Chapter Twenty-One Abby

Ijolted awake to the sound of shuffling.

I was still cuffed–and in pain, my wrist raw–and I was naked, drenched in old blood and sweat and arousal. I was sore between my legs, my clothes rumpled.

And there was Nathan, his back turned to me, shrugging into a leather jacket.

Like this was just an ordinary hookup.

Morning light sneaked in through the blinds, casting shadows over his inked skin—a dragon swirling across his torso like it was guarding him. I was hit with a wave of memories from last night, feeling raw and used, and I couldn't shake the sensation of his tongue on my skin, tasting my vulnerability.

I should have probably left him alone, but I already felt so dirty.

"Hey," my voice came out raspy, "I need to pee."

He paused, a dark silhouette against the graying dawn. Without turning, he said in that low rumble I was starting to know too well, "Don't even think about trying anything, Abby."

"Look at me, Nathan." My tone was flat, sharp with an edge of reality. "I'm naked, you've got who knows how many pounds on me, and I'm in a locked apartment owned by a guy whose name makes grown men tremble. What am I going to do, fly?"

A grunt, then he faced me, his expression unreadable. He strode over—each step measured, controlled—and without a word, he uncuffed me. The cold metal left my wrists, and blood rushed back with a sting of freedom I didn't really have.

"Thanks," I muttered, rubbing my wrists as I stood. My legs were jelly, but I managed to keep my stance defiant. Nathan watched with those deep-set eyes that missed nothing, and I forced myself to meet his gaze, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing me falter.

"Make it quick," he said, and there was a warning there, one that told me he was letting me go only so far. He stood in the doorway, a guardian of my limited liberty, as I shuffled past him into the bathroom.

The humiliation of needing his permission for something so basic gnawed at me, but I pushed it down. There was no room for that here, not when I was playing a game where every move counted. And right then, I needed to play it smart, because Fangs was the kind of man who held life and death in his palms as easily as he would hold one of his precious orchids.

I tried to close the bathroom door behind me, but it was a futile gesture. Nathan didn't budge from his spot, his silhouette filling the frame like a sentry, stopping me from moving at all.

"Really?" I scowled at him, my voice edged with as much irritation as I could muster. "You're going to watch?"

"Wouldn't put it past you to try something," he replied coolly. The indifference in his tone only fueled my anger.

"Like what? I'm practically naked and unarmed," I countered, letting my gaze drop pointedly to the floor before meeting his eyes again. I sat on the toilet and got rid of the little remnants of my panties that were still left, which felt almost pointless, since he ripped them off.

He waited for me, staring into my eyes as I looked back at him.

"Shy bladder," I commented dryly, trying to hide my unease under a veneer of nonchalance.

He leaned against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. "I can wait."

And he did. It was excruciating, the way he just stood there, an immovable force of nature. But eventually, nature called louder than my embarrassment, and I did what I needed to do. Flushing crimson, I washed my hands and face, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. I didn't need a reminder of last night etched into my skin.

"Done," I announced, more curtly than I intended.

Nathan tossed a bundle of clothes at me—it hit my chest and fell into my arms. These weren't men's clothes–they were new, with the tags just cut off. I supposed I should have been grateful.

I was not.

"These should fit," he said. "They might be a little baggy on you."

"Thanks," I said grudgingly. "But I need a shower. I can still feel...everything from last night." I didn't look at him as I spoke, keeping my eyes on the clothes.

"So?"

"You're being a fucking animal," I said before I could stop myself. "Let me have a shower."

I clamped my mouth shut, feeling stupid for having lost my temper. He hesitated, studying me for a long moment, and something akin to a flicker of conflict passed over his features. Then it was gone, replaced by a begrudging nod.

"Fine," he snapped, turning away. "But make it quick."

"Asshole," I muttered under my breath, though a part of me wondered if he heard. Whether he had or not, he had just given in, and that, I realized, was a small victory in the twisted captivity I had found myself in.

Whatever remnants of ripped clothes I had left, I got rid of them, tossing them aside like a discarded past I couldn't afford to cling to. The cold tile of the bathroom floor sent a jolt through my bare feet, but it was the bruises on my arms and throat that pulled a hiss from my lips—a stark reminder of Nathan's unforgiving grip.

"Need help?" His voice was a low rumble from just outside the door.

"Go to hell," I shot back, slamming the door with more force than necessary. The lock clicked—a useless gesture—but it was the principle that counted.

The water stung as it cascaded over my skin, each droplet a tiny interrogation against the tender flesh. But it was not the physical pain that gnawed at me—it was the sight of the marks marring my body. Purple and yellow blossoms of bruising on my arm where he seized me, a roadmap of violence that lead to the bite marks claiming territory on my hip, my breast. I touched one gingerly, flinching at the rawness, and then quickly turned my face into the spray, letting the water mix with hot tears of anger and humiliation.

"Abby," Nathan called out, and I froze, realizing he was somehow in the room, his presence looming even through the frosted glass.

Of course the locks didn't work.

"Don't use all the hot water," he went on. "The neighbors will be pissed."

Wait–this building was empty, right? My heart raced, wondering if I could get a message out…and then I realized he was joking.

Hilarious.

