Chapter Forty-Seven Abby

Iwas mid-stride, the treadmill humming beneath my sneakers, when the front door slammed shut with a thud that echoed through the otherwise silent condo. My breath hitched, not from the run but from the sudden intrusion of Nathan, Fangs Zhou himself, into what had been hours of brooding solitude. I jabbed at the stop button, the belt jerking to a halt, and I stepped off, my mind racing faster than my heartbeat.

The air was thick with unspoken words, my anger toward him still smoldering. I'd spent the whole day plotting revenge or escape—whichever came first. But as the evening shadows crept along the walls, I found myself missing the bastard. When the world didn't weigh on his shoulders, Nathan could be...pleasant. Almost normal.

Then reality hit like a slap—was I anything more than a toy to him? A plaything for his twisted pleasure?

"Abby," I muttered to myself, "stay calm."

I kicked my shoes off and padded barefoot to the living room, finding Nathan in an unusual state of disarray. His black hair was a mess, defying its usual slicked-back discipline, and his tan skin seemed almost gray under the kitchen light. He was beat up, too–an ugly bruise on his head that almost mirrored the one he'd given me the night he took me captive, his shoulders hunched like he was in pain.

The man who usually held San Francisco's underworld in an iron grip now looked like a ghost, his dark eyes usually so sharp, now dull and distant.

Without acknowledging me, he reached for the top-shelf whiskey, his hand trembling just enough to betray that his cool exterior was cracking. The glass he chose was meant for celebrations, heavy and cut with precision—but it was clear there was nothing to celebrate.

"Hey," I said, trying to sound casual despite the chill that ran through me seeing him like this. Nathan poured the whiskey to the brim, the liquid gold shimmering under the artificial lights.

Drink up, tough guy,I thought, standing there, silenced by the sight of a powerful man brought low—not by bullets or betrayal, but by whatever haunted him behind those hollow eyes.

"Are you okay?" I dared to break the silence, knowing full well that ‘okay' was nowhere within reach for either of us.

"Shut up, Abby." His voice was a low growl, one that commanded obedience in any other scenario.

But not tonight.

Tonight I was fucking done.

"Fuck you," I scoffed, grabbing a glass and pouring myself a generous amount of whiskey. "I'm having a whiskey too. We're having this drink together like civilized people. We don't have to talk, but I'm going to be right here."

Nathan's gaze flickered with something unreadable as he stared at me, his lips pressed into a thin line. He didn't speak again, just took a long pull from his drink, eyes never leaving mine.

"Why would you even want to be around me after..." His voice trailed off, the question hanging heavy between us.

"Right now, that doesn't matter," I said firmly, tipping my glass toward him slightly before taking a sip. The burn of the whiskey felt like a wake-up call. "I'm just enjoying this whiskey. With the person I live with."

We stood there, side by side, the silence no longer oppressive but shared—a momentary truce in an unspoken war. Nathan's presence was overwhelming, as always, but tonight it was different. There was vulnerability in the way he held his glass a little too tightly, a subtle plea for some semblance of normalcy.

I thought. I hoped.

Nathan's eyes narrowed. "You're just…sitting here. Keeping me company."

I nodded. "Drinking whiskey I could never afford."

I watched as Nathan finished his drink in one long gulp, the muscles of his jaw working. With a resigned sigh, he poured himself another, the liquid gold shimmering in the dim light. "Suppose this is your house," he muttered, barely audible over the clink of the ice. "Your alcohol too."

"Hey." I reached out to touch his arm, a gesture meant to bridge the gap between us, but he recoiled as if my touch burned him.

"Leave me alone, Abby."

"Can't do that," I countered, feeling that stubborn streak my dad always said would get me into trouble. "You brought me here, remember? And...I worry about you."

His laugh was harsh, mocking. "Worry about me?"

"Believe it or not, yes." My voice was steadier than I felt. I reached for him again, more determined this time, needing to make him feel seen, understood.

But Nathan's reaction was explosive. The glass he held was suddenly airborne, flung with force across the room where it shattered against the wall, fragments dancing across the floor like glitter. I stiffened, but otherwise didn't react–and maybe it was a tell that I was tougher than I seemed, but he didn't appear to notice.

"That glass really had it coming," I said. "It was an asshole."

He scoffed. "I'm not in the mood, Abigail."

"Neither am I. But here we are," I retorted, my gaze never wavering from his.

There was a long pause, filled by the tension that had been building between us all night. Finally, Nathan sighed, dropping his feral gaze to his clenched fists. His knuckles were white against the darkness of his skin, and as he flexed his fingers, the blood returning made them look almost painted in red. He'd hit someone hard; his knuckles were split. The sight stirred something within me, a primal urge to soothe.

I should have been angry at him…but all I wanted to do was kiss every single split knuckle, every scar.

I was in love with him, flaws and all.

"Talk to me," I urged him, this time refusing to be pushed away.

Nathan just shook his head, a silent battle raging within him that I desperately wanted to understand—to help him fight. But all I could do was stand there. Wait.

"Abby, just drop it," he said, and it didn't sound like a command anymore, it almost sounded like he was begging me.

"Talk to me, Nathan," I persisted, my own need to connect with him, to break through that hardened shell, overwhelming any sense of self-preservation.

In one fluid, furious motion, Nathan closed the gap between us. His hands clamped down on my shoulders, his grip iron but trembling. With a rough shove, he backed me against the cool marble counter, his body pinning me in place.

