Page 79 of Serpent King's Prisoner

I tensed, memories of the brutal case clawing at the edges of my mind. “Yeah, I remember,” I replied, trying to keep my tone even. “It was awful, what happened.”

She hesitated for a brief moment before continuing, “I thought you wouldn’t care…given that you’re a killer.”

Her words were like a punch to the gut. My hands clenched involuntarily, but I kept my face impassive. She didn’t understand—couldn’t possibly know what it meant to do the things I’d done.

“I don’t kill for pleasure,” I said quietly, the weight of my past heavy on my shoulders. “Every time…every single time, it’s been to protect my family.”

There was more to say, reasons and justifications that had long since been etched into my soul, but they remained unspoken.

I couldn’t tell her that it was a release. A necessary release…but satisfying all the same.

Abby looked up at me, her green eyes searching mine. For a second, I wondered what she saw—the monster or the man. The silence hung between us, laden with the unsaid truths and lies that shaped our lives.

I wanted to tell her everything. To explain why my world was painted in shades of blood and loyalty. But some truths were too dangerous to share, even with someone who seemed to see right through the walls I’d built around myself.

With Abby, I wanted to be Nathan—not the heir to a legacy written in violence.

And in that moment, I wished that was all I ever had to be.

Feeling a surge of frustration mixed with an odd sense of vulnerability, I couldn’t stay rooted to that spot any longer. I moved without thinking, the distance between us closing until I came up behind her at the stove. My arms found their way around her waist, the tension in my body seeking an outlet.

“Careful,” Abby murmured, eyeing the simmering pot, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she continued to stir the contents gently.

I inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of herbs and something sweet that clung to her skin. It was probably from some shampoo or lotion, but it didn’t matter.

To me, it was just Abby.

She leaned back slightly, her body pressing against mine in a way that felt almost natural. Her free hand came to rest on top of mine, and her warmth seeped into me. For a moment, the heaviness of my life seemed to lift, suspended in the simple act of holding her.

“Your hands are cold,” she said softly, her fingers squeezing mine as if to impart her own heat.

“Yours are warm.”

“Maybe you should take a break from the cold then,” she suggested with a lightness in her voice that sounded like hope.

Or maybe it was just my wishful thinking.

“I think I might,” I replied, the corners of my mouth lifting into a rare smile. I hadn’t realized how much I’d been craving this—human touch, comfort, something as simple as standing with someone who didn’t fear me.

For a fleeting second, there was no Triad, no blood on my hands, no looming threats. There was just us, Nathan and Abby, existing in a bubble that I never wanted to burst.

A silence fell between us, but it wasn’t the tense kind that usually filled my world. It was comfortable, easy, like the quiet moments I used to share with Ma in the garden when I was a kid. I’d never thought I’d find that kind of peace again, especially not here, not with her.

“Abby,” I began, my voice barely above a murmur. The words were lodged in my throat, the admissions and confessions crowding together. They wanted out, these secrets that had been chained inside me for so long. But fear held them back—the fear of what revealing too much could mean for both of us.

“Mmm?” She hummed in response, her attention still half on the sizzling pan in front of her.

“Nothing.” I clamped down on the urge to spill my soul. “Just…thank you. For the food.”

“Of course.”

She shrugged as if it was nothing, but it was everything. It was normalcy, a touch of the life I’d thought was beyond my reach, a life where people didn’t look over their shoulders and trust wasn’t just another word for weakness.

I could get used to this, the domesticity, the simplicity of cooking dinner with someone who didn’t want anything from me but my company. And yet, the shadows of my past actions lingered at the edges of this fragile moment.

Could she ever forgive me for the things I’d done? Not just to her, but to those who no longer had a voice to offer forgiveness or condemnation?

The weight of those thoughts pressed down on me, threatening to shatter the illusion of normalcy. I tightened my grip on her waist, not ready to let go of the fantasy, not yet.

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