13. Chapter Thirteen Nathan

Chapter Thirteen: Nathan

T he sun had barely broken over the horizon, casting a soft glow into my kitchen. Abby stood across from me, her face unreadable—an FBI agent in my house, in my life, and I wasn't sure what was real anymore. Her phone still sat between us, the call between she and her FBI handler out in the open.

She broke the silence, taking me by surprise. "I'm serious. What do you want me to tell the FBI?"

Her voice was steady, but her eyes searched mine for an answer she couldn't seem to find on her own. I was confused, disoriented…because she was making me an offer.

An offer to be my insider, my agent.

An offer to betray the career she'd worked toward her whole life.

I watched her closely, every muscle in my body tensed like a coiled spring. "Why are you doing this, Abby?" My voice was rough with suspicion. I cocked my head, trying to decipher the mystery before me. "Is this some kind of play? You think you can trick me?"

Her expression flickered, just for a moment, before she regained her composure. But in that fleeting instant, I saw something that looked like genuine concern—or was it just another layer of deception?

I could never tell with her.

Abby let out a long sigh, the kind that told me she was tired. Tired of the games, maybe even tired of lying. "Nathan, you need to start trusting me if we're going to get out of this alive." Her eyes locked onto mine with a fierceness that made my chest tighten.

"Alive?" I echoed, my mind racing as I tried to piece together her motives.

"The FBI is looking for Tyler," she continued, her voice low and urgent. "And there's a good chance your father will find out about me. About my real job. Nathan, I want out of this too."

It sounded like a confession, but what if it was a trap? A ploy to get me to drop my guard? I wanted to believe her, wanted it more than I'd admit to myself, but trust wasn't something that came easy to me. Especially not now.

I thought back to a couple days ago, after I'd asked her if she had been assigned to seduce me. She had said no, her denial sharp and quick.

But now, as I watched her standing in my kitchen, offering herself up as some double agent, I realized something crucial— she may never have been allowed to do any of this. To be here with me, to become entangled in my world.

"Did you break the rules for me?" The question was like a bullet, straight and hard. "Coming after me, staying with me. Was that against your orders?"

Her answer came quick, her gaze unwavering. "Yes," she admitted, and it felt like the room's temperature spiked. "I wasn't cleared to do any of this."

She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to vibrate through the air between us. "I've actually fallen for you, Nathan. I want to be with you—"

"Stop." My hand shot up, halting her words. "I don't want to hear it." I didn't want to hear how she had broken her own codes, her own laws, because what did it change? That she could betray her badge?

That she could fall in love with someone like me?

Abby sighed, a deep sound full of something I couldn't decipher. With a shake of her head, she turned away from me and started pulling out ingredients from the fridge. Eggs, milk, bread…she was making French toast.

Just like that, as if we were any normal couple on any normal morning.

I slid off the stool, feeling the urge to escape the too-tight space, the too-heavy silence. As I made my way toward the stairs, her voice stopped me.

"Are you just going to walk away?" Abby asked, her tone edged with hurt.

I hesitated, my foot hovering above the next step.

Turning back toward her, I saw Abby still at the stove, her shoulders rigid beneath the fabric of her shirt. She was staring down at the skillet with an intensity that seemed to burn as hot as the flame beneath it. Her hands clenched tight around the spatula, knuckles white—a clear sign she was pissed. And for a moment, the image of her standing there, so fierce yet so vulnerable, knocked the breath out of me.

But then the molten anger in my chest flared up again, driving me forward. I strode over too fast for her to react and caught a thick lock of her hair in my fist. Before she could even turn to face me, I pulled—hard—and bent her over the island.

Just like the night I'd assaulted her that first time at 118 California.

I yanked down her pants, my hand going instantly to her wet, hot pussy. She was drenched, turned on by the way we argued, the way I used her. Guilt and arousal waged war in my burning chest as I stroked her, and Abby rocked back against me, a silent plea written in every tense line of her body.

"Please," she breathed, and it wasn't clear whether it was a plea for more or a plea for it all to stop.

But her body told its own story, one of need and raw desire. I couldn't believe she still wanted me, not after everything that had passed between us. Yet as I pulled my slick fingers from her, the evidence was undeniable. With a growl, I brought my hand up to my lips and tasted her, savoring the sweetness that was uniquely Abby. She gasped, a sound that shot straight to my groin.

"God, Nathan," she whispered, her voice a mix of desperation and something else I couldn't—or wouldn't—name.

My cock throbbed with an urgency that matched the pounding of my heart. I freed myself from my sweats slapping my hard length against her, teasing the both of us with the promise of what could come.

Leaning forward, our bodies not quite connecting, I let my words brush against the shell of her ear.

"Only a true slut would like this," I hissed, venom in every word. "Only a cock-hungry whore would let her rapist use her this way…let a monster fuck her. You're a freak, Abby. My perfect, psychotic toy."

"Nathan…stop," she gasped, but she kept moving like that, kept writhing, moaning.

"I'm not going to stop, and you know that," I growled. I teased her, sliding my cock between her thighs, over her folds. "Because I'm a monster, Abby…and only a fucking idiot would fall in love with a monster like me."

"Nathan, wait, we should talk—"

I ignored her pleas to stop, her requests for conversation.

I couldn't handle it.

Not right now.

In one swift, hard thrust, I buried myself inside her. Her knees buckled by I held her up by the waist, ramming myself into her, feeling the way her pussy fluttered wildly around me. She scratched her nails against the marble countertops, still begging…begging me to stop.

I needed to do this.

I needed to control her, to show her she couldn't play me.

I needed to be a monster because only monsters survived in this world.

I set a punishing pace, her hips knocking against the countertop, my fingers squeezing bruises into her flesh. She was still telling me to stop, but it all turned into white noise in my head as I looked down at her prone form, used her, made her understand what she deserved. She wouldn't look at me, but I could see tears spilling down to the countertop.

I'd made her cry a lot lately.

I couldn't…this was her fault, wasn't it?

Leaning forward, I buried myself even deeper, thrusting over and over, my breath hot against her ear. "You did this," I hissed, the words laced with a venom I didn't entirely feel. "You should have never trusted me, Abby. Now I'm going to keep you forever."

Her body shuddered at my words, and whether it was fear or something darker that thrilled inside her, I couldn't say. But the effect was instantaneous; she came apart beneath my grip, her orgasm ripping through her in violent waves that matched the tumultuous storm raging in my own chest.

And then, as if on cue with our reckless abandon, the fire alarm pierced the air, shrill and demanding. Smoke billowed around us, coming from the now-burning french toast on the stove. With a grunt, I pulled out of her and turned off the stove.

"Look what you did," I sneered, though my heart wasn't in the words. "You burned breakfast, just to be an asshole."

There was no humor in the joke, no lightness in the moment. Only smoke, the blaring alarm, and the two of us.

Both hurting…because I'd hurt her.

Fuck, I couldn't stop.

I turned around and looked back at her, still bent over the counter. Cum dripped from her pussy, and…blood. Fuck, I'd fucked her so hard I'd bloodied her, and I hated how the beast that lived in my chest told me that was a victory.

She righted herself, pulled her her shorts, then she turned…

I waited for the reprimand, for the slap to my face.

But she just went back to the stove to clean up the burned mess and get back to her French toast.

And somehow that hurt worst of all.