Page 34 of Serpent King's Prisoner

I might have to play nice for now, charm him even, but I’d be ready to strike when the time came. I wouldn’t go down without a fight.

I rehearsed moves in the confined space, each step and pivot measured and silent. I pictured Nathan’s formidable form, the way he moved with lethal grace—a dance macabre I was determined to survive. The scenarios played out in my mind: a confrontation, a struggle, an escape. Yet, as I shifted, feinted, and struck at invisible foes, realism gnawed at my resolve. There was little chance I could overpower him physically; he was trained in violence, and I was defiance with a deadline.

I might have stood a chance if I had my gun, but…that tiny dress didn’t have room to hide weapons.

Fucking idiot. I really shouldn’t have gone to Fusion unprepared.

But now I had an opportunity.

“Think, Abby,” I whispered to the shadows of the room. “There has to be another way.”

The plan that slowly took shape was one of deception, a gamble on the human element that no amount of physical training could prepare for. To win over Fangs, to earn a sliver of trust or perhaps kindle a flicker of doubt—that would take more than brute strength. It would require guile, patience, and an understanding of the man behind the mafia mask.

If he had cared enough to tend to my wounds, maybe he had a soft spot for me.

And I intended on exploiting that.

“Let’s see how well you tend flowers, Fangs,” I murmured, a wry smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

I decided to play the part he expected, the art history major seeking purpose—only this time, my performance would be for an audience of one. For the next day or so, I would watch and wait, engage and empathize, all while plotting my next move. But beneath the veneer of vulnerability, beneath the guise of connection, the shiv stayed close—a reminder that I wasn’t just playing a role. I was fighting for my life.

And if it came to it, if my plan crumbled like the facade of a derelict building, then at least I had a literal blade up my sleeve.

Chapter Eighteen: Nathan

Ineeded to assert myself…to show that I was still in control.

Which is why I had to confront Xinyi Lin directly.

I pushed through the heavy doors of Mandarin Palace like I was storming a fortress. Alex’s words still burned in my head, his voice dripping with disdain as he questioned my loyalty, my strength. The need to prove myself gnawed at me, twisting my insides until I could almost hear my father’s silent call to action, feel the weight of his expectations pressing down on me. My hand instinctively went to my side where the dragon tattoo lay hidden under my shirt, its scales a reminder of the bloodline I carried and the power I wielded.

“Table for one,” I grunted to the hostess, who eyed me warily but nodded, accustomed to the kind of clientele that my presence represented.

“Of course, Mr. Zhou. This way, please.”

I followed her to a secluded corner of the restaurant. The air was thick with the scents of spices and sizzling meat, reminding me of my mother’s kitchen…and making me feel like even more of a monster for what I was about to do. As I sat, the red and gold decor around me seemed to mock the simplicity I craved, the life I could have led had my path not been paved by my father’s ambitions.

Sometimes, though, I had to let the monster win.

My fangs were bared tonight.

“Would you like to start with something to drink?” the waiter asked, materializing beside my table with an elegance that belied the tension I felt.

“Tea,” I said curtly, barely glancing at the menu. “And I want to see Mrs. Lin.”

“Mrs. Lin is quite busy, sir. Perhaps if you tell me what this is regarding...”

“Tell her Nathan Zhou wants a word. She’ll find the time.”

The waiter nodded, a flash of unease crossing his face before he turned to carry out my request. I leaned back, trying to appear casual, but my heart hammered against my ribs like it wanted out. With every second that ticked by, my impatience grew. Alex’s jabs had done their work; they’d gotten under my skin, made me reckless.

But then, that was always Alex’s gift. He could find the cracks in anyone’s armor and pry them wide open with just a few calculated words. It wasn’t envy that ate at him—it was strategy. And I had to stay one step ahead, even if it meant confronting old Mrs. Lin in her own den.

The tea arrived, a delicate floral aroma rising from the steaming cup. I didn’t touch it. My focus was on the kitchen door where I expected Xinyi Lin to emerge at any moment.

Instead, a shadow fell over my table—a bigger, bulkier form.

Andrew fucking Lin.

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