Page 89 of Serpent King's Prisoner

“Table for three,” Owen said to the hostess, his voice calm and assured. We followed her to a secluded corner of the restaurant—an attempt at privacy or maybe just a coincidence. Either way, I was grateful for the distance from the prying eyes of San Francisco’s finest.

As we settled into our seats, I couldn’t shake off the sensation of being watched. The weight of their glances felt heavy, oppressive, like chains wrapped around my chest. I had to remind myself that none of them knew my face, that I was just another customer here for a meal.

But inside, I knew better. This wasn’t just any dinner—it was a test. One wrong move, one slip-up, and everything could come crashing down around us. Abby’s safety, my family’s empire, the delicate balance we’d managed to maintain—everything hinged on this performance.

She could escape here and now, and destroy my whole life.

Why had I trusted her?

“Looks cozy, doesn’t it?” Abby commented, her voice light, but her eyes scanning the room with the same vigilance I felt. It put me at ease a bit—as if she was my co-conspirator and not my prisoner.

“Cozy isn’t the word I’d use,” I muttered under my breath, forcing a tight smile as I picked up the menu. My mind, however, remained focused on the men and women who served the law—a constant threat to people like me.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” Abby’s father chimed in, breaking my line of thought. His eyes, so much like hers, were full of innocent curiosity, not the hardened suspicion I was bracing for.

“Nothing important,” I reassured him, plastering a casual smile on my face. The kind that I hoped would make me look less like the criminal I was and more like the charming boyfriend I was pretending to be.

Abby leaned forward then, her hands folded neatly on the table—a picture of poise and grace. She began weaving our fabricated tale with such finesse it almost made me believe it myself. Her voice was steady, her story detailed but not overly so. She knew just what to say, how to say it, to paint the picture we wanted her dad to see.

“And I’m really sorry, Dad, for just vanishing like that,” she interjected with a rueful smile, briefly touching his hand across the table. “It wasn’t meant to be such a drama. It’s just…things happened so fast, you know? One moment we were talking about flowers, the next thing I knew, I got caught up in the whirlwind of it all.”

“Romance has a way of doing that to you,” Owen said, chuckling softly, obviously touched by her words. “Whisking you away before you even realize your feet have left the ground. Me and your mother were the same way.”

“Exactly,” she agreed, giving him an affectionate nod. “But I should’ve handled it better, let you know I was okay. My phone just died and I didn’t think to charge it…”

Her apology seemed genuine, and I could tell it meant something to her dad. He reached out and patted her hand, his eyes brightening with forgiveness and understanding. Seeing them together, their bond so evident, tugged at something deep within me—a yearning for a connection I hadn’t realized I’d been missing.

“Love does strange things to us,” Owen mused, glancing at me with a softness that contradicted everything I stood for. “Makes us do unexpected things.”

Abby looked over at me with a smile, and I thought in that moment I could see the love I wanted so badly from her. “It really does.”

I couldn’t stop looking at her, couldn’t get over how my heart raced when she met my eyes. But Owen turned his gaze to me, green eyes sharp under the low light of the restaurant. “So what’s your story, Nathan? What do you do?”

I felt Abby’s foot brush mine under the table; a silent cue to stick to our story. My pulse quickened—not from fear, but from the thrill of the challenge. I leaned back in my chair, trying to appear casual as the scrutiny of an experienced cop bore into me.

“I manage properties around the city,” I said, holding his gaze steadily. It wasn’t a complete lie—I did oversee some of the fronts the Golden Serpents used—but it was far from the whole truth.

“Real estate, huh?” Owen’s eyes searched mine, looking for something I couldn’t quite place. “That’s a tough business around here.”

“Definitely has its moments,” I admitted with a shrug. “But it’s rewarding when everything comes together.”

“Must keep you busy.”

“Busy enough.”

“And you went to school, I presume? Management?” Owen asked, his tone casual but eyes still assessing.

“Actually, I studied philosophy at Stanford,” I replied, watching as Abby’s face registered surprise. It wasn’t a detail I had shared with her, a piece of my past life that seemed incongruent with the man I was now.

“Stanford? Philosophy?” Abby echoed, her eyebrows arching in genuine curiosity. “I didn’t know that about you.”

“Most people don’t.” A shadow crossed my face for a moment, the ghost of another life. “It’s not exactly practical in my line of work.”

“Interesting combination, though,” Owen mused, folding his arms. “Real estate and philosophy.”

“Sometimes it helps to ponder the bigger picture,” I said with a half-smile, trying to maintain the facade of a normal conversation despite the undercurrents of tension.

“Philosophy’s all about asking the right questions,” Owen remarked, his gaze flickering between us. “Now, are you putting that degree to any use these days?”

---