Page 50 of Serpent King's Prisoner

“Maybe you’ll find the cooking show more entertaining,” I quipped, keeping my tone light.

Her soft laugh brushed against the tension in the room. “You’re no Gordon Ramsay, Nathan, that’s for sure.”

“Never claimed to be,” I said, focusing on the task at hand, but my attention was split. One part of me was keeping track of every move she made, the other half contemplating the stir-fry that needed to not taste like cardboard.

Abby leaned against the wall, her arms folded across her chest. “You always this careful with your kitchenware?”

“Always careful with everything I own,” I shot back, the words edged with a truth deeper than the surface conversation. In my line of work, carelessness didn’t lead to cuts from a kitchen knife—it led to far worse.

She pushed off the frame and took a few steps into the kitchen, eyeing the ingredients laid out on the counter. “I’m surprised you have time for this, what with your busy schedule.”

“Everyone’s gotta eat,” I countered, slicing through a bell pepper with a swift, sure motion. The sound of the knife against the cutting board was rhythmic, almost soothing in its regularity.

“Even the notorious Fangs Zhou?” Her tone was teasing, but there was an undercurrent of something sharper. Curiosity, maybe, or a dare.

“Especially him,” I said, finally looking up to meet her gaze. It was important she remembered who I was, who held the power in this game of ours.

But damn if those freckles sprinkled across her nose didn’t make it hard to stay cold. “So you do watch a lot of cooking shows?”

“No. Careful, Abby,” I warned, my voice low, “you might start thinking I’m human.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, the TV forgotten as she pulled out a stool and sat down at the bar, her attention now fully on me. There was something about being watched by her that set my nerves on edge—like I was the one being hunted.

“Good,” I replied, turning back to the vegetables. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

I kept the blade moving, the pile of diced vegetables growing steadily. Abby’s green eyes followed each movement with an intensity that could cut glass. I felt her gaze like a physical touch, sparking something in the air between us. “What are you making?”

“Chicken stir-fry,” I said, answering the unspoken question. “Nothing fancy. I’m not exactly a chef.”

“Looks competent enough to me,” she replied, resting her chin on her hand as she watched. “Why bother?”

“Figured a hot meal would do you some good,” I answered without looking up from my task. “Better than living off the snacks I got stashed away.”

“Trying to take care of me now?” Her voice carried a note of mockery but was tinged with genuine curiosity.

“Let’s just say I prefer my…guests to be comfortable,” I said, keeping it light, brushing close to the truth but never quite touching it.

“Is that part of the Triad hospitality package?” She quirked an eyebrow, challenging me.

“Only for the special ones.”

She leaned back slightly, crossing her arms as if bracing herself for a confrontation. “Are the flowers and dinner an apology for last night?”

Her voice was steady, but I noticed the slight tremble in her hands. I tensed at the question, my grip on the knife tightening momentarily. Images of the previous night’s events flashed in my mind—tearing her clothes off, making her cry…making her come. I tried to mask any sign of concession in my expression, but it was like trying to smooth ripples from water.

“Apology?” I shook my head, dismissing the suggestion with a half-laugh that sounded more forced than I intended. I looked at her directly then, my eyes locking onto hers with the intensity that came naturally to me. “I don’t have to apologize for last night.”

The air between us crackled with an unspoken challenge. Even as I said the words, part of me wondered if I was trying to convince her or myself. But there was no room for weakness in my world—not when you’re Fangs Zhou, son of the Serpent, enforcer of his will.

Her eyes narrowed at my words, a spark igniting in their depths that could’ve been anger or something more dangerous. The room seemed to shrink, the space between us charged with an energy that had nothing to do with the sizzling chicken in the pan.

“Because I’m your toy, is that it?” Her voice was low, a mix of defiance and something else that sent a jolt straight through me.

“You said it yourself,” I murmured. “And I play rough.”

I try to ignore her, concentrating on the stir-fry, the rhythm of cooking momentarily grounding me. The sharp scent of spices hit the air, mingling with the subtler notes of her perfume—a reminder of the complexity of the woman sitting just feet away, watching my every move. There was something about Abby that cut through the layers of who I was supposed to be, who I had been crafted to become as Kenneth Zhou’s son.

“Wow, you really are quick with that knife.” Abby’s voice pulled me back from the edge of my own thoughts, spiking a little with what seemed like genuine surprise.

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