Chapter Seventeen Abby

Iwoke up with my head throbbing again, the pain a relentless reminder of the night before.

The world was sharper than it had been that morning, and fear still clung to me, suffocated me.

I didn't have the luxury of being afraid, though.

Lying in the unfamiliar bed, I knew it was time to stop reeling and start planning.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, the fabric of the white shirt brushing against my thighs–a shirt that was definitely not mine. It smelled like clean and clear laundry detergent, but not like him. I didn't know if I was supposed to be relieved or annoyed.

My bare feet hit the cold tile floor, and I made my way to the bathroom, each step a calculation as I looked around.

In the cramped space of the bathroom, I relieved myself quickly, eager to return to the task at hand. As I washed my hands, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. An ugly, purpling bruise marred the right side of my forehead, a souvenir from…a gun. Nathan's gun. This was what he had done to knock me out.

Fuck.

And there, fixed neatly over the wound, was a bandage – clean, precise, clinical.

Confusion mixed with the bile rising in my throat. It was odd, unsettling even, that Nathan would bother tending to the gash. The man who had struck me without hesitation had also taken care to patch me up. I understood violence, but the psychopath tending to my wounds as if that was just a thing kidnappers did was fucking bizarre.

I pressed a tentative finger to the edge of the bandage, half-expecting pain to lance through my skull. But it was just a dull ache, a ghost of last night's agony. Nathan may have played nurse, but I wasn't about to be fooled. He was no caregiver. He was a predator, and I was trapped in his den.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror, make-up smeared on my face, as I took stock of my situation.

The stakes were clear: escape or die trying. Nathan—fuck, Fangs—might have the upper hand, but I wasn't some damsel in distress. I was Abigail Harper, a fucking FBI agent, and I intended on being a survivor. I'd been trained for situations like this, taught to look danger in the eye and spit in its face. If Nathan thought he could break me, he was in for a rude awakening. I'd play his game, for now, but on my terms. And when the time came, I'd be ready to make my move.

So that was…a plan.

I just needed to figure out how the fuck to carry it out.

With a newfound determination, I turned from the mirror. It was time to take a closer look at my prison, search for anything that could aid my escape. Every second counted, and I wouldn't waste a single one. Nathan Zhou might have caught me off guard once, but I knew it would be the last time.

I shuffled across the room, my bare feet padding against the cold floor. I looked down to find myself wearing sweat shorts that were too big on me. That, and t-shirt I wore were foreign, definitely not mine. My clubbing dress was a black, form-fitting number that left little to the imagination—Nathan must have changed me into these clothes while I was out.

My heart hammered in my chest at the thought, a mix of fear and violation washing over me. I rubbed my arms, trying to shake off the feeling of his hands on me, even if it was just in my mind. Did he do it himself? We might have fucked the night before, but something about him dressing and undressing me felt far worse, far more intimate, far more violating…especially after he'd knocked me out and taken me hostage.

His image flickered in my memory—the way the tattoos snaking across his toned body, almost alive with malice. Was this the same man who had been so gentle with me in a moment of unconsciousness?

"Focus, Abby," I muttered to myself, pushing away thoughts of Nathan's hidden layers. It didn't matter if he could be gentle with me sometimes. I was trapped and this man…well, he was still the enemy.

For a fleeting second, I wondered if anyone else knew I was here. Nathan's operation was part of the Triad, and they were notorious for their involvement in darker trades. Human trafficking wasn't beyond them, and the idea sent a shiver through me—not because I was afraid, but because I was angry. Angry that men like him thought they could own people, use them as pawns in their sick games. If anyone else did know about my current predicament, I was sure my situation would only get worse.

I paced the length of the apartment, my mind racing with plans and contingencies. The tile floor was cold, and it did nothing to muffle my footsteps, but it felt like it kept me anchored. And that was something. I had to remind myself that Nathan—Fangs, they called him—was no amateur. He was nothing short of Triad legend, a man who dealt in secrets and violence as easily as others did in stocks or real estate.

The apartment was nicer than I'd expected, almost comfortable if I ignored the fact it was a gilded cage. Plush furniture, abstract art on the walls, and even a TV with cable—luxuries meant to placate, perhaps. I turned the TV on and off again, eyeing the cables snaking out from behind it. Could I send a message with this? Could I use it as a weapon?

The TV, unfortunately, wasn't connected to the internet. So it wasn't a lifeline…no matter how much I wanted it to be.

Technical sabotage–or using wires to send a message–would have to wait; finding a phone was priority one. I needed to reach my dad—Boston cop and worrier-in-chief. If I didn't check in with him like I always did in the afternoon, even just a text, he would be turning the city–fuck, the whole country–upside down looking for me. I scoured the living room, flipping cushions and thumbing through books, searching for any sign of my phone or another I could use.

No luck.

