Page 38 of Serpent King's Prisoner

I paced the length of the apartment, every step a silent drumbeat in the darkening room. Night was falling, and with it, my chances of finding an escape seemed to slip further away. The windows were sealed tight, the door locked from the outside; Nathan had made sure of that.

Hours earlier, I had tried to distract myself. The TV droned on with some reality show I couldn’t care less about. I’d taken a shower, letting the water cascade over my skin, hoping it would wash away the anxiety that clung to me. Freshly changed into a new set of oversized t-shirts and joggers, I’d even gone so far as to make the bed with military precision—a habit drilled into me by my father—as if neatness could restore order to this chaos. I raided the pantry, munching on crackers that tasted like cardboard but at least were there, but now...now none of that mattered.

My mind raced. The Serpent’s Fang—a notorious Triad member, his reputation dripping with whispered stories of violence. When I saw him, I thought he might have owned a franchise of flower stores.

Because I was an idiot.

But could someone who cared for delicate flowers let me die up here?

Each tick of the clock mocked me with its indifferent rhythm. My heart felt like a trapped bird within my ribcage, flapping wildly for freedom, while my brain ran scenario after scenario. With each passing minute, Nathan’s absence hung heavier, and I wondered if he was going to leave me to starve here.

I would run out of stale crackers eventually.

I knew starvation wasn’t really a Triad approach, but the man was known for being creative.

“Abby Harper,” I muttered under my breath, trying to ground myself with the sound of my own name. “You’re not going down without a fight.”

But even as I said it, I knew Nathan held all the cards. And I was beginning to fear he might just let the game play out until there was nothing left of me but a memory.

The walls of the apartment closed in on me, and I felt the weight of isolation bearing down. I was in the kitchen, wondering what the fuck to do as I thought about it…and I had nothing. I couldn’t just break out of here. Not yet, anyway.

It was a strange feeling for an FBI agent, accustomed to being the one in control, the one with the backup plan. But right now, I had no backup, no plan—nothing but the hope that Nathan would return. And yet, a part of me dreaded what that return might bring.

I didn’t have a lot of time to think about it. As I was losing myself in thoughts of starvation and who would find my dead body in this apartment, the door flew open with a crash that sent a jolt through me, and he was there—Nathan. Blood splattered his clothes like abstract art, his eyes ablaze with something feral and uncontrolled. He shut the door behind him and he strode towards me with a predator’s grace, a silence hanging around him that was louder than any words.

I took a step back, my heart pounding against my ribcage as if it wanted to break free. But before I could move further, his hand shot out, gripping the back of my head with an iron strength. His lips crashed onto mine, a kiss that was more possession than passion, reeking of copper. Blood, I realized, a metallic taste mixing with the fear that spiked through my bloodstream.

“Jesus, Nathan,” I breathed when his mouth finally left mine, my voice trembling. “What the hell?”

He said nothing, staring at me with those intense brown eyes, but they weren’t warm now—they were dark, glazed over, as if he wasn’t seeing me.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I spat, trying to mask my fear with anger. But deep down, I knew it was futile. In this moment, trapped with him in the late-night shadows of this unknown apartment, Nathan held all the power. And as his bloody gaze bore into me, I couldn’t deny the terror—and the unwanted flicker of desire—that he stirred within me.

The heat from his body radiated against mine, a dangerous warmth that made my skin tingle despite my better judgment. I pushed against his chest, my palms flat and forceful, breaking the too-close proximity between us. “We can’t—this isn’t—“ My voice broke off as frustration boiled within me.

“Abby,” Nathan’s voice was low, a dark melody that seemed to reach inside and pluck at something primal in me. I could feel myself getting hornier as he spoke and I hated it.

“No!” I snapped, anger giving me strength. I darted away, running toward the living room. He stayed still as I put the couch between us, creating a barrier he would have to cross. He moved toward me, his movements confident, predatory even. He was used to being in control, but this time, I wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

“Damn it, Nathan! You can’t just kiss me like everything is normal,” I shouted, circling the couch, keeping it between us. “Things have changed. I’m your prisoner now, remember? We’re not just sleeping together at a club. This isn’t like that anymore.”

He paused, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he lunged around the couch. I backpedaled, avoiding his grasp with a quick sidestep honed by years of training.

I chided myself mentally. I had to be careful not to be too fast if I didn’t want him to know about my training. My heart raced, each beat echoing the chase that unfolded in the dim apartment.

“Abby, stop running,” he commanded, his voice deep and steady.

“I won’t let you corner me,” I retorted, trying to calm my racing pulse.

“Then you should know better than to think you can escape me,” he countered, his stance unwavering as he kept advancing.

I hated this dance we were doing—me fleeing, him pursuing. It was a twisted game with stakes higher than I dared to admit, even to myself. But more than anything, I despised the way my body betrayed me, how it remembered the pressure of his lips, the touch of his hands. With every step I took, I fought not only Nathan but also the treacherous part of me that craved the danger he embodied.

“Stop trying to catch me, Nathan,” I pleaded, my voice softening despite my resolve. “Just...just talk to me.”

He hesitated, and for a heartbeat, I saw a glint of the florist I had built up in my head, the man who cared for orchids with a gentleness that did nothing but bury his reputation. But then it vanished, replaced by the mask of the Triad assassin, and I knew that this was far from over.

I had barely taken a breath, steeling myself for another attempt at escape, when Nathan lunged forward with the lethal grace of a predator. His hand caught the back of my neck and tangled his fingers in my hair, pulling painfully, his grip unyielding as he dragged me from the living room to the kitchen island despite me trying to dig my feet into the floor to stop him from moving me.

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