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20. Chapter Twenty Nathan

Chapter Twenty: Nathan

I wanted that to be the end of it…but she just kept pushing.

Just like always.

"Talk to me, Nathan. Please." Her plea followed me into the warmth of the living room, but it did nothing to thaw the ice inside me.

"Abby..." I sighed. Her footsteps were soft behind me, persistent and impossible to ignore. "I told you you don't want to know."

"Eventually, you'll have to let me in—you know that, right?" she said. "If we're going to get married, you're stuck with me."

Her mention of marriage struck a chord deep within me, a mix of longing and terror. It was true, wasn't it? If I wanted her in my life, I couldn't keep her out forever. Not even from the darkness that lurked in my family's history.

I turned back to face her, the shadows of the room playing across her features. In her eyes, I saw not only the demand for truth but also the promise of acceptance. And for a moment, I wavered, on the brink of letting her into a past I'd fought hard to overcome.

But that waver, that moment of vulnerability—it set something off within me. The barrier I'd built around my past had been a shield, a line not to be crossed.

"Stuck with you?" The words erupted from my throat, harsh and cold as the legacy I carried. "Remember…you're my pet, trapped here with me—"

My hands moved before my mind could register the action, fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her toward me. My lips crashed onto hers in a kiss that wasn't about love or desire; it was a desperate, brutal attempt to silence the questions, to regain control.

Abby stiffened against me, her surprise swallowed by the force of my kiss. But she wasn't one to be overpowered or intimidated. She shoved me hard and I stumbled back, the taste of her still on my lips, a mix of sweetness and rebuke.

"Nathan, stop!" Her voice broke through the haze of my anger, sharp and clear. "You can't just solve every problem with sex."

She stood there, chest heaving, a flush creeping up her neck. And in that instant, I saw myself reflected in her eyes: a man teetering on the edge of becoming the monster I had always feared. I saw it—the flicker of fear in her gaze—and my heart constricted.

It was a brutal mirror of who I had become, and I recoiled from it as if scorched.

I was turning into my father. Turning into a man who brutalized his loved ones, who ruled over his family as a tyrant. He'd sculpted me into a killer, and I was falling right into the mould.

"Abby, I..." The words trailed off, choked by the realization of what I'd nearly done. I squeezed my eyes shut, shaking my head as if to dispel the haunting image of my father's lessons, the ones that taught me to use force as persuasion, violence as control.

I felt her presence before she spoke again, the heat of her body an accusing warmth against the coldness inside me.

"Sorry," I muttered, the word unfamiliar and bitter on my tongue. Sorry for the kiss, sorry for the fear, sorry for the man I couldn't escape being. But there it was, hanging between us—a sliver of contrition in a life defined by power plays and hardened edges.

Abby's hand, tentative yet firm, found its way to my arm. "Nathan, look at me."

I did, reluctantly, meeting her eyes. They were softer now, the fear replaced with something akin to understanding—though I didn't deserve it.

"It's okay," she whispered, a lie so sweet I almost believed it. "You don't have to talk about it. Not if you can't."

Her voice held a weight, a silent acknowledgment of the battles we both faced. I couldn't speak, my breath caught in my throat.

"Tea?" she asked, as though normalcy could be summoned with a simple offering.

"Tea," I echoed, a nod more of surrender than agreement.

With a hollow nod, I turned away, seeking refuge in the living room. The couch embraced me with its familiar contours as I sank into it, my mind racing through the night's events. Justin's reckless courage flashed before my eyes—his defiance against a man who knew no bounds when it came to inflicting pain. Derek, too, might have been caught in the crossfire.

"Damn it, Justin," I murmured to the silence of the room.

A surge of anger washed over me at his naivety, at his willingness to stand in the line of fire. Had I made them too safe? Wrapped them in a cocoon woven from my own sacrifices and scars, leaving them exposed when it mattered most?

I pressed my palms into my eyes, willing away the images that clawed up from the darkness. But there was no reprieve. Ba's voice, venomous and vile, echoed in my skull, a relentless tide of cruelty as memories flashed through my mind.

Countless women bruised and assaulted…under instruction from my father.

"Power, Nathan. It's about power," he would hiss, his words etching themselves into my being. He taught me that pain could be pleasure, that fear was a tool—a means to break spirits and bodies alike. To him, intimacy was nothing more than a weapon, a way to degrade, to reduce another person to dirt beneath your feet.

A shudder ran through me, the ghost of those lessons still lingering in my veins. I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms, as if I could somehow tear the memories from my flesh. But they were a part of me, inseparable and insidious.

"Sex is power," Ba said, his voice a whisper from the past that filled the room, "use it to control, to dominate."

I flinched, the word ‘control' reverberating through me. It was what I had tried to do to Abby, wasn't it? In a moment of panic and anger, I had reverted to that twisted mentality. Control, dominate, possess. But she wasn't an object to be claimed; she was a force in her own right, challenging the darkness I thought was my sole inheritance.

"Never forget, you are the Serpent's Fang," Ba's shadow loomed over me even now, his legacy a shackle I feared I'd never break.

But then there was Abby, her presence a tentative light in the murkiness of my thoughts. Could she see past the filth Ba had coated me in? Could she understand the war waging within me between the man I was forced to become and the man I wished I could be?

The weight of those dark memories bore down on me, a crushing reminder of all that I was—and all that I desperately hoped not to be.

I jerked my head up, catching sight of Abby moving about the kitchen. The soft clinking of ceramic on ceramic as she placed the tea cups on the counter was a stark contrast to the cacophony in my head. Watching her, so focused and gentle, I felt an ache deep in my chest—a yearning to let the tears fall, to mourn the innocence I'd lost and the pain I'd inflicted.

