Page 36 of Serpent King's Prisoner

“Your world?” I let out a short, humorless laugh. “You really think I’m afraid to get a little blood on my hands in public?”

“Are you crazy?” He leaned back slightly, but his posture remained defiant.

“Maybe,” I admitted with a shrug. “But crazy is what keeps my enemies up at night.” I locked eyes with him, letting him see the truth in mine. “Go get your mother, or so help me—“

“Stop acting like a damn psycho, Nathan.” His voice was laced with irritation, but beneath it, there was a tremor of uncertainty.

“Last chance, Andrew,” I warned, feeling the familiar itch in my veins, the one that came before violence.

“Go to hell,” he spat.

That’s when my patience snapped.

In one fluid motion, I grabbed the fork from the table—plain stainless steel, unassuming—and drove it into the back of his hand, pinning it to the wooden tabletop.

The metal sank into flesh with a sickening crunch. Blood began to pool around the tines, spreading across the varnished wood in a dark, spreading stain. Andrew’s face contorted in pain as a guttural scream tore from his throat, raw and primal. He yanked his hand back, but that just drove the fork deeper, even if he was free—and he was bleeding, blood trickling down his forearm.

“Maybe next time you’ll listen when I tell you to do something,” I said quietly, my heart rate barely elevated. I had needed this—needed to bloody someone, even if only a little.

It felt good.

Necessary.

I was, after all, a creature of violence.

I rose from my seat, an eerie calm settling over me. Andrew’s scream dwindled into choked sobs as he cradled his injured hand, the fork still protruding from the back of it like a grotesque adornment. His eyes, wide and brimming with panic, caught mine for a moment before I yanked him up by his collar.

“Walk,” I growled, dragging him toward the kitchen doors.

The restaurant was a tableau of shocked faces, the patrons’ meals forgotten as they witnessed the brutality unfolding. I ignored their gasps, the clatter of dropped utensils, the whispers that began to buzz like agitated hornets.

Through the kitchen doors, we burst into a world of stainless steel and white tile. The cooks looked up from their prep stations, eyes round with disbelief. They knew who I was—knew better than to ask questions or get in my way.

“Out!” My voice boomed against the walls. “Now!”

No one argued. No one dared. They scattered like leaves in a gale, leaving Andrew and me alone among the abandoned woks and steaming pots.

“Please, Nathan—“ Andrew started, but I cut him off with a fist to his jaw. The sound of impact was satisfying, the jolt of pain in my knuckles grounding.

“Shut up.” I hit him again, feeling that itch start to ebb away with each blow.

I was methodical, precise, every punch a carefully chosen sentence in the language of violence I’d been raised on.

His breath came in ragged gasps now, his attempts to defend himself weakening. Blood dotted his lips, and I wiped my hand on my pants, smearing red across black fabric.

“Remember this next time you think about crossing me,” I snarled, punctuating my words with another strike. “Remember who you’re dealing with.”

Andrew slumped against the counter, his face a mess of bruises and blood. His whimpers had faded, leaving just the harsh rasp of his breathing and the distant clamor of the dining room beyond the closed doors.

And still, I didn’t stop.

Because now I was getting into the rhythm of it, my fists pounding against flesh in a sick form of therapy.

“Mercy, please...mercy,” Andrew’s words barely sliced through the thick tension in the air, his voice choked with pain and fear. Blood pooled beneath him, a stark red against the sterile stainless-steel floor.

“Mercy?” I laughed coldly, my fist cocked back, ready to deliver another blow. “You think you deserve mercy?”

“Ma!” His eyes flickered past me, widening with a mixture of hope and dread.

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