Page 51 of Serpent King's Prisoner

I glanced over at her, shrugging as I continued to chop. “Guess it’s one skill I do have.”

“Is it because you’re a killer?” The question was out before she could stop it, her eyes widening slightly as if she hadn’t meant to be so blunt.

I couldn’t help but laugh, the sound more genuine than I expected. “No, it’s not because I’m a killer. It’s because I used to chop veggies for my mother when she would cook. Still do, every so often.”

“Really?” Abby tilted her head, a lock of brown hair falling across her face. Her expression softened just a touch, curiosity replacing the challenge from moments before.

“Really,” I confirmed, scooping the perfectly diced vegetables into the sizzling pan. I looked up, locking eyes with her again. “Not every part of me is defined by the family business.”

“Tell me about your family,” she said, her voice laced with an unexpected softness. It was a dangerous question—more dangerous than she realized—but here, in this space where I held all the cards, I found myself more than happy to share.

No one had ever asked these kinds of questions.

I would have never been able to answer anyway.

“My mother is the perfect homemaker,” I started. “She’s got this way of making everything feel warm, you know?”

Abby leaned in slightly, green eyes fixed on me as if I was revealing the secret to a magic trick. “And your siblings?”

“Three younger ones.” I turned back to the stir-fry, giving it a quick toss. “Spoiled rotten by Ma’s care. She’s got enough love to smother us all.”

“Sounds nice,” she murmured, and I caught something flicker across her face—a pang of longing, perhaps?

“Nice? Maybe,” I replied, the edges of my mouth curling into a half-smile. “Chaotic? Definitely.”

Abby watched me with a newfound intensity, as if trying to reconcile the image of a doting son with that of the man who wouldn’t hesitate to draw blood when necessary. I cleared my throat, desperately wanting to know her thoughts.

“Does that surprise you?”

Abby shrugged. “I wouldn’t have guessed that a notorious criminal would come from such a…well-structured family.”

Her words struck a nerve. I wasn’t just some street thug; I was a Zhou, and the pride of that ran deep. “Just because our business is dark doesn’t mean we’re broken,” I snapped back, sharper than I intended. The knife in my hand stopped its rhythmic chopping for a moment as I met her gaze. “We’re a family, like any other.”

“Sorry,” she said quickly, not looking sorry at all but knowing when to back down. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Offend me?” I scoffed, my ruffles smoothing out as I resumed the cooking. “You’ll need to try harder than that.”

The tension simmered down as I focused on finishing the meal. She watched me silently now, perhaps sensing she’d treaded into dangerous territory.

Moments later, I plated the stir-fry, steam curling up from the mound of rice and vegetables. I slid one hot plate across the granite countertop toward her. Her eyes followed the dish, and then flickered up to mine. There was something like gratitude there, or maybe it was just hunger.

“Thanks,” she muttered, taking the plate.

“Enjoy.”

I gathered the cooking supplies—paring knife included—and secured them back in the locked cabinet before joining her on the other side of the kitchen island, staying standing.

She didn’t waste any time, diving into the food like it was her first meal in days. Her fork moved back and forth from plate to mouth in quick succession. But as she swallowed a bite, her face twisted into a grimace that she tried to hide behind a smile.

“Not good?” I asked, laughing softly.

“Fine,” she said, though her expression had already betrayed her true thoughts. “It tastes…fine.”

“Fine?” I raised an eyebrow, watching as she took another reluctant forkful. “That’s not exactly high praise.”

“It’s better than stale crackers, and I do appreciate the hot food.”

“Your gratitude is overwhelming,” I said.

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