Page 101 of Serpent King's Prisoner

I clenched my jaw, the muscles ticking. The need to protect Justin surged through me, fierce and undeniable.

“Justin is my brother,” I said, the words slicing through the tension like a blade. “He’s blood, and I’ll stand by him—and they should too.”

Lily nodded, her eyes glossing with unshed tears. Ma just kept pacing, wringing her hands, but she gave me a look of gratitude. I couldn’t stay here, not while there was something to be settled.

“Where exactly did Ba and Alex go?“ My voice was even, but inside, I was anything but calm. I could tell Lily was lying when she said they hadn’t said anything.

“Room 380,” Lily whispered after a moment, hesitating as if she knew she was sending me into a storm.

“Thanks.” I didn’t wait for anything more. I squared my shoulders and left Justin’s room, the sterile smell of the hospital mingling with the iron scent of my rising fury.

As I stalked down the hallway, nurses and visitors stepped aside, sensing the dark cloud that hung over me. I didn’t have time for niceties—not now. The protective instinct that had always been a part of me roared to life, hard and unyielding.

Anger curled in my stomach, hot and bitter. How could they just leave Justin like that? Because of who he loved? It was a betrayal I couldn’t, wouldn’t, stand for.

The anger wasn’t new; it had always simmered beneath the surface, a constant companion amidst the violence and cold decisions of our world. But this—this was personal. This cut deeper than any knife or bullet ever could.

I reached room 380, the numbers etched in black against the white door. Two Triad-loyal cops stood at attention near the entrance, their eyes sharp beneath their caps. They knew me on sight, and there was no question, no hesitation as they stepped aside to let me enter. It was a silent acknowledgment of my place in the hierarchy—a respect born of fear and recognition.

My gaze swept the room, taking in the stark details: the way the pale blue curtains hung limply against the window, the antiseptic gleam of the tiled floor, the figure lying vulnerable in the hospital bed.

Alex and Knuckles flanked the bed, standing like sentinels. Their conversation ceased as I approached, and the atmosphere tightened, suffocating any stray sounds. My brother Alex, with his black hair and tan skin, looked up at me, his brown eyes revealing nothing. His ability to mask his emotions had always unnerved me; it was the mark of someone who’d lived too long in shadows and secrets.

Knuckles’ broad shoulders were hunched forward, his hands clasped behind his back—a posture that spoke of control barely kept in check. He didn’t turn to face me, but I felt the weight of his presence just the same.

“Where’s Ba?” I asked bluntly.

“He left,” Alex interjected, his voice even but carrying an edge that hinted at irritation. “Said there was no point hanging around with this guy out cold.”

My jaw clenched, anger flaring hot beneath my skin. To leave his own son just like that—to walk away when he was on death’s door—that was a betrayal that cut deeper than any knife. My father had always taught us that family was everything. But apparently, that code cracked under the weight of his prejudices.

Before I could react, a soft groan punctured the beep and whir of machines. The three of us snapped our attention to the man in the bed. His body twitched, his head lolling to the side as the monitors beeped steadily, tracking the reluctant return to consciousness.

“Looks like he’s waking up,” Knuckles murmured, his voice low but carrying an undercurrent of satisfaction that I found disturbing.

The man’s eyelids fluttered, and for a moment, I saw the rapid movement beneath them as he struggled to surface from the depths of unconsciousness.

Rage welled hot and deep in my chest.

I was going to make him suffer.

His eyes finally cracked open, glazed with confusion and fear. They darted around the room, taking in the clinical whiteness of the walls, the harsh lights above, and then landing on the three of us. His gaze lingered on Alex, flitted to Knuckles, and then settled on me—the last stop in a sequence of dread.

A sharp intake of breath, the hitch of panic; it was written all over his face as clear as day, even as his body lay there broken and powerless. He looked terrified, the kind of terror that grips you when you know there’s no way out.

“Welcome back,” I said, my voice cold and devoid of any warmth I might feel for my little brother lying in a different room.

This man was part of the reason Justin was fighting for his life, and I felt nothing but icy detachment as I stared at him, waiting for him to speak. He didn’t say anything, though—just started to stammer, just like they always did.

Anyone who knew who I was knew to be afraid.

It got in the way sometimes.

“Talk,” I demanded, leaning in close, my hands on either side of the foot of the bed. The guy was cuffed to his hospital bed, clearly the perp—and the chains on his cuffs rattled as he tried to escape me. The sterile scent of the hospital mingled with the acrid tang of fear emanating from the man before me. My eyes locked onto his, and I could feel the power I held over him. “Who’s doing this?”

He hesitated, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a visible swallow. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but then clamped it shut, eyes flickering to Alex and Knuckles in a silent plea for clemency that wouldn’t come.

“Please...” His voice was barely audible, choked with terror, and it did something to me—stirred a dark satisfaction deep in my gut.

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