Chapter Thirty-One Nathan

Iwoke up with a start, the kind that leaves your heart racing and your mind spinning.

The sheets were twisted around my legs, a physical manifestation of the internal conflict that had plagued me all night. In the pit of my stomach, I felt it—a knot of dread, or maybe it was excitement.

It was hard to tell the difference these days.

The room was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city below. South Beach was never truly silent, but at this hour, even the restless energy of San Francisco seemed to hold its breath. I lay there for a moment longer, steeling myself for what had to be done.

This was a mistake.

Every rational part of me knew it.

Bringing Abby into my world, into my home—it went against every rule I'd ever set for myself. But as the sun began to bleed through the blinds, casting long shadows across the room, I realized that the decision had already been made.

I was in too deep, and there was no turning back now.

I slid out of bed, my movements deliberate as I grabbed my phone from the nightstand. My fingers worked swiftly over the screen, texting a couple guards about letting in delivery people, then I set to work getting what I would need for Abby—women's clothes, groceries, and a unique kind of necklace.

Everything to make it look like she was my girlfriend…to erase the story we'd written in blood, here in this apartment.

My mind flashed to the dragon tattoo that snaked across my chest. It was a reminder of who I was, of the life I led. A life of violence, of control. Abby was a complication I hadn't anticipated, a variable in an equation that was supposed to be simple.

Ba would have told me to be careful, to be selfish—to prioritize our family over all else. And yet, here I was, about to do the exact opposite. Abby wasn't part of my self-preservation plan; she was a risk, a gamble on a human connection I wasn't sure I deserved.

As the morning light began to filter through the blinds, I glanced over at Abby still curled up in bed, her face peaceful in sleep. The cuffs that had bound her wrists lay open on the nightstand, a silent testament to the tumultuous night before.

I'd almost killed her. If the night had gone as planned, she would be in pieces right now, dissolving in the industrial composter downstairs to one day feed my plants.

But here she was.

Alive.

And I knew then that I would keep her that way at any cost.

I moved from the bedroom, quiet as a ghost, prepared to erase any sign of what we'd done here. I could still feel the intensity of last night's emotions, a storm that had raged within me. It was a force I had kept leashed for so long, but Abby…she had a way of slipping past my defenses.

And now, I was about to bring her into my world, my real life beyond these walls.

As I scrubbed the countertop, erasing every fingerprint, every mark that she had left behind, I heard the soft sound of footsteps. Abby stood in the doorway once again wearing one of my t-shirts, her green eyes taking in the sight of me trying to wipe away the evidence of her presence, her dark hair mussed. She watched silently, her expression unreadable.

Our eyes locked, a silent conversation passing between us. In that moment, we both understood the gravity of what was happening. I was crossing a line that could not be uncrossed, and Abby, whether she liked it or not, was coming with me.

"Still planning on keeping me alive, or are you erasing the evidence?" Her voice cut through the silence, sharp and clear.

I stopped scrubbing. My hands stilled on the countertop as I turned to face her fully. "I've had two chances now." I met her gaze, my own eyes unflinching. "But I haven't pulled the trigger, and I never will."

A flicker of something—relief, confusion, fear—crossed her face before she masked it again with that stubborn resolve that both infuriated and intrigued me.

"But don't get it twisted," I continued, my voice low and steady. "That doesn't mean I won't use you exactly like I want. Even if you're playing my girlfriend, you're still mine to command."

Her reaction was subtle, a slight tightening around her eyes, but she didn't back down. She didn't move. She just looked at me—a long, assessing stare that told me she was weighing her options.

"Your toy," she repeated, testing the words, tasting the bitterness they left. "Your hole. I get it…and I like it."

The air hung heavy between us, charged with tension. For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Then, without a word, Abby moved toward the bucket I'd been pulling cleaning supplies from. Her fingers closed around a sponge and a bottle of cleaner, and she began scrubbing at a spot on the counter opposite me.

It was an act so normal in its domesticity it felt surreal given the circumstances. We worked in sync, two specters in a dance of uneasy alliance, erasing the traces of our darker entanglement. And I hated how it felt, but I thought…I was starting to think I could get used to this.

I loved fucking her—god, of course I did—but I loved being with her too. Drinking wine, cooking, cleaning.