"Wouldn't dream of it," I replied, my voice dripping with sarcasm. I kept my back to the glass, protective of my vulnerability, painfully aware of his eyes tracing the silhouette of my battered form.

I hurried through the motions, soaping away the grime and the invisible stains of last night's encounter. The steam rose around me, clouding the air and fogging the glass, offering a shroud for my wounded pride.

And then I was done, turning off the taps with a finality that echoed too loudly in the small space. My hand reached for the towel, wrapping the soft fabric around me like a barrier against the world—against him. I took a deep breath, bracing myself for whatever came next.

When I stepped out, the air felt cooler than before, almost biting against my damp skin. Nathan leaned casually against the wall, his dark eyes unreadable, giving nothing away as they met mine. There was a silence, heavy and expectant, before he finally spoke.

I wondered if he was going to attack me again. A shiver run down my spine, my pussy tingling despite myself as he looked me up and down like he wanted to take a bite out of me.

"Get dressed. We're not done here."

My fingers tightened on the towel, my heart pounding with a fierce desire to hit back, to refuse him anything. But I knew better. For now, at least, this was his game, and I was merely a pawn. At least as far as he knew.

"Fine," I said, my voice steady despite the chaos raging inside. "But let's get one thing straight—I'm not your puppet, Nathan. And I'm not broken yet."

His lips twitched, a ghost of a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "We'll see about that."

I tried to walk past him but he cleared his throat–and I looked down to find the shiv in his fingers. His expression was unreadable, but there was a hint of something like respect in the way he looked at the makeshift weapon I had crafted earlier.

"Good job with that shiv," he said, and his voice was devoid of mockery. It was an odd compliment coming from the mouth of a man who could probably kill with his bare hands.

A shiver ran through me, but not from fear this time. He must have seen my ID, known who I was. My cover was blown if he had any sense—or perhaps he was just testing the waters. Sometimes honesty was the only card left to play, and so I played it.

"My dad's a cop," I blurted out, my voice steadier than I felt. "He taught me how to make one...in case I ever needed to."

The admission hung between us, a fragile truth that could easily be turned against me. But Nathan didn't press further on my newfound vulnerability. Instead, he chose an unexpected angle.

"Are you close?" His question felt invasive, yet oddly sincere, as if the notion intrigued him more than the information could benefit his criminal activities.

"Very," I replied, swallowing the lump in my throat. "It's been just us since my mom died when I was small. He's...all I have." The words were thick with emotion, betraying more than I intended. "He'd be crushed if he never saw his little girl again."

Nathan's reaction was non-existent, his face giving away nothing. It was as if my words had passed right through him, leaving no impression whatsoever. It made me wonder what kind of man could be so untouched by talk of family, of loss. What had hardened him to be…like this?

"Get dressed," he finally said, breaking the charged silence. He pushed off the wall and left the bathroom, turning his head to call back. "And don't try anything stupid. I'll be watching."

For the first time, I was alone. I could think. His warning was clear, yet somehow, it didn't ignite the fury I expected in myself. Instead, there was a strange sense of connection, however slight, linking us through the shared understanding of what it meant to hold onto someone you couldn't afford to lose.

I dressed quickly, slipping into the clothes he had given me with a newfound sense of determination. No matter what Nathan thought, I wasn't just another victim of his twisted world. I was Abby Harper, daughter of a cop, FBI fucking agent, and I would find a way out of this—I had to.

I emerged from the bathroom, feeling the weight of a dry shirt and shorts replacing the towel. The apartment was silent, eerily so, as if it held its breath for what would come next. My eyes darted around, searching for Nathan, but he was nowhere in sight as I walked down the short hallway.

Then I rounded the corner and spotted him, sprawled casually in the living room, the metallic glint of handcuffs catching the early morning light. He didn't stand or move; his gaze was fixed on me with an intensity that made my heart race with both fear and an inexplicable thrill.

"Thought you might try to make a run for it while I'm out," Nathan said, his voice calm, betraying none of the violence I knew he was capable of. "So you're gonna be a guest of the sofa."

He patted the spot beside him, and something inside me twisted—a mix of humiliation and defiance. I walked over, my steps steady despite the tremor I felt within. As he cuffed my ankle to the heavy piece of furniture, I forced a laugh.

"Wow, Nate, cuffing a girl to your couch so she doesn't run away? You sure know how to romance a lady."

"It's so you can watch TV, so I would say it's very romantic, actually," he said, and maybe it was my imagination, but he sounded genuinely hurt.

"The worst romantic gesture of all time," I replied between gritted teeth.

"You can stare at the ceiling fan in the bedroom if you prefer," he said.

"No, this…this works. This is great," I replied, sitting next to him. He grabbed my hand, not roughly. His fingers slid down mine, as if he was taking in the softness of my skin, and then he shook his head.

"Your ankle," he said, then kneeled down, looking up at me expectantly. He grabbed my ankle roughly, then cuffed me to a thick, sturdy leg of the sofa. The cold metal bit against my skin, a tangible reminder of my predicament.

"Enjoy the TV," he added, tossing the remote onto the cushion beside me before heading towards the door.

As the lock clicked, signaling his departure, I leaned back against the sofa, the reality of my situation settling in like a cold cloak. This was no love story; it was survival—and I needed to remember that if I was going to get out of this alive.