Page 45 of Serpent King's Prisoner

The admission hung between us, a fragile truth that could easily be turned against me. But Nathan didn’t press further on my newfound vulnerability. Instead, he chose an unexpected angle.

“Are you close?” His question felt invasive, yet oddly sincere, as if the notion intrigued him more than the information could benefit his criminal activities.

“Very,” I replied, swallowing the lump in my throat. “It’s been just us since my mom died when I was small. He’s...all I have.” The words were thick with emotion, betraying more than I intended. “He’d be crushed if he never saw his little girl again.”

Nathan’s reaction was non-existent, his face giving away nothing. It was as if my words had passed right through him, leaving no impression whatsoever. It made me wonder what kind of man could be so untouched by talk of family, of loss. What had hardened him to be…like this?

“Get dressed,” he finally said, breaking the charged silence. He pushed off the wall and left the bathroom, turning his head to call back. “And don’t try anything stupid. I’ll be watching.”

For the first time, I was alone. I could think. His warning was clear, yet somehow, it didn’t ignite the fury I expected in myself. Instead, there was a strange sense of connection, however slight, linking us through the shared understanding of what it meant to hold onto someone you couldn’t afford to lose.

I dressed quickly, slipping into the clothes he had given me with a newfound sense of determination. No matter what Nathan thought, I wasn’t just another victim of his twisted world. I was Abby Harper, daughter of a cop, FBI fucking agent, and I would find a way out of this—I had to.

I emerged from the bathroom, feeling the weight of a dry shirt and shorts replacing the towel. The apartment was silent, eerily so, as if it held its breath for what would come next. My eyes darted around, searching for Nathan, but he was nowhere in sight as I walked down the short hallway.

Then I rounded the corner and spotted him, sprawled casually in the living room, the metallic glint of handcuffs catching the early morning light. He didn’t stand or move; his gaze was fixed on me with an intensity that made my heart race with both fear and an inexplicable thrill.

“Thought you might try to make a run for it while I’m out,” Nathan said, his voice calm, betraying none of the violence I knew he was capable of. “So you’re gonna be a guest of the sofa.”

He patted the spot beside him, and something inside me twisted—a mix of humiliation and defiance. I walked over, my steps steady despite the tremor I felt within. As he cuffed my ankle to the heavy piece of furniture, I forced a laugh.

“Wow, Nate, cuffing a girl to your couch so she doesn’t run away? You sure know how to romance a lady.”

“It’s so you can watch TV, so I would say it’s very romantic, actually,” he said, and maybe it was my imagination, but he sounded genuinely hurt.

“The worst romantic gesture of all time,” I replied between gritted teeth.

“You can stare at the ceiling fan in the bedroom if you prefer,” he said.

“No, this…this works. This is great,” I replied, sitting next to him. He grabbed my hand, not roughly. His fingers slid down mine, as if he was taking in the softness of my skin, and then he shook his head.

“Your ankle,” he said, then kneeled down, looking up at me expectantly. He grabbed my ankle roughly, then cuffed me to a thick, sturdy leg of the sofa. The cold metal bit against my skin, a tangible reminder of my predicament.

“Enjoy the TV,” he added, tossing the remote onto the cushion beside me before heading towards the door.

As the lock clicked, signaling his departure, I leaned back against the sofa, the reality of my situation settling in like a cold cloak. This was no love story; it was survival—and I needed to remember that if I was going to get out of this alive.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Nathan

The scent of damp earth and old wood filled my senses as I pushed open the hidden door behind a rack of colorful bouquets in Grant Avenue Floral.

This was where we did business—the Prohibition-era tunnels beneath Chinatown. The tunnels stretched out like the veins of San Francisco, connecting the Zhou empire’s lifeblood to its various organs. The click of my boots on the concrete was the only sound echoing off the walls, a solitary march towards an inevitable confrontation.

I could still feel the tension in my knuckles, the memory of flesh giving way under my fists. The scene replayed in my mind—the mess I’d left in the kitchen at Mandarin Palace, the way the Andrew Lin’s face had looked before and after I’d vented my rage at him. It wasn’t something new—violence was part of the job, part of who I was.

But last night was different.

Last night, Abby’s face kept flickering in my mind with each blow I dealt.

And then…when I’d come back to the house, I’d hurt her just as badly.

In a different way, sure. But I wanted to show her that she couldn’t change me, couldn’t make me weak.

All I’d done was make myself feel like more of a monster.

Abby, with her green eyes that held secrets I couldn’t fathom, and a cover story that was too polished to be anything but a lie. My gut told me she was trouble the moment she walked past the flower shop, the moment I’d offered her that bouquet. Yet, there was something about her, something that made me hesitate.

I didn’t hesitate.

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