Page 27 of Serpent King's Prisoner

Abby.

Her green eyes wide, not with the innocence I saw when she laughed over a cup of coffee next door, or the heat from the club, but with a terror that chilled even my hardened soul. She teetered on the edge of flight, her body tensed to run. There was a phone in her hand, filming every bloody moment.

She ran…along with the footage she’d been taking.

“Shit,” I muttered under my breath, dropping the cleaver and lunging across the room with more agility than someone my size should have. The dragon inked on my skin seemed to propel me forward, an omen of the chase.

Abby bolted, her brown hair a dark stream behind her. But I knew these streets, these alleys—they were my kingdom, and I was their relentless sovereign. With the speed that earned me the name Fangs, I closed in on her fleeing form.

“Abby!” I called out, half hoping she’d stop, half knowing she wouldn’t. She darted a look back at me, her eyes fierce, a fire there that didn’t quite match up with the innocent barista from next door.

“Stop!” I commanded, as if my voice could halt her. It couldn’t. It never could.

People don’t stop when death is on their heels; they run faster.

She was quick, I’d give her that, but not quick enough. I reached out, my fingers brushing the hem of her jacket before grasping it firmly. With a jerk, I pulled her back against me, her body colliding with mine in a tangle of limbs and fear.

“Let go of me, Nathan!” she spat out, struggling in my grip like a wildcat cornered in an alley.

“Can’t do that, Abby,” I said through gritted teeth, my heart pounding—not from the chase, but from something else entirely. “You’ve seen too much.”

Her elbow connected hard with my gut in just the right place, and I doubled over. It caught me off guard—not the pain, but the raw strength behind it. She used that split second to make a break for it again.

“Damn,” I muttered under my breath.

She was fast, darting through the night like she was part of it. But anger seeped into my veins, hot and fluid, and propelled me forward. This was not how it was supposed to go down. I was Nathan Zhou, the Serpent’s Fang, not some rookie who could be taken by surprise. I had a reputation to uphold—the kind that sent shivers down the spine of every thug in San Francisco.

I lunged after her, my body fueled by fury, and this time when I grabbed her, I didn’t hold back. My hand locked around her wrist, yanking her back so hard that we both stumbled. Without hesitating, I threw her to the ground. Her body hit the pavement with a thud that echoed in the empty alley.

“Stay down!” I commanded, pinning her beneath me.

But even then, she squirmed under my weight, fighting back with the tenacity of someone who’d been in scraps before—someone who refused to be a victim.

And for a fleeting moment, despite the chaos, I admired her grit.

Until she got the better of me, shoving me off her and rolling swiftly away…only to rally and turn back on me.

Her fists flew at me, hard and unyielding as the streets we fought on. I blocked a jab, surprised by the force behind it, then another. She wasn’t just scrappy; she had technique, skill that was honed, not stumbled upon. And damn if it didn’t make my blood pump faster.

“Where’d you learn to throw a punch?” I grunted, grabbing her wrist and twisting it behind her back.

But she answered with a knee aimed at my ribs, slipping out of my grasp like she was made of smoke. I caught her ankle before she could connect, flipping her onto her back once more. The streetlight above flickered, casting a harsh glow on her determined face.

“Who taught you to fight?” I demanded again, though I knew better than to expect an answer. I didn’t know why I was even asking, when in all honesty, I needed to kill her. She bucked beneath me, her other leg sweeping toward my knees in an attempt to knock me off balance. I sidestepped, barely keeping my footing.

She was relentless, each move calculated and fierce. A fighter’s instinct burned in her eyes, green and blazing even in the dim light. In another life, she would’ve made a hell of a soldier in my father’s ranks. But here and now, she was a threat—a wild card in a game where I held all the cards yet felt none of the control.

“Enough,” I growled, pinning her arms to the ground. “You’re not getting away.”

For a moment, we were locked in a stalemate, her body pressed against mine, both slick with the effort of our struggle. Her heart hammered against my chest, a fierce rhythm that matched my own. It was madness that she thought she could take me on, but there was something about her spirit that gnawed at my insides.

I admired that fire, that refusal to be broken. But admiration wouldn’t keep us safe, wouldn’t erase what she’d seen tonight. My hand flexed by my side, inches from my gun. There were decisions to make, lines to cross, and time was running out.

Blood and sweat mingled, the scent sharp in the cool night air. I had her down, my weight pinning her to the cold ground, but she was far from defeated. Her chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, each one a silent dare for me to make my next move.

“I don’t want to do this,” I warned, though my voice was less certain than I would have liked. It was an offer, a plea—anything to end this without more bloodshed. “Give me your phone and—“

Instead of yielding, she bucked under me, fighting with a wild desperation that couldn’t be faked. My grip slipped, and in that sliver of opportunity, she landed a solid hit. Pain exploded in my gut; I staggered back, caught off guard by the force behind her blow.

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