Page 44 of Serpent King's Prisoner

I was not.

“These should fit,” he said. “They might be a little baggy on you.”

“Thanks,” I said grudgingly. “But I need a shower. I can still feel...everything from last night.” I didn’t look at him as I spoke, keeping my eyes on the clothes.

“So?”

“You’re being a fucking animal,” I said before I could stop myself. “Let me have a shower.”

I clamped my mouth shut, feeling stupid for having lost my temper. He hesitated, studying me for a long moment, and something akin to a flicker of conflict passed over his features. Then it was gone, replaced by a begrudging nod.

“Fine,” he snapped, turning away. “But make it quick.”

“Asshole,” I muttered under my breath, though a part of me wondered if he heard. Whether he had or not, he had just given in, and that, I realized, was a small victory in the twisted captivity I had found myself in.

Whatever remnants of ripped clothes I had left, I got rid of them, tossing them aside like a discarded past I couldn’t afford to cling to. The cold tile of the bathroom floor sent a jolt through my bare feet, but it was the bruises on my arms and throat that pulled a hiss from my lips—a stark reminder of Nathan’s unforgiving grip.

“Need help?” His voice was a low rumble from just outside the door.

“Go to hell,” I shot back, slamming the door with more force than necessary. The lock clicked—a useless gesture—but it was the principle that counted.

The water stung as it cascaded over my skin, each droplet a tiny interrogation against the tender flesh. But it was not the physical pain that gnawed at me—it was the sight of the marks marring my body. Purple and yellow blossoms of bruising on my arm where he seized me, a roadmap of violence that lead to the bite marks claiming territory on my hip, my breast. I touched one gingerly, flinching at the rawness, and then quickly turned my face into the spray, letting the water mix with hot tears of anger and humiliation.

“Abby,” Nathan called out, and I froze, realizing he was somehow in the room, his presence looming even through the frosted glass.

Of course the locks didn’t work.

“Don’t use all the hot water,” he went on. “The neighbors will be pissed.”

Wait–this building was empty, right? My heart raced, wondering if I could get a message out…and then I realized he was joking.

Hilarious.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I replied, my voice dripping with sarcasm. I kept my back to the glass, protective of my vulnerability, painfully aware of his eyes tracing the silhouette of my battered form.

I hurried through the motions, soaping away the grime and the invisible stains of last night’s encounter. The steam rose around me, clouding the air and fogging the glass, offering a shroud for my wounded pride.

And then I was done, turning off the taps with a finality that echoed too loudly in the small space. My hand reached for the towel, wrapping the soft fabric around me like a barrier against the world—against him. I took a deep breath, bracing myself for whatever came next.

When I stepped out, the air felt cooler than before, almost biting against my damp skin. Nathan leaned casually against the wall, his dark eyes unreadable, giving nothing away as they met mine. There was a silence, heavy and expectant, before he finally spoke.

I wondered if he was going to attack me again. A shiver run down my spine, my pussy tingling despite myself as he looked me up and down like he wanted to take a bite out of me.

“Get dressed. We’re not done here.”

My fingers tightened on the towel, my heart pounding with a fierce desire to hit back, to refuse him anything. But I knew better. For now, at least, this was his game, and I was merely a pawn. At least as far as he knew.

“Fine,” I said, my voice steady despite the chaos raging inside. “But let’s get one thing straight—I’m not your puppet, Nathan. And I’m not broken yet.”

His lips twitched, a ghost of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We’ll see about that.”

I tried to walk past him but he cleared his throat–and I looked down to find the shiv in his fingers. His expression was unreadable, but there was a hint of something like respect in the way he looked at the makeshift weapon I had crafted earlier.

“Good job with that shiv,” he said, and his voice was devoid of mockery. It was an odd compliment coming from the mouth of a man who could probably kill with his bare hands.

A shiver ran through me, but not from fear this time. He must have seen my ID, known who I was. My cover was blown if he had any sense—or perhaps he was just testing the waters. Sometimes honesty was the only card left to play, and so I played it.

“My dad’s a cop,” I blurted out, my voice steadier than I felt. “He taught me how to make one...in case I ever needed to.”

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