Chapter Thirty-Five Abby

The tremors in my legs hadn't subsided, a lingering reminder of the raw intensity we'd just shared. Nathan hadn't been gentle–he never was–but there was something different this time; a tenderness in his touch, a softness in his eyes that I wasn't used to seeing in him. It left me feeling disoriented; I couldn't afford to mistake whatever this was for something…more.

But it was easy when I saw him like that, stripped bare and vulnerable.

Keep it together, Abby,I muttered to myself as I steadied my shaky legs, trying to dispel the haze of pleasure clouding my thoughts. My mind raced with what needed to be done. Tyler, always a wildcard, needed to be contacted without delay. He might come knocking on my door and fuck everything up for me. He had a knack for complicating things, and right now, I couldn't afford any slip-ups. And then there was Dad—I needed to see him first thing, reassure him, maybe even lean on him a bit if I dared to admit that need.

As long as it didn't make him suspicious.

Or, even worse, make Nathan suspicious.

But first, my apartment. That burner phone hidden in the false bottom drawer was my lifeline, one that could unravel this precarious situation I found myself in. Nathan's world, this treacherous web of loyalty, violence, and power, was no place for an FBI agent—especially not one who was starting to see her captor in a light that threatened her very mission.

I mean, none of this had been sanctioned. I had just fallen into it and had, by some miracle, managed to stay alive.

Focus, I told myself, ignoring the buttery softness of the sweater hugging my body. With each step, I felt the pull of the shorts that clung to my figure, a reminder that the line between Abigail Harper, the agent, and Abby, the woman entangled with a dangerous man, was blurring dangerously.

"Abby, you back with me?" Nathan's voice, rough around the edges, pulled me from my thoughts. He was leaning against the frame of the closet door, clad only in a t-shirt and sweats that did nothing to hide the sculpted muscle underneath. I took an appreciative look at him, letting my gaze sweep over him before I met his eyes.

"Yeah, I'm here," I replied, my voice steady despite the inner turmoil. "Just thinking about what to do next."

"Big plans?" There was a hint of amusement in his tone, but his gaze never wavered, sharp as ever.

"You have no idea," I shot back, unwilling to give away my true intentions.

"Thought you were starving," Nathan teased, breaking the tension as he approached with a playful glint in his dark eyes. "And here I find you lost in thought instead of racing to the kitchen."

I turned from the mirror and struggled to keep my face neutral, despite the soreness reminding me of the sex we'd just had. "Just give me a moment," I managed.

"Sure thing," he chuckled, closing the distance between us. His hand found my thigh in a familiar gesture that might have been affectionate in any other context. The sudden squeeze sent a ripple of laughter through me, edged with a wince as the tenderness in my body protested. I nearly lost my balance, catching myself on the vanity.

"Easy there," he said, steadying me with an ease that suggested he'd done it a thousand times before. "Once you're over how good you look, I'll be waiting for you in the kitchen. Those groceries won't unpack themselves."

"Your domestic skills are truly astounding," I quipped, finding solace in the banter.

"Only the best for you," he replied with a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes.

As he left, I took a deep breath, trying to settle the dissonance within me. It was wild how normal, domestic even, these moments with Nathan felt—silly almost. But then I glanced at the lush greenery that filled the room. Plants, just like those in the rest of the house.

The Serpent's Fang, they called him. I had spent days piecing together the persona: cold, ruthless, a harbinger of death lurking in the shadows of San Francisco's criminal underworld. And yet, here he was, tending to groceries like any other man.

His reputation painted him as merciless. Each hit he executed on Triad enemies was a message carved in blood, a brutal reminder of the order he enforced. And while the world knew him as a killer, only I knew the man who could spend hours discussing the fragile beauty of an orchid.

This dichotomy was the armor he wore—the scales of the serpent that both protected and threatened. And as much as I tried to deny it, I couldn't help but want to peel back every layer, to understand the enigma that was Nathan Zhou.

The tendrils of a hanging fern brushed my cheek as I paused at the top of the staircase, and I couldn't help but marvel at its perfection. Nathan had a way with things—things that weren't me. His control was evident in the neat rows of potted plants that thrived under his care, their leaves glossy and vibrant. It was a control he applied to everything, a meticulous precision that bordered on obsessive. Except, it seemed, when it came to whatever this twisted dance was between us. My stomach churned with the thought, a raw edge of fear mingling with an adrenaline-fueled curiosity.

Maybe I was just one of his orchids–a kept flower, confined to his apartment, pruned and brutalized when necessary.

I descended the stairs, the sound of my steps muffled by the plush carpet, drawn forward by the scent of fresh produce and something richer, more earthy. It was like walking into another world each time I entered the kitchen—a place where the man known as The Serpent's Fang transformed into someone unrecognizable. He stood there, surrounded by the spoils of a grocery run, his t-shirt clinging to him in a way that highlighted the coiled dragon tattoo disappearing into the waistband of his sweats.

There, among the fruits and vegetables sprawled across the island, sat a small, velvet jewelry box that seemed out of place with the domestic scene. Nathan noticed my gaze fixed on it and, without a word, he reached for the box. The click of it opening echoed slightly in the spacious room, and inside nestled a gold necklace, the filigree disc pendant catching the light with a soft gleam.

"Like it?" he asked, his voice holding that familiar edge that both challenged and beckoned.

I nodded, unable to find words, my thoughts a jumble of confusion and an unexpected surge of longing.

He took the necklace out, and I felt him move close behind me. The warmth of his body contrasted with the cool metal as he placed it around my neck. "You know," I joked, trying to keep the mood light, "I'm more of a silver girl."

"That's a shame. Gold looks great with your coloring," he said softly.

"You think so?"

Nathan leaned in, his breath tickling my ear. "Yes. But this isn't about what you prefer, Abby. This is a collar. You take it off, I'll know." There was no mistaking the seriousness in his tone.

"Would've preferred a bracelet," I quipped, feigning indifference while my heart raced at the implication of his words.

"Sweetheart, I've seen you handle handcuffs. They don't seem to hold you well." His chuckle was low and menacing, but I couldn't deny the flutter in my stomach. Sweetheart? What the fuck?

What was he doing? Why did I like it so much?

Turning my attention to the groceries, I busied myself with organizing them. My fingers brushed over various shapes and textures—the ridged edges of dried noodles, the soft waxiness of cheese blocks. It was an attempt to ground myself, to remember who I was in this whole fucking thing.

"Thinking of making something?" Nathan's voice was casual, but his eyes never left me, tracking every movement like a hawk.

"Maybe," I responded, allowing myself a small grin. "How do you feel about bolognese?"

His gaze darkened—whether with hunger for food or something more primal, I couldn't tell. But in that moment, with the weight of the gold resting against my skin and the promise of a shared meal between us, everything seemed…normal. Sweet, almost. Like we were on our third date.

"Sounds perfect," he said finally, the corner of his mouth tilting upward. "Let's see if you can really cook."

"Hey," I said. "That's rich coming from you."

He smirked. "I might be a bad cook, but I have a refined palate," he said as I busied myself getting the ingredients ready.

"Just let me cook."

He slid onto one of the tall stools at the island, his face bathed in warm anticipation. "Okay. Sounds like a plan."

Such a mundane statement. Everything seemed so normal. I tried to ignore how my heart was racing as he stared at me…but this was working.

Nathan might have given me a collar, but it was becoming increasingly unclear who was truly in control.