"Here," she said, her voice pulling me back from the edge of despair as she came over with two steaming cups. "Drink this. It might help."

I nodded, accepting the tea with hands that trembled despite my best efforts to appear calm. She settled beside me on the couch, her warmth a tentative balm to my frayed nerves.

"Nathan, we don't have to talk about it," she murmured, her eyes tender yet filled with a sorrow that mirrored my own. "I'm sorry for pushing you."

"Sorry?" I echoed, the word bitter on my tongue. "I'm the one who should be apologizing. I'm..." My voice cracked, and I fought to steady it, "I'm still that monster, even though you tried to see something else in me."

She looked at me then, really looked at me, and in her gaze, I found the intense, unrelenting light that had drawn me to her in the first place. Her hand found mine, her fingers lacing with mine in a silent vow of solidarity.

"Monsters have a history—and a future—just like anyone else," she whispered, her thumb brushing over the back of my hand. "You're more than your darkest moments, Nathan."

Her words were a foothold in the landslide my life had become, offering a glimmer of hope when I'd resigned myself to an eternity of darkness. Abby's belief in me didn't erase the past, but it challenged the narrative Ba had ingrained in me—that I was nothing more than a weapon, an extension of his malevolence.

"Thank you," I managed, the gratitude heavy in my voice.

Abby's eyes held mine, unwavering. "I saw you tonight," she said softly, breaking the tension that had settled between us. "With Kenny. You were ready to protect your family. That was brave."

A knot formed in my throat, her words stirring something deep within me. I wanted to tell her everything—to let the floodgates open and drown us both in the truth of my tormented past. But the weight of it all seemed too much, the shadows too dark to reveal.

Instead, I took a slow sip from the steaming cup she'd given me, letting the warmth seep into my bones, hoping it could somehow thaw the ice that had formed around my heart. The tea was a simple comfort, but its familiarity steadied me.

"Can I—" My voice faltered, uncertainty creeping in. I set the empty cup down with more care than necessary, trying to will myself to look at her again. "Can I just hold you?"

She didn't hesitate, not for a second, and that alone nearly undid me. Abby moved closer, instinctively understanding the need that pulsed through me—a need for connection, for reassurance, for something that wasn't tainted by violence or fear.

She settled into the curve of my arm, her head finding that spot against my chest that seemed made for her. Her tea rested in one hand, steam curling gently upward, forgotten for the moment as she gave herself over to my embrace. I kissed the top of her head, a small act of tenderness that felt monumental in its rarity. How did she do it—forgive me time and again?

As I held her, the silence wasn't awkward but filled with a heavy understanding. The words that had been dancing on the tip of my tongue, threatening to spill out, found their way through the barrier I'd built.

"Maybe it'd be better if you just turned me in," I confessed quietly, the thought a whisper in the darkness. "To the FBI." It was a dangerous admission, one that could unravel everything. But then I thought of them—Evelyn, Justin, Lily. My family. The ones who still had a chance at something better. "But it would destroy my mother, my little sister and brother…and they're worth saving. I have to believe that. It's the only way I'll make it through any of this."

Abby's hand hesitated in mid-air, the warmth of her mug radiating between us. A silence draped over the room, thick with my confession, the weight of it pressing down on both of us. Then, as if the gravity of my words had pulled her into some resolute decision, she set the tea down on the coffee table with a soft clink.

"That's why I love you," she said, her voice steady and sure. She was so close, her breath mingling with mine, her presence an anchor in the relentless storm that was my life.

I wanted to protest, to tell her she was wrong for loving a man like me, but before the words could claw their way out, her lips met mine—a kiss so gentle it felt like the first drop of rain after a long drought. It was nothing like the fierce, demanding kisses I'd given her before; this was different.

This was absolution in the form of a whisper against my mouth.

Giving in was as natural as breathing. I kissed her back, letting all the hardness I carried melt away into the tenderness of the moment. We were locked in a dance as old as time, yet as fresh as the emotions swirling within me—a man scarred by his past, finding solace in the woman who dared to love him.

The world outside faded. There was no Triad, no FBI, no looming threats—only Abby and the softness of her lips. Time stretched, dilated, became irrelevant. The kiss deepened, not with urgency, but with a shared need to just be—to exist in this pocket of calm where nothing else mattered.

As our lips slowly parted, the echo of the kiss lingered, a silent testament to what we'd shared. Abby looked into my eyes, and in them, I saw not pity, but a reflection of my own fractured soul beginning to find its way toward healing.

We rested there, foreheads touching, breath mingling in the quiet aftermath. Her eyes were heavy, laced with a fatigue that went beyond the physical. She was tired—tired of the fights, the secrets, the burden of truths unspoken.

"Let's go to bed," she suggested, her words not a proposition but a plea for rest—for the kind of peace that can only be found in the sanctuary of shared silence.

I could barely manage a nod, my throat tight with emotions I had no right to feel. Yet, I whispered a hoarse, "Yes."

The couch creaked as we rose, our movements slow, deliberate. In the act of standing, it felt like we were leaving behind the weight of our earlier conflict, allowing ourselves the chance to seek refuge in the simple comfort of each other's presence.

As we walked to the bedroom, I could feel the pull of my old self, whispering doubts and fears, telling me I didn't deserve this reprieve. But Abby's hand in mine was a lifeline, grounding me to the here and now—to the possibility of redemption I saw reflected in her eyes.

Tonight, there would be no nightmares, no replaying of past horrors. Tonight, I would allow myself to believe in the quiet promise of her company, in the healing power of just being together, even if it was only for a few hours before the dawn came to claim us once again.

Tonight, we could just be .

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