In the bedroom, I spied the bedside table. A drawer with a sleek keypad lock caught my attention. I knelt before it, my fingers tracing the cool metal digits. Picking locks was part of the FBI training, sure, but not these electronic fortresses. I pressed a few numbers experimentally—nothing. I tried a few, but it was pointless; I didn't know how much time I had and I didn't want to waste all of it trying different number combinations. He could walk in any time.

"Think, Abby," I whispered to myself, standing up. I couldn't let frustration cloud my judgment. There had to be a way out of this—a way to turn the tables on Nathan.

I stood up to listen, but there was no sound.

So maybe I did have a little time.

I squared my shoulders and made my way to the kitchen, my mind racing with contingency plans. My fingers ran over the smooth countertops, then dipped into each drawer with purpose. I rifled through them, expecting the heft of a kitchen knife or even the modest weight of a meat tenderizer, but found nothing of the sort.

Plastic forks, spoons, and knives clattered hollowly as I searched frantically, but it was all child's play—useless for defense, let alone escape. The plates were disposable, the cups paper-thin. Nathan had really covered his bases. It seemed absurd, considering his reputation. The feared Fangs, whose name whispered through dark alleys and backroom deals, had rendered his kitchen a fortress against culinary assault.

Another cabinet presented itself, mocking me with its keypad lock just like the one in the bedroom. I punched at it halfheartedly, knowing the effort was futile. The red light blinked disdainfully, and I could almost hear Nathan's voice in its silent admonition. "Nice try, Abby."

Fuck him. Even in my imagination he was an asshole.

But I wasn't about to give up. I had been trained by the best at Quantico, and I wasn't going down without a fight.

"Stay sharp, Harper," I whispered, steeling myself. I reminded myself that what I needed now was a plan, an edge. And for that, I needed a weapon. Even if I couldn't overpower Nathan, maybe I could catch him off guard long enough to get away.

I seized one of the plastic knives, scrutinizing it under the cold fluorescent light—the serrated edge a joke. But desperation was the mother of invention, and I needed a weapon. Something—anything—that could offer a sliver of advantage should things turn south.

I grabbed the knife and sat down at the small dining table. I began to work, breaking the knife at an angle to create a point, then scraping it back and forth along the edge of the countertop. It took forever, and it was hard.

I only had the one tool against the kitchen counter, so I had to be extremely precise; gentle enough not to break it, strong enough to create a sharp edge.

Hours passed, marked only by the growing pile of plastic shavings and the dull ache in my hands. By late afternoon, I'd fashioned a crude, yet potentially effective, shiv.

"Owen Harper's daughter," I muttered, a dry chuckle escaping my lips. "Armed and dangerous with arts and crafts."

Wrapping a strip torn from the bottom of the bedsheet around the handle, I tested the weight of it in my hand. It wasn't much, but it was something—a small piece of control in a situation where I had very little. I tucked it into the waistband of my shorts, concealing it beneath the oversized t-shirt.

"Okay, Nathan," I murmured, a grim smile touching my lips. The sound of my own voice was starting in the large, empty apartment. "Let's see how you deal with a cornered agent."

I might have to play nice for now, charm him even, but I'd be ready to strike when the time came. I wouldn't go down without a fight.

I rehearsed moves in the confined space, each step and pivot measured and silent. I pictured Nathan's formidable form, the way he moved with lethal grace—a dance macabre I was determined to survive. The scenarios played out in my mind: a confrontation, a struggle, an escape. Yet, as I shifted, feinted, and struck at invisible foes, realism gnawed at my resolve. There was little chance I could overpower him physically; he was trained in violence, and I was defiance with a deadline.

I might have stood a chance if I had my gun, but…that tiny dress didn't have room to hide weapons.

Fucking idiot. I really shouldn't have gone to Fusion unprepared.

But now I had an opportunity.

"Think, Abby," I whispered to the shadows of the room. "There has to be another way."

The plan that slowly took shape was one of deception, a gamble on the human element that no amount of physical training could prepare for. To win over Fangs, to earn a sliver of trust or perhaps kindle a flicker of doubt—that would take more than brute strength. It would require guile, patience, and an understanding of the man behind the mafia mask.

If he had cared enough to tend to my wounds, maybe he had a soft spot for me.

And I intended on exploiting that.

"Let's see how well you tend flowers, Fangs," I murmured, a wry smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

I decided to play the part he expected, the art history major seeking purpose—only this time, my performance would be for an audience of one. For the next day or so, I would watch and wait, engage and empathize, all while plotting my next move. But beneath the veneer of vulnerability, beneath the guise of connection, the shiv stayed close—a reminder that I wasn't just playing a role. I was fighting for my life.

And if it came to it, if my plan crumbled like the facade of a derelict building, then at least I had a literal blade up my sleeve.