Chapter Thirty-Six Nathan

The warmth creeping into my chest was a stranger to me.

It spread—a slow burn without flames, unexpected and unsettling in its gentleness. It defied the cold reputation I had fostered like a shield. Warm and fuzzy? That wasn't Nathan Zhou's style. But here, in the quiet of my kitchen, with the evening painting shadows on the walls, the foreign sensation curled itself around my heart with an ease that rattled me.

I leaned against the kitchen island, arms folded, a silent observer in my own domain. The house felt different with her presence—alive in a way it hadn't been for god knows how long. I couldn't remember the last time I invited a woman over, not since...

Well, it didn't matter. Other Serpents were the only usual guests, our meetings steeped in strategy and danger, far from domestic tranquility.

Abby moved around the kitchen with a grace that belied her true nature. I watched as she chopped vegetables, each slice a soft symphony of sound against the wooden board. The sizzle as she tossed them into the pan was the only thing breaking the silence between us—a silence filled with questions left unspoken.

I pushed off from the doorframe and found my way to a chair, resting my elbows on the cool surface of the table. The ease in her movements, the way she navigated my space—it made me wonder. What if she hadn't caught me that night? If our worlds hadn't collided in violence and secrets, could there have been something... normal for us?

I scoffed at the thought, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Normal was a luxury I had never been afforded. My life was one of control—over myself, over others. It was necessary; it was survival.

But watching Abby now, lost in the simple act of cooking, I couldn't help but question: Was this iron grip the only way I knew how to let someone in? Could I have ever revealed the man behind the mask without the chains of circumstance forcing my hand?

I was raised in shadows, taught to keep the truth locked away behind a stern face and steady hands. I had secrets layered upon secrets, each one a brick in the fortress that was my life. But now, with Abby humming softly to herself, comfort seeping into her every pore, something in me wanted to tear those walls down.

She looked cozy, like she belonged here in my kitchen, wrapped in the oversized sweater I had given her. It was strange, this feeling of contentment that bubbled up at the sight of her. I was glad she was here—alive and breathing. Glad for the warmth that flickered in my chest, even if it felt foreign and uncharted.

"Is everything okay?" Her voice cut through my thoughts, green eyes meeting mine with an openness I hadn't expected.

"Yeah," I answered, more gruffly than intended. "Just thinking."

Abby tilted her head slightly, a lock of brown hair falling over her shoulder. "About what?"

"Nothing important."

The words came out too quickly, a lie wrapped in truth. I wanted to tell her everything: about the plants that brought me solace, the philosophy that shaped my thoughts, the dragon inked on my skin—a symbol of strength and protection.

But confessions were a dangerous game, and I wasn't sure if I was ready to play.

Before I could sink further into that dangerous introspection, the unmistakable buzz of my phone sliced through the quiet. It was a message from my father: Talk. Now.

The familiar clench of duty tightened in my gut, but I dismissed it with a swipe. This evening wasn't about the Triad or its cold commands—it was about the woman making herself at home in my space.

"Your place is nice," Abby commented, snapping me back to the moment. "I like it."

"Thanks," I said, surprised at the simplicity of her compliment. My eyes scanned the room, landing on the various shadows cast by the dimming light, the sleek surfaces of furniture rarely used. The place felt different with her in it—less like a fortress and more like a haven.

"Didn't peg you for someone who cared about home decor," she added with a playful lilt in her voice.

"Guess there's a lot you don't know about me," I replied, the corners of my mouth lifting in an uncharacteristic smile.

"Clearly." Her grin was infectious, and for a second, I let myself bask in the warmth of it.

"Speaking of," she said, her gaze drifting to the greenery that adorned my living area. "How long have you been keeping plants?"

I hummed to myself at the question, peace washing over me as I watched her curiosity unfold like the petals of a bloom. "Since I was a kid," I admitted. "My mother…she loves gardening. We used to plant all sorts of things together."

"Really?" The surprise in Abby's voice was genuine, and it made something inside me twist uncomfortably. "I never would've guessed."

"Guess I'm full of surprises." There was a softness in my words I didn't recognize as my own.

She took a tentative step towards the potted orchids on the windowsill as the food simmered, her fingers grazing a velvety petal. "They're beautiful," she murmured, almost to herself.

"Yeah, orchids are special to me," I found myself saying, moving closer to join her by the window. "They need the right care to thrive—specific light, water, temperature. But when you get it right, they're resilient. And there's just something about their elegance, you know?"

Her eyes met mine, and for a moment, the dangerous world outside this room felt miles away. "You take good care of them," she said softly. "It…says a lot about you."

I shrugged, feeling the weight of her gaze like an anchor. "Plants don't betray you. They don't lie or deceive. They just…exist. And if you treat them right, they grow."

"Sounds nice," she said with a wistful tone that made me want to reveal more than I should.