This was a life I'd never thought I would have.

And here she was…an accident of fate that was about to change everything.

My gaze landed on her wrists, the delicate skin raw from the cuffs. Guilt gnawed at my insides, an unfamiliar sensation. She had fought hard, fought me, and the evidence was there in the bruises that marred her arms, the gash on her forehead still in the throes of healing. The green of her eyes seemed even more vivid against the fading yellow and purple on her skin.

"Abby," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, but she didn't react to the sound of her name. She just kept cleaning, as if by doing so she could also wipe away the reality of her situation. I wanted to say something comforting, something human, but the words snagged on the barbed wire of my nature.

I reached out, my hand landing gently on hers. The contact should have been nothing—skin on skin, simple, uncomplicated. But she flinched like I'd burned her, and the look she gave me was a mix of fear and defiance that cut right through.

"Stop," I said, more softly than I ever thought I could speak. "You don't need to clean anymore."

She looked down at where my hand still rested on hers, then slowly back up to me, searching my face for something I wasn't sure I was ready to show her.

"Your wounds," I continued, trying to keep my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. "We need to cover them up if we're going out in public."

I didn't want to admit that seeing the marks made me feel anything but the cold detachment I was known for.

Her green eyes held mine a moment longer before she nodded once, silently giving me permission to lead her away from the kitchen. I kept my touch light on her arm as we walked to the bathroom, aware of every place her skin showed signs of the past days' struggle.

In the sterile light of the bathroom, the bruises and scrapes on her fair skin seemed more pronounced. I resisted the urge to question my own actions that led to this—as the Serpent's eldest son, I was taught never to doubt, only to act. But Abby wasn't just some pawn in the game; she was fire and fight, wrapped in a deceptive layer of softness.

"Sit," I instructed, motioning toward the closed toilet lid as I grabbed the first aid kit from under the sink. The first aid kit clicked open, its contents meticulously organized—a habit drilled into me by Ma's silent expectations of perfection.

Abby perched on the edge, watching each of my movements with a wariness that had become as familiar to me as breathing. I plucked out antiseptic wipes, gauze, and bandages, focusing on the task at hand.

"This might sting," I warned before pressing a wipe to the gash on her forehead. She hissed through clenched teeth, but didn't pull away. It was a small act of bravery—or stubbornness—that chipped at the wall I kept around my conscience.

I worked in silence, methodical in cleaning and covering each wound. When it came to her wrists, raw from the cuffs, I hesitated for a fraction of a second, allowing myself to feel a twinge of something like regret. But the moment passed as quickly as it came, and I secured the bandages with practiced hands. My skin burned everywhere I touched her, fingertips buzzing with the anticipation of violence…or maybe something more.

Something that felt better.

I loved touching her. Needed to touch her.

"Take these," I said, offering her two ibuprofen from the kit. "They'll help with the pain."

She eyed the pills with suspicion, her lips thinning. "How do I know they're not poison?"

I let out a sigh, my patience thinning. I knelt in front of her, leveling my eyes with hers, and took a hard line. "Look, Abby, I know you think of yourself as my prisoner—my toy," I said. "But I don't want to break you... because you can't use broken toys."

The phrase was cold, detached, fitting for the life I led. But as the words left my mouth, something twisted inside me. I saw the flicker of something in her eyes—a mix of fear, defiance, and a sliver of understanding.

Despite it all, despite the monster she saw in me, there was this momentary connection that had no business existing.

"Fine," she muttered after a tense pause, reaching for the pills and dry swallowing them.

Watching her throat work as the pills went down, a strange sense of relief washed over me. I didn't want her hurt—not more than was necessary for survival, anyway. The thought bothered me, gnawed at the edges of the persona I'd built for myself. Nathan Zhou didn't do attachments; he didn't do weaknesses.

And yet, here I was, feeling the pull of something dangerous.

I was falling for this girl. It wasn't just about possession or control anymore. There was something else there, something that made the stakes higher, the game deadlier.

"Let's get you cleaned up," I said, standing back to my full height. My voice was steady, but inside, I was reeling from the admission—even if only to myself—that I was stepping into perilous territory. Abby Harper was becoming more than a pawn or a plaything.

She was becoming my downfall.