Page 67 of Serpent King's Prisoner

Then, without a word, Abby moved toward the bucket I’d been pulling cleaning supplies from. Her fingers closed around a sponge and a bottle of cleaner, and she began scrubbing at a spot on the counter opposite me.

It was an act so normal in its domesticity it felt surreal given the circumstances. We worked in sync, two specters in a dance of uneasy alliance, erasing the traces of our darker entanglement. And I hated how it felt, but I thought…I was starting to think I could get used to this.

I loved fucking her—god, of course I did—but I loved being with her too. Drinking wine, cooking, cleaning.

This was a life I’d never thought I would have.

And here she was…an accident of fate that was about to change everything.

My gaze landed on her wrists, the delicate skin raw from the cuffs. Guilt gnawed at my insides, an unfamiliar sensation. She had fought hard, fought me, and the evidence was there in the bruises that marred her arms, the gash on her forehead still in the throes of healing. The green of her eyes seemed even more vivid against the fading yellow and purple on her skin.

“Abby,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, but she didn’t react to the sound of her name. She just kept cleaning, as if by doing so she could also wipe away the reality of her situation. I wanted to say something comforting, something human, but the words snagged on the barbed wire of my nature.

I reached out, my hand landing gently on hers. The contact should have been nothing—skin on skin, simple, uncomplicated. But she flinched like I’d burned her, and the look she gave me was a mix of fear and defiance that cut right through.

“Stop,” I said, more softly than I ever thought I could speak. “You don’t need to clean anymore.”

She looked down at where my hand still rested on hers, then slowly back up to me, searching my face for something I wasn’t sure I was ready to show her.

“Your wounds,” I continued, trying to keep my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. “We need to cover them up if we’re going out in public.”

I didn’t want to admit that seeing the marks made me feel anything but the cold detachment I was known for.

Her green eyes held mine a moment longer before she nodded once, silently giving me permission to lead her away from the kitchen. I kept my touch light on her arm as we walked to the bathroom, aware of every place her skin showed signs of the past days’ struggle.

In the sterile light of the bathroom, the bruises and scrapes on her fair skin seemed more pronounced. I resisted the urge to question my own actions that led to this—as the Serpent’s eldest son, I was taught never to doubt, only to act. But Abby wasn’t just some pawn in the game; she was fire and fight, wrapped in a deceptive layer of softness.

“Sit,” I instructed, motioning toward the closed toilet lid as I grabbed the first aid kit from under the sink. The first aid kit clicked open, its contents meticulously organized—a habit drilled into me by Ma’s silent expectations of perfection.

Abby perched on the edge, watching each of my movements with a wariness that had become as familiar to me as breathing. I plucked out antiseptic wipes, gauze, and bandages, focusing on the task at hand.

“This might sting,” I warned before pressing a wipe to the gash on her forehead. She hissed through clenched teeth, but didn’t pull away. It was a small act of bravery—or stubbornness—that chipped at the wall I kept around my conscience.

I worked in silence, methodical in cleaning and covering each wound. When it came to her wrists, raw from the cuffs, I hesitated for a fraction of a second, allowing myself to feel a twinge of something like regret. But the moment passed as quickly as it came, and I secured the bandages with practiced hands. My skin burned everywhere I touched her, fingertips buzzing with the anticipation of violence…or maybe something more.

Something that felt better.

I loved touching her. Needed to touch her.

“Take these,” I said, offering her two ibuprofen from the kit. “They’ll help with the pain.”

She eyed the pills with suspicion, her lips thinning. “How do I know they’re not poison?”

I let out a sigh, my patience thinning. I knelt in front of her, leveling my eyes with hers, and took a hard line. “Look, Abby, I know you think of yourself as my prisoner—my toy,” I said. “But I don’t want to break you... because you can’t use broken toys.”

The phrase was cold, detached, fitting for the life I led. But as the words left my mouth, something twisted inside me. I saw the flicker of something in her eyes—a mix of fear, defiance, and a sliver of understanding.

Despite it all, despite the monster she saw in me, there was this momentary connection that had no business existing.

“Fine,” she muttered after a tense pause, reaching for the pills and dry swallowing them.

Watching her throat work as the pills went down, a strange sense of relief washed over me. I didn’t want her hurt—not more than was necessary for survival, anyway. The thought bothered me, gnawed at the edges of the persona I’d built for myself. Nathan Zhou didn’t do attachments; he didn’t do weaknesses.

And yet, here I was, feeling the pull of something dangerous.

I was falling for this girl. It wasn’t just about possession or control anymore. There was something else there, something that made the stakes higher, the game deadlier.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” I said, standing back to my full height. My voice was steady, but inside, I was reeling from the admission—even if only to myself—that I was stepping into perilous territory. Abby Harper was becoming more than a pawn or a plaything.

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