"Sometimes, it's the only thing that makes sense," I confessed, the truth slipping out before I could stop it. Something vulnerable flickered between us, a shared understanding that was as dangerous as it was comforting.

Abby's hand brushed mine, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt through me. I was supposed to be a man who controlled every situation, but here I was, standing in my own home, feeling more exposed than ever.

"Remember that orchid killer case from down in Orlando a couple of years ago?" Abby's question cut through the stillness, her voice tinged with curiosity.

I tensed, memories of the brutal case clawing at the edges of my mind. "Yeah, I remember," I replied, trying to keep my tone even. "It was awful, what happened."

She hesitated for a brief moment before continuing, "I thought you wouldn't care…given that you're a killer."

Her words were like a punch to the gut. My hands clenched involuntarily, but I kept my face impassive. She didn't understand—couldn't possibly know what it meant to do the things I'd done.

"I don't kill for pleasure," I said quietly, the weight of my past heavy on my shoulders. "Every time…every single time, it's been to protect my family."

There was more to say, reasons and justifications that had long since been etched into my soul, but they remained unspoken.

I couldn't tell her that it was a release. A necessary release…but satisfying all the same.

Abby looked up at me, her green eyes searching mine. For a second, I wondered what she saw—the monster or the man. The silence hung between us, laden with the unsaid truths and lies that shaped our lives.

I wanted to tell her everything. To explain why my world was painted in shades of blood and loyalty. But some truths were too dangerous to share, even with someone who seemed to see right through the walls I'd built around myself.

With Abby, I wanted to be Nathan—not the heir to a legacy written in violence.

And in that moment, I wished that was all I ever had to be.

Feeling a surge of frustration mixed with an odd sense of vulnerability, I couldn't stay rooted to that spot any longer. I moved without thinking, the distance between us closing until I came up behind her at the stove. My arms found their way around her waist, the tension in my body seeking an outlet.

"Careful," Abby murmured, eyeing the simmering pot, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she continued to stir the contents gently.

I inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of herbs and something sweet that clung to her skin. It was probably from some shampoo or lotion, but it didn't matter.

To me, it was just Abby.

She leaned back slightly, her body pressing against mine in a way that felt almost natural. Her free hand came to rest on top of mine, and her warmth seeped into me. For a moment, the heaviness of my life seemed to lift, suspended in the simple act of holding her.

"Your hands are cold," she said softly, her fingers squeezing mine as if to impart her own heat.

"Yours are warm."

"Maybe you should take a break from the cold then," she suggested with a lightness in her voice that sounded like hope.

Or maybe it was just my wishful thinking.

"I think I might," I replied, the corners of my mouth lifting into a rare smile. I hadn't realized how much I'd been craving this—human touch, comfort, something as simple as standing with someone who didn't fear me.

For a fleeting second, there was no Triad, no blood on my hands, no looming threats. There was just us, Nathan and Abby, existing in a bubble that I never wanted to burst.

A silence fell between us, but it wasn't the tense kind that usually filled my world. It was comfortable, easy, like the quiet moments I used to share with Ma in the garden when I was a kid. I'd never thought I'd find that kind of peace again, especially not here, not with her.

"Abby," I began, my voice barely above a murmur. The words were lodged in my throat, the admissions and confessions crowding together. They wanted out, these secrets that had been chained inside me for so long. But fear held them back—the fear of what revealing too much could mean for both of us.

"Mmm?" She hummed in response, her attention still half on the sizzling pan in front of her.

"Nothing." I clamped down on the urge to spill my soul. "Just…thank you. For the food."

"Of course."

She shrugged as if it was nothing, but it was everything. It was normalcy, a touch of the life I'd thought was beyond my reach, a life where people didn't look over their shoulders and trust wasn't just another word for weakness.

I could get used to this, the domesticity, the simplicity of cooking dinner with someone who didn't want anything from me but my company. And yet, the shadows of my past actions lingered at the edges of this fragile moment.

Could she ever forgive me for the things I'd done? Not just to her, but to those who no longer had a voice to offer forgiveness or condemnation?

The weight of those thoughts pressed down on me, threatening to shatter the illusion of normalcy. I tightened my grip on her waist, not ready to let go of the fantasy, not yet.

"Is everything okay?" Abby's voice pulled me back, and I realized I'd been holding my breath.

"Everything's fine," I lied smoothly, schooled in the art of hiding my true feelings.

"Good." She leaned her head back slightly, meeting my gaze. "Because, Nathan, this…it's nice."

And there it was, the hook that caught me unawares, reeling me into waters I had no chart for. Her smile, genuine and warm, promising possibilities I hadn't allowed myself to consider.

I knew then that the darkness I carried within me would always be a barrier between us. But for now, in the golden warmth of my kitchen, with her in my arms, I let myself bask in the glow of something that felt an awful lot like hope.

"Really nice," I agreed.

And for a heartbeat, I believed it could be true.