Page 23 of Serpent King's Prisoner

“Talk to me,” I growled, not bothering with pleasantries as I steered the car down the street, the city lights blurring past like ghosts in the night.

“Where the hell have you been?” Alex’s voice crackled through the speaker, tinged with impatience that matched my own rising irritation.

“Out.” The one-word answer was all he was getting. My mind wasn’t on this conversation; it was back in the club, on the way Abby moved, how the air seemed electrified by her touch.

The city blurred into streaks of light and shadow as I gunned the engine, tearing through the streets with a purpose that earlier in the night had been lost to heat and desire. My phone was a live wire against my ear, Alex’s voice crackling with urgency on the other end.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” Alex’s snicker twisted through the speaker, pulling me back from the edge where hunger turned to anticipation.

I grunted, dismissing his jab. “It’s fine,” I lied, knowing full well he could hear the strain in my voice—the remnants of an itch left unscratched.

“Good,” Alex said, the smirk evident in his tone. “Because we’ve got something big.”

That caught my attention, the residual fog of lust dissipating like smoke. “What is it?”

“Remember the mess from the other night? We might have just bagged the shooter.” The words were casual, but the undercurrent of excitement was unmistakable. Alex lived for this; the game, the chase—it was what made him tick.

“Where?” I pressed, already picturing the scene in my mind.

“We’re at the flower shop. Knuckles is here too. We’ve got the guy tied up and waiting for the Fangs’ special touch.” His laugh was dark, edged with a cruel satisfaction. “He won’t know what hit him.”

A humorless smile tugged at my lips. Scaring the hell out of some rat wasn’t exactly how I’d planned to spend my night, but then again, plans had a way of unraveling fast in our line of work. I made a sharp turn, the tires screeching their protest, as the shop came into view.

“Stay put,” I said, ending the call. It was time to get to work.

I slammed the car door behind me, the thud echoing off the grimy walls of the alley as I strode toward the back entrance of the flower shop. The night was thick with the smell of rot and rain, a stark reminder that not all things could flourish in darkness.

Inside, the familiar sight of orchids greeted me—my secret indulgence—but they weren’t what caught my attention. Knuckles and Alex had a guy pinned to a chair under the harsh glare of a single bulb, his face bruised and defiant. It took a moment for recognition to set in, but when it did, my blood ran cold.

Mark Lin.

A face I knew from a long, long time ago…when I’d executed his uncle and payed off his aunt.

“Mark Lin,” I muttered, dread pooling in my stomach. Just as Jack had suggested, the Lins were behind this…and now, Xinyi’s nephew was here.

Knuckles gave a sharp nod, his eyes narrowing as if to say, ‘We got him now.’

“Is this the shooter from Golden Dragon?” I asked, my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me.

“Got to be,” Alex chimed in, his smirk a dark slash across his face. “Look at him—fucking pissed himself because he knows we’ve caught him.”

“Maybe,” I said, knowing full well guilt had many scents, and fear was one of them. I needed the truth, and there was only one way to get it.

I moved past the shelves lined with pots and soil, towards the corner where I kept my tools. My fingers wrapped around the wooden handles of shears and trowels, instruments meant to nurture life now repurposed for a darker cause. There was no pleasure in this, only necessity.

I chose the shears.

“Let’s find out who you really work for,” I whispered to myself as I turned back to the man. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of the tools in my hands, and I knew then that he understood the kind of pain I could inflict.

“Talk,” I demanded, my voice slicing through the tension like the blade of a knife. “Do you work for Xinyi Lin? Did she send you to pull the trigger?”

The room filled with a palpable dread, and even the orchids seemed to hold their breath, waiting for his answer. The guy tied to the chair, Mark Lin, was tough–tougher than most–his dark eyes defiant, darting between Knuckles and Alex, silently pleading for mercy where there was none to give.

“You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you,” he muttered. “Give me the same kind of mercy you gave my uncle? Fuck you, Fangs—“

In one swift movement, I moved the shears—and his pinkie finger fell to the floor, blood spurting. My lip curled at the spray of red blood across the floor of the room, a room I’d always kept as a retreat from this violence.

Fucking Alex had to ruin this place.

---