Page 64 of Serpent King's Prisoner

Some might call it duty. Others might whisper it as tragedy. But as I looked at Abby, her body still humming with the echoes of our coupling, I knew there was only one word for it: survival.

And survival in the Triad meant there were no half-measures. No mercy. Not even for the woman who, for a fleeting moment, had made me feel like I was more than just Fangs Zhou—the feared enforcer, the son of the Serpent, the man with blood on his hands.

Tonight, I had to kill Abigail Harper. Because in this life—my life—there was simply no other way.

Chapter Thirty: Abby

My pulse hammered, a relentless drumbeat echoing through my limbs.

I blinked, the sharp edge of reality slicing through the haze left behind by a pleasure so intense it had stolen my senses, rendered me sightless, deaf–nothing more than sensation for Nathan’s taking. The afterglow was fading fast, and with each frantic beat of my heart, I became acutely aware of how dangerous this game truly was.

I had to do something, anything, to get out of this. There on the bed, in the dim evening light filtering through the blinds, I watched Nathan–Fangs, they called him–move with a languid grace that barely betrayed the violence I knew he was capable of. He rolled off the bed with the ease of a predator sure in his dominion, muscles shifting beneath that inked skin where a dragon snaked across his chest.

He didn’t look at me as he stood, just reached down to pull his sweats up over the taut lines of his hips. My eyes traced the motion, my mind racing even as my body still twitched, coming down from the high of being utterly consumed by him. I struggled to remember who I was–Abigail Fucking Harper, FBI agent, trained at Quantico, fluent in Mandarin, and planted next door at that coffee shop for one reason: to take down the Golden Serpents from the inside.

As I lay there, trying to regain control, I couldn’t help but wonder about the man I’d been sent to destroy. A man who tended to orchids like they were soft, delicate, and could snuff out a life with what felt like a flick of his wrist.

Nathan turned, casting a shadow across the room, and the faintest glint of something unreadable flickered in his dark gaze. It was a look that spoke of secrets and an inner turmoil I was yet to understand. And in that moment, despite the trepidation clawing at my insides, I realized I was seeing beyond the assassin prince’s facade.

But this wasn’t about feelings or attraction; it was survival. I needed to keep my wits about me, play the part I’d been assigned by him until I could find a way out. For now, though, I was trapped in his world, at his mercy, and my only option was to make him believe I was his, while every fiber of my being screamed for freedom.

I watched, heart hammering against my ribs, as Nathan rifled through the drawer once again. My mind raced, anticipating another round of his twisted game, but instead, he pulled out a pair of black gloves with a practiced ease. Slipping them onto his hands, the latex snapped against his skin ominously. Then came the syringe and a small bottle filled with a clear liquid.

Panic clawed its way up my throat.

“Please,” I tried to beg through the duct tape, muffled sounds of desperation barely audible. My eyes darted around the room, searching for something, anything that could be used to my advantage. But there was nothing—just me, him, and the impending threat that filled the syringe between his fingers.

Nathan’s movements were mechanical, chillingly calm as he tapped the syringe, air bubbles rising to the top. “This is a powerful anesthetic, Abby,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. “Just a little prick and you’ll start to feel dizzy. But don’t worry, your death will be quick, painless.”

I screamed again, thrashing against the cuffs that held me captive, metal biting into already raw skin. Desperation surged through me, my training at Quantico kicking in despite the hopelessness of my situation.

Think about what you’re doing, Nathan, I wanted to say, to reason with him, to find that part of him that might still resonate with the beauty of the world, like the blossoms he nurtured. But words failed me, and all that remained was the stark reality of my predicament, the moonlight casting shadows that seemed to whisper of my impending doom.

He crawled over me, his presence a heavy weight. “I’m sorry, Abby,” he muttered, and I froze at the softness in his voice, so out of place with the coldness of his actions. It was as if the man who loved quiet moments among petals and blooms was fighting to surface through a sea of brutal upbringing.

His apology almost sounded like begging. He was gentle now, sweet even, brushing my hair away from my sweaty forehead with a tenderness that felt jarringly wrong. The softest kiss landed there, almost loving, and he whispered, “You’ve been wonderful.”

Tears blurred my vision, hot and relentless. I wasn’t sure when they had started or why. But even amid the confusion and terror, my body refused to give up. I closed my hand as small as I could get it, twisting the way I’d been taught since I was a kid raised by a paranoid father. I could get free of the cuff–it might hurt, but it was better than dying.

Then I was free–at least with one hand–and I could act.

With newfound adrenaline, I shoved him, sending him sprawling off the other side of the bed.

The syringe clattered to the floor somewhere in the room, its contents unknown, its purpose sinister. Nathan scrambled for it, but it had rolled into obscurity, lost in the shadows.

Not bothering to free my other wrist, I reached for my mouth, peeling off the duct tape with a sharp rip that stung my skin. I needed to speak, to use what little leverage I might have. He was bigger than me, faster. If we were to end up in combat, it would go badly for me.

But maybe I could just…talk to him. It was the only play I had left.

Nathan stood by the bed, looming over me, hands raised as if he were about to squeeze the life from my lungs. Fear spiked, but I swallowed it down.

“Wait,” I managed to choke out, the word hanging between us, fragile as a spider’s web.

Nathan paused, his eyes—those windows to a soul torn between two worlds—locked onto mine. His body remained tense, ready to spring into lethal action. But behind that readiness, I sensed hesitation, a glimmer of conflict. This was a man more used to concealing weapons than revealing emotions, yet here we were, in a standoff where words held more power than bullets.

“Wait,” I repeated, my voice stronger this time, steadier despite the tears flowing down my cheeks. “Just wait.”

He frowned, a silent command for me to explain myself, and I seized the moment.

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