Page 105 of Serpent King's Prisoner

Tonight I was fucking done.

“Fuck you,” I scoffed, grabbing a glass and pouring myself a generous amount of whiskey. “I’m having a whiskey too. We’re having this drink together like civilized people. We don’t have to talk, but I’m going to be right here.”

Nathan’s gaze flickered with something unreadable as he stared at me, his lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t speak again, just took a long pull from his drink, eyes never leaving mine.

“Why would you even want to be around me after...” His voice trailed off, the question hanging heavy between us.

“Right now, that doesn’t matter,” I said firmly, tipping my glass toward him slightly before taking a sip. The burn of the whiskey felt like a wake-up call. “I’m just enjoying this whiskey. With the person I live with.”

We stood there, side by side, the silence no longer oppressive but shared—a momentary truce in an unspoken war. Nathan’s presence was overwhelming, as always, but tonight it was different. There was vulnerability in the way he held his glass a little too tightly, a subtle plea for some semblance of normalcy.

I thought. I hoped.

Nathan’s eyes narrowed. “You’re just…sitting here. Keeping me company.”

I nodded. “Drinking whiskey I could never afford.”

I watched as Nathan finished his drink in one long gulp, the muscles of his jaw working. With a resigned sigh, he poured himself another, the liquid gold shimmering in the dim light. “Suppose this is your house,” he muttered, barely audible over the clink of the ice. “Your alcohol too.”

“Hey.” I reached out to touch his arm, a gesture meant to bridge the gap between us, but he recoiled as if my touch burned him.

“Leave me alone, Abby.”

“Can’t do that,” I countered, feeling that stubborn streak my dad always said would get me into trouble. “You brought me here, remember? And...I worry about you.”

His laugh was harsh, mocking. “Worry about me?”

“Believe it or not, yes.” My voice was steadier than I felt. I reached for him again, more determined this time, needing to make him feel seen, understood.

But Nathan’s reaction was explosive. The glass he held was suddenly airborne, flung with force across the room where it shattered against the wall, fragments dancing across the floor like glitter. I stiffened, but otherwise didn’t react–and maybe it was a tell that I was tougher than I seemed, but he didn’t appear to notice.

“That glass really had it coming,” I said. “It was an asshole.”

He scoffed. “I’m not in the mood, Abigail.”

“Neither am I. But here we are,” I retorted, my gaze never wavering from his.

There was a long pause, filled by the tension that had been building between us all night. Finally, Nathan sighed, dropping his feral gaze to his clenched fists. His knuckles were white against the darkness of his skin, and as he flexed his fingers, the blood returning made them look almost painted in red. He’d hit someone hard; his knuckles were split. The sight stirred something within me, a primal urge to soothe.

I should have been angry at him…but all I wanted to do was kiss every single split knuckle, every scar.

I was in love with him, flaws and all.

“Talk to me,” I urged him, this time refusing to be pushed away.

Nathan just shook his head, a silent battle raging within him that I desperately wanted to understand—to help him fight. But all I could do was stand there. Wait.

“Abby, just drop it,” he said, and it didn’t sound like a command anymore, it almost sounded like he was begging me.

“Talk to me, Nathan,” I persisted, my own need to connect with him, to break through that hardened shell, overwhelming any sense of self-preservation.

In one fluid, furious motion, Nathan closed the gap between us. His hands clamped down on my shoulders, his grip iron but trembling. With a rough shove, he backed me against the cool marble counter, his body pinning me in place.

“I told you I didn’t want to talk,” he snarled, his breath hot against my face.

As if driven by some primal force, Nathan’s hands moved to the hem of my shorts, yanking them down with an urgency that left me breathless. His lips crashed onto mine, hungry and demanding, and for a second, I lost myself in the intensity of his kiss.

“Talk to me, Nathan,” I gasped between kisses, clinging to the last thread of our original conflict even as my body responded to his touch, to the raw need that poured from him. My fingers found his hair, tugging gently, trying to draw him back, to slow things down, to find the man beneath the beast.

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