Page 104 of Serpent King's Prisoner

“Can’t do that, big bro,” Alex shot back without turning his head, his tone laced with bitter humor and desperation.

In a flash, I lunged forward, my hand catching the back of his jacket. With a rough yank, I spun him around to face me, and my fist connected with his cheek. The impact sent a jolt up my arm, and for a moment, satisfaction flared hot within me when I saw the surprise in his eyes.

“Enough, Alex. You’re done.”

But he wasn’t going down without a fight. His hands shoved hard against my chest, throwing me off balance. My boots slipped on the edge of a step, and I felt gravity seize me in a cruel embrace.

The fall seemed to last an eternity, my body tumbling down the stairs like a ragdoll. Each thud against the hard steps was a punctuation mark in the sentence of my downfall. Pain exploded across my back, my arms, my legs, until finally I came to a jarring stop at the landing.

“Fuck,” I cursed through gritted teeth, the taste of iron filling my mouth.

I forced myself to look up, muscles screaming in protest, just in time to see Alex’s retreating form burst through the door at the bottom of the stairs. He didn’t look back, not even once.

Gritting my teeth, I pushed through the pain, staggering to my feet. I wouldn’t let it end this way. Not when so much was at stake. I hobbled after him, each step a study in agony and resolve.

The cool morning air hit me as I emerged onto the street, the sun barely cresting the city’s skyline. People were beginning to fill the sidewalks, oblivious to the drama unfolding. I scanned the area, searching for any sign of him, knowing he couldn’t have gotten far.

And then I saw him—one more glance over his shoulder, a silent acknowledgement that this chase wasn’t over. But Alex was moving too fast, his lean form cutting through the crowd with the desperation of a man on the edge. And there, curbside, was his escape: Neon Nelson revving the engine of a sleek motorcycle, its chrome glinting in the morning light.

“Alex!” I yelled, my voice ragged. But he didn’t stop; he couldn’t afford to. The betrayal that hung between us was a chasm too wide to cross with words alone.

I pushed harder, ignoring the fire in my lungs and the protests of my battered body. The distance between us dwindled, but not fast enough. With a swift leap, Alex mounted the bike behind Nelson, who wasted no time peeling away from the curb. The roar of the engine taunted me, a guttural laugh at my failed attempt.

“Dammit,” I spat out, slowing to a stop as the bike took a sharp turn and vanished from my sight. My chest heaved, and my hands clenched into fists so tight my knuckles turned white.

Alex…

Alex had almost killed Justin.

Ba had abandoned us all.

And I had failed.

Chapter Forty-Seven: Abby

Iwas mid-stride, the treadmill humming beneath my sneakers, when the front door slammed shut with a thud that echoed through the otherwise silent condo. My breath hitched, not from the run but from the sudden intrusion of Nathan, Fangs Zhou himself, into what had been hours of brooding solitude. I jabbed at the stop button, the belt jerking to a halt, and I stepped off, my mind racing faster than my heartbeat.

The air was thick with unspoken words, my anger toward him still smoldering. I’d spent the whole day plotting revenge or escape—whichever came first. But as the evening shadows crept along the walls, I found myself missing the bastard. When the world didn’t weigh on his shoulders, Nathan could be...pleasant. Almost normal.

Then reality hit like a slap—was I anything more than a toy to him? A plaything for his twisted pleasure?

“Abby,” I muttered to myself, “stay calm.”

I kicked my shoes off and padded barefoot to the living room, finding Nathan in an unusual state of disarray. His black hair was a mess, defying its usual slicked-back discipline, and his tan skin seemed almost gray under the kitchen light. He was beat up, too–an ugly bruise on his head that almost mirrored the one he’d given me the night he took me captive, his shoulders hunched like he was in pain.

The man who usually held San Francisco’s underworld in an iron grip now looked like a ghost, his dark eyes usually so sharp, now dull and distant.

Without acknowledging me, he reached for the top-shelf whiskey, his hand trembling just enough to betray that his cool exterior was cracking. The glass he chose was meant for celebrations, heavy and cut with precision—but it was clear there was nothing to celebrate.

“Hey,” I said, trying to sound casual despite the chill that ran through me seeing him like this. Nathan poured the whiskey to the brim, the liquid gold shimmering under the artificial lights.

Drink up, tough guy, I thought, standing there, silenced by the sight of a powerful man brought low—not by bullets or betrayal, but by whatever haunted him behind those hollow eyes.

“Are you okay?” I dared to break the silence, knowing full well that ‘okay’ was nowhere within reach for either of us.

“Shut up, Abby.” His voice was a low growl, one that commanded obedience in any other scenario.

But not tonight.

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