"I told you I didn't want to talk," he snarled, his breath hot against my face.

As if driven by some primal force, Nathan's hands moved to the hem of my shorts, yanking them down with an urgency that left me breathless. His lips crashed onto mine, hungry and demanding, and for a second, I lost myself in the intensity of his kiss.

"Talk to me, Nathan," I gasped between kisses, clinging to the last thread of our original conflict even as my body responded to his touch, to the raw need that poured from him. My fingers found his hair, tugging gently, trying to draw him back, to slow things down, to find the man beneath the beast.

I looked into his dark eyes.

"Hey. Hey. You don't have to do this," I said. "You don't have to. It's okay. Just talk to me," I whispered again, a plea laced with desire, needing him to share his pain, his fears, so I could shoulder them alongside him.

I locked eyes with Nathan, his gaze wild and tempestuous like the stormy sea. "Look at me," I commanded, my voice steadier than I felt. His breathing was erratic, his chest heaving as if he'd run a marathon. Slowly, his hands stilled on my waist, and he looked up, meeting my gaze.

"Abby," he choked out. His voice was barely a thread of sound, but it was enough to unravel him completely. I took his face in my hands, feeling the rough stubble against my palms, and just held him there, our foreheads touching, our breath mingling.

"It's alright. Just let it out," I urged softly.

And that's what broke him.

A deep, shuddering breath tore from his lips. I thought he would sigh or something.

Instead, he started sobbing, great heaving sobs that shook his entire body. He ducked his head against my shoulder, hiding from the world, seeking refuge in the curve of my neck. His shoulders trembled under my hands, agony ripping through him.

I wrapped my arms around him, holding him tightly, offering silent comfort. He didn't tell me what happened, what had carved such a deep wound into his soul, but it didn't matter—not right now. He just needed someone to hold him, and I would be that person for as long as he needed.

When the sobs finally subsided, I gently tugged him by the hand, guiding him toward the bathroom. All thoughts of calling Tyler—or anything else—vanished as I turned on the shower, reached out to feel the water pouring over my fingertips as it warmed up.

"Hey," I said. "You don't have to talk. You know what always makes me feel better?"

He didn't answer. He was still crying.

"A shower," I said. "A nice hot shower. Do you want to do that?"

He looked at me, his eyes bloodshot and rimmed with dark exhaustion. For a moment, he was silent.

Then he nodded, a barely visible dip of his head.

"Okay," he croaked out, his voice rough from crying.

I helped him undress, his body heavy with the weight of whatever torment he was carrying. His hands were trembling as they clung to me for support, a silent confession of his vulnerability that spoke volumes more than words ever could.

I got undressed and pulled him in with me.

Under the hot stream of water, I watched as the tension started to slowly ebb from his body. His head tipped back against the tiled wall, steamy rivulets trailing down his dark skin and washing away the traces of tears. For just a moment, he was almost peaceful.

Underneath the spray, Nathan was different. The hardness in his gaze softened as if the cascading water was washing away more than just the sweat and grime from his body. His dark hair plastered onto his forehead, making him look younger than his twenty-seven years.

I washed him, letting my hands roam over him under the guise of cleaning. My fingers traced the dragon tattoo inked onto his chest, feeling its details under my fingertips as if it were alive. It was a part of him—an indelible mark that he wore with pride yet concealed like a secret never to be shared.

"Do you want to have sex?" I asked.

His brows furrowed as he looked down at me, his dark eyes almost black under the dim bathroom lights. He shook his head, a silent sigh escaping his lips. Then, he wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close against him until there was no space between us.

His lips grazed against my ear, the warmth of his breath sending shivers coursing down my spine. "Not like this," he murmured. "Not when I'm..." He didn't finish the sentence, but he didn't need to. The words hung heavily between us, unspoken.

Not when I'm hurting.

Not when I'm broken.

"It's okay. We don't have to. We can have sex only when you want to have sex."

He winced, as if I'd just slapped him. "Abby…"

"No," I interrupted, pressing a finger to his lips to silence him. "Today isn't about that. It's about you letting go and trusting someone else with your pain. And I'm here, Nathan. I'm not going anywhere."

There was a hint of vulnerability in his eyes, a flicker of something so raw and intimate it took my breath away. He held my gaze for a moment longer before he let out a ragged sigh, burying his face in the crook of my neck.

"I'm a fucking asshole," he said, his words muffled against my skin. "I don't deserve you."

"Yeah, well," I replied, my arms wrapped around his waist. "Don't worry. You have the rest of your life to make it up to me."

He didn't respond, but his grip around me tightened ever so slightly. I took that as a good sign and started to hum softly, an old tune my father used to sing when I was a child. His voice would always seem to shake the darkness away and bring in the light.

As we stood there, the water beating down on our bodies, I realized this was probably the most genuine interaction Nathan had ever allowed himself to have with…well, fuck, anyone. And looking at him then, underneath the artificial sunlight of the bathroom light, it was easy to see how desperately he needed it.

The water eventually turned cold, but by then Nathan's tears had dried up, replaced by an expression of profound exhaustion. His dark eyes were half-closed, but he was staring at me with such intensity it was like he was seeing me for the first time.

He smiled at me, looking exhausted. "For the rest of my life, huh?"

"Sure," I winked at him. "You have a lot to make up for."

What I didn't say was that I thought he'd probably be making it up to me from prison.