsed into the cushions with a groan, his weight sinking the furniture like an anchor. Gabe stood over him, chest heaving.
“You’re bleeding all over my rug,” Gabe said, voice sharper than he felt. His hands trembled. His pulse throbbed in his ears.
The man let out a low, broken chuckle. “You always this welcoming?”
“Only to idiots who think bleeding out in a bookstore is a good idea,” Gabe shot back. He dropped to his knees beside him, tugging at the shredded leather jacket. His fingers brushed skin—warm, slick with blood—and his stomach lurched. The gash slashed across the stranger’s ribs was ugly, jagged, but Gabe had seen worse. Not instantly fatal.
“You’re lucky,” Gabe murmured, reaching under the counter for the battered first-aid kit he kept for paper cuts and the occasional clumsy slip of a box cutter. “Stupid, but lucky.”
The stranger’s lips twitched, a ghost of a smirk tugging through the exhaustion. “Not the first time I’ve heard that.”
His voice had that edge—dry humor overlaid with pain—that made Gabe glance at him again. He was watching him, even now, even bleeding. Eyes dark, sharp as knives. Gabe exhaled hard, forcing his focus on the wound. He cleaned around it, pressing gauze firmly against the skin. The man barely flinched, though his fists tightened on his thighs, knuckles pale. He absorbed pain like it was a language he knew well.
“You always patch up strangers?” the man asked, voice quiet but steady.
“Only the ones who ruin my evening.” Gabe taped the gauze into place with more pressure than necessary. He tried not to let his eyes linger on the scars that crisscrossed the man’s torso, old wounds layered under fresh. Stories written in flesh. “Now sit still before you undo all my hard work.”
The stranger’s laugh came rough, low in his chest. “Bossy.”
“Alive,” Gabe corrected, sharper than he intended. He sat back on his heels, pushing damp hair from his forehead. His own hands shook now that the adrenaline had space to catch up. Silence pressed in. The shop hummed faintly—the ticking of the old clock, the patter of rain starting against the windowpanes, the faint cinnamon smoke of his candle. Gabe realized he could hear the man’s breathing, shallow but steady, and the faint hitch of pain each time his chest rose.
Finally, the man leaned his head against the couch, closing his eyes briefly. “Didn’t mean to drag you into this.”
“You didn’t,” Gabe said, surprising himself with how firm it sounded. “You walked in. I… let you stay. That’s on me.”
One eye cracked open. A dark gaze settled on him, measuring, weighing. For a moment Gabe felt pinned, as if he’d stepped into something far bigger than himself.
“Name’s Santiago,” the man said, almost grudgingly.
“Gabe.” His own name sounded small in his mouth. Still, he offered it, because names were a kind of tether.
Santiago studied him another long second, then let his eyes slide closed again. “You won’t forget me.”
The words landed like a stone in water, rippling through Gabe’s chest. Not a threat, not exactly. More like a promise he didn’t understand.
Gabe stared down at his hands, at the blood soaking the rag he held. He should be terrified. Should be reaching for the phone, dialing the police, doing anything but kneeling here in the dark with a stranger who carried violence like a second skin.
And yet…
There was something else beneath the fear. A pull. The same thing that drew him to books, to stories filled with broken men and impossible choices. Except this wasn’t ink on paper. This was flesh, bone, blood warm against his hands.
“Try not to make me regret this,” Gabe muttered, standing on unsteady legs to fetch another clean cloth. His knees ached from kneeling, but he barely noticed.
When he turned back, Santiago had slumped deeper into the couch, already half-asleep, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. His hand twitched once against the cushions before stilling. Gabe pressed the rag between his fingers until his knuckles went white. He should wake him, should push him out into the street, should slam the lock and never open the door again. Instead, he stood in the lamplight, staring at the man bleeding in his bookstore, and admitted the truth that made his throat tighten.
Santiago was right.
Gabe couldn’t forget him. And maybe—God help him—he didn’t want to.