Page 14 of Serpent King's Prisoner

“I think I owe you something in return, huh?” she asked. “Come on in—how about a coffee on the house?”

I grinned. “Sounds great.”

I trailed her into the coffee shop, the clang of porcelain and hiss of the espresso machine filling the compact space. There was a mix of people here—Chinese residents speaking Mandarin, others speaking English. I didn’t think my family had money in this restaurant, which made it one of the few on this block that was truly independent.

The girl slipped behind the counter with an ease that spoke of long hours spent here, among the steam and the scent of freshly ground beans.

“What can I get for you?”

“Americano,” I said, my voice cutting through the morning bustle. My fingers tapped on the worn wood, a quiet drumbeat betraying a restlessness I couldn’t place.

“Name for the cup?” Her question was procedural, but her eyes, those vivid pools of green, held mine with an intensity that felt anything but routine…and the smirk on her lips told me she wanted my name for more than one reason.

“Nate,” I answered, flashing her a half-smile as she scribbled on the paper cup with a black marker. “Seems only fair I get your name, too.”

“Abby.” The way she said it, simple and without pretense, stirred something low in my gut.

“Thanks, Abby.” I slid a bill across the counter, more than enough to cover the coffee and the tip.

“You don’t have to—you gave me that bouquet for free,” she said, reaching out to push it back—but our fingers brushed, a jolt of electricity snapping between us. I pocketed my hands to hide their sudden shaking.

“You keep it,” I said. “Consider it a tip.”

She bit her lip. “Sure you don’t want to write your number on it first?”

I couldn’t help but huff out a laugh, surprised at her boldness. But I had to admit…I liked it. I really, really fucking liked it.

“Wouldn’t want to ruin the bill,” I said. “I want you to be able to spend it.”

“Then here—give me your hand,” she said.

I pulled my hand out of my pocket and held it out, and before I could protest, she was taking it and scribbling her phone number in sharpie on my palm. I peered down at it, cocking an eyebrow.

“Not from around here, huh?” I asked.

“It’s a Boston area code,” she said. “I came out here for school and…what can I say? I fell in love.”

I felt a twinge of something unfamiliar stirring within me as Abby’s gaze lingered on mine. Her easy confidence, the way she filled the space around her with warmth and charm, it was a stark contrast to the cold, calculated world I usually inhabited. But in that moment, surrounded by the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the soft murmur of customers in the shop, I found myself drawn to her light like a moth to a flame.

As she handed me the steaming cup of Americano, our fingers brushed again, sending another jolt of electricity through me. It was an innocent touch, but it lingered like an echo in my veins, igniting a hunger for something more than the darkness that clung to my every step.

“Well, Abby from Boston, it looks like I’ll have to give you a call sometime,” I said with a smirk, the weight of my usual responsibilities momentarily forgotten in her presence. She grinned back, a cheeky glint in her eye that made my heart race for reasons beyond the adrenaline of danger.

“I’ll be waiting for that call, Nate,” she replied playfully, her tone light yet tinged with an undercurrent of something deeper.

The bell rang over my head as I stepped back into the California sun, looking down at my palm. Yeah…I would definitely be giving her a call.

After I’d found the rat in our operation and ended them for good.

Chapter Eight: Abby

Another day pretending to be a waitress.

The last customer had left, and the Red Lantern was winding down to a quiet hush. I untied my apron with one hand, the fabric falling away like the facade I put on every day. The other girls, a couple of teenagers, were already gossiping in the corner, their laughter a distant murmur over the clatter of dishes.

Lou, leaning on the counter, was wiping down the espresso machine with a practiced ease that came from years of closing up shop. He was an older guy, big with a mustache and kind eyes that crinkled at the corners.

“Hey, Lou,” I started, tossing my apron into the laundry bin, “you ever hear about which places around here are...you know, Triad ops?”

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