Page 80 of Serpent King's Prisoner

“Is everything okay?” Abby’s voice pulled me back, and I realized I’d been holding my breath.

“Everything’s fine,” I lied smoothly, schooled in the art of hiding my true feelings.

“Good.” She leaned her head back slightly, meeting my gaze. “Because, Nathan, this…it’s nice.”

And there it was, the hook that caught me unawares, reeling me into waters I had no chart for. Her smile, genuine and warm, promising possibilities I hadn’t allowed myself to consider.

I knew then that the darkness I carried within me would always be a barrier between us. But for now, in the golden warmth of my kitchen, with her in my arms, I let myself bask in the glow of something that felt an awful lot like hope.

“Really nice,” I agreed.

And for a heartbeat, I believed it could be true.

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Abby

Sunlight streamed in through the half-drawn curtains, and I stirred, feeling an unfamiliar weight around my waist.

My eyes fluttered open to find myself entangled in Nathan’s arms, his chest rising and falling with a steady rhythm beneath my cheek. I guessed we hadn’t had sex last night–I was still wearing my t-shirt and panties from the night before, him in sweats–and it shocked me that we had just fallen asleep together.

Like a real couple.

For a moment, I let myself enjoy the warmth of his body, the secure embrace that seemed so at odds with who he was—a stark reminder that the man I was beginning to know was layered far beyond the brutal man who had kept me prisoner in his apartment, who used people as fertilizer.

The events of the night before played back in my head like an innocuous dream—how we’d shared a bottle of wine, the rich taste of bolognese still lingering on my tongue. We had sunk into the couch, side by side, as the action on the screen unfolded; Terminator 2, his choice, gripping enough to make me forget, if only for a couple of hours, the terror that had marked our earlier encounters. The comfort of the evening was foreign, a contradiction to the chaos that had brought us together.

Yet, as I gazed up at him, taking in the relaxed line of his jaw, the unguarded expression on his face, reality clawed its way back in. This man was a killer, feared by many, and I was not simply a woman in his arms—I was a hostage, an FBI agent caught in the web of a criminal empire.

A shudder ran through me as I remembered the violence, the threats, the dark intensity of our first…no, our second, encounter. It was all too easy to be swayed by this gentle version of him, to mistake the calm after the storm for peace. But I couldn’t afford to lose sight of the truth—not when my freedom and justice hung in the balance.

Nathan shifted then, his movements stirring the air between us. His eyelids fluttered open, revealing those deep eyes that had seen so much, done so much. They fixed on me, a flicker of surprise giving way to recognition, as the morning painted him in a less sinister, more human light. And for a fleeting second, I allowed myself the luxury of forgetting who we were—agents of opposing fates bound together in a dance too dangerous to last.

“Morning,” Nathan’s voice was rough with sleep.

“Morning,” I echoed, my hand stilling on him for a moment as we locked eyes. The intensity between us didn’t need words or violent passion to confirm its existence; it was there in his steady gaze, in the way my pulse thrummed under his touch.

He reached up, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from my face, and something like warmth flickered across his features. “You’re full of surprises, Abby.”

I couldn’t help the half-smile that tugged at my lips.

“Didn’t take you for a morning person,” he said, his voice still thick with traces of sleep but laced with that familiar edge—a reminder of who he was, of the power he wielded.

“Didn’t take you for someone who sleeps,” I countered, trying to keep the mood light despite the gravity of our situation.

“Have to rest sometimes,” he replied. “Especially with everything going on.”

Fuck…we were just having a conversation, and for some reason, it was almost annoying that he wasn’t fucking me right then and there. He smelled so good and I wanted him so much. Fuck the bruises on my skin. Fuck the way he had told me I was just a hole for his pleasure.

My orgasms with him were something else; a high I felt like I would always keep chasing.

But…he was right there. If he had used me, why couldn’t I also use him? If this whole thing wasn’t him being my boyfriend–and fuck, there was a part of me that really wanted him to be my boyfriend–then I should get to take pleasure in it too.

Sometimes, on my own terms.

“Everything going on…like what?” I repeated softly, wondering if he would start sharing more details–if he had grown comfortable enough with me to give me something useful.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said as I grabbed his hand. “Right now, it’s just us. You have any plans for the morning?”

I smirked. “Just this.”

---