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Chapter Fifty-Four Nathan

Iwoke up to the sound of water hitting tile, a steady rhythm that let me know Abby was already up. The clock on the nightstand read just past seven in the morning.

Slipping out of bed, I left Abby to her shower. The apartment was silent, save for the distant hum of traffic starting to buzz through San Francisco"s waking streets. There was something I needed to do, something normal, something right. I made my way to the kitchen and started on the coffee. It was a simple task, but I took satisfaction in getting the grind and water ratio just right.

I was happy.

Maybe for the first time in my whole life.

Once the coffee was brewing, I stepped outside to the patio overlooking the sea. The garden was my sanctuary, a slice of Eden in a concrete jungle. Roses bloomed red as wine, a stark reminder of moments less serene. I snipped carefully, gathering them in a rough bouquet. Bringing beauty into the house, into our space—it felt like an act of defiance against the chaos of my family"s world.

I arranged the roses in a vase and set them on the kitchen table, where they stood out against the dark wood. Despite everything spiraling out of control with the Triad, with my father—the Serpent—casting his long shadow over the city, this small moment with Abby was untainted.

In her, I found peace, a still point in the turning world.

I glanced toward the stairs, listening for the shower to stop, for the soft pad of Abby"s footsteps. I wanted to see her, fresh-faced with sleep still clinging to her, and tell her good morning. I wanted to hand her a mug of that pitch-black coffee and watch her wrap both hands around it, green eyes meeting mine with that spark of humor I"d grown to crave.

The scent of brewing coffee filled the air, mixing with the aroma of toasting bread. It was nothing fancy, but I made it with a bit of pride. Ma had always said a man should know his way around the kitchen, even if it wasn"t his battlefield.

Eggs cracked in the pan, sizzled and spat as I scrambled them, my thoughts drifting to Abby upstairs—the way her laughter echoed through the rooms, how she painted life in strokes I never knew existed before her—

A sharp rap on the door cut through the morning calm like a knife"s edge. My hand stilled on the spatula, brow furrowing.

Visitors were rare, especially unannounced ones, and never a good sign.

I wiped my hands on a dish towel, moving towards the front door. My heart thrummed a cautious rhythm, instincts honed by years in the shadows coming to the fore. I checked the doorbell camera, squinting at the screen.

A white guy in a cheap suit stood there, looking out of place and uneasy. He shifted from foot to foot, glancing back over his shoulder as if expecting someone, or something, to jump out at him.

Who the hell was this guy?

I opened the door just enough to fill the gap with my frame, not letting him see inside. The glare I fixed him with had sent stronger men scurrying, but he held his ground. "What do you want?" I asked, voice low and even.

"Tyler Matthews," he introduced himself, oblivious to the danger he was in. "I"m looking for Abby Harper."

Abby"s name on his lips sparked a flame of anger deep in my chest. This was Tyler, the ex she"d tried so hard to erase from her life—the one she'd said wouldn't leave her alone.

And here he was…living proof.

I intended to force him to stop.

"Right." Forcing my features into a semblance of hospitality, I opened the door wider and stepped aside, the fake smile plastered on my face as cold and hollow as the grave. "Come in."

He hesitated, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face before he stepped over the threshold. It was like watching a fly willingly enter a spider"s web.

"Thanks," he muttered, brushing past me.

As he entered, I took in his cheap suit that didn"t quite fit right, his tie a half-inch too short. The way he carried himself screamed "trying too hard" and it grated on my nerves. I couldn't believe she'd ever allowed this piece of human garbage to touch her, when she was absolute fucking perfection.

I breathed.

Tried to focus.

Killing him would be reckless, but a threat…

"Nice place you got here," Tyler commented, craning his neck to look around the living room. His eyes lingered on the bouquet of freshly cut roses at the center of the table, as if he couldn"t reconcile the beauty of it with the man standing before him. "So where is she?"

"Upstairs," I said tersely, feeling the edge in my voice like a blade against my tongue. "We"re together now, and she doesn"t want to hear from you anymore."

Tyler"s gaze snapped back to mine, searching for a hint of weakness. He wouldn"t find any. Abby had chosen me, and I wasn"t about to let this ghost from her past haunt her present.

He snorted, a sound that was like nails on the chalkboard of my patience. "I find that hard to believe. You"re Nathan Zhou, right? I"ve done my homework on you. You"re up to something."

My muscles tensed, a coil ready to spring. The insolence of him—standing in my home, suggesting I was plotting some scheme—

Footsteps echoed from above, a soft rhythm against the hardwood. Both Tyler and I turned as one towards the stairs.

Abby descended, a vision, her skin glowing against the dark silk of her robe. The robe wasn't closed, revealing her lace panties and the curve of her breasts. I didn't want him seeing her like this, and I opened my mouth to stop her when she casually interrupted—clearly having no idea he was here.

"Are you making breakfast?" she was asking.

Then she stopped dead in her tracks.

"Tyler?" It came out as a whisper, her voice a mix of disbelief and fear.

Her eyes went wide, and in that moment, everything stilled.

"Tyler," she said again, her voice barely above a whisper, but it was enough to break the silence that had settled like a shroud in the room. "What are you doing here? I didn't…"

He interrupted her, and his words had me raging.

"Holy shit…you slept with him, you stupid bitch–"

I couldn't help it.

I'd been trained for worse.

In a flash, my vision tinted red. A rage I"d mastered over years of discipline and control roared to life, fueled by the disrespect in Tyler"s tone, the threat in his presence.

A knife was in my hand in a heartbeat, pulled from the knife block on the counter, then shoved to the hilt into Tyler Matthews' back. I didn"t hear the sound of the blade sinking into flesh, but I felt it—a resistance that gave way too easily, a sensation I knew too well.

He choked on his words.

Slumped forward.

Red coated my hand, pouring onto the floor as I twisted the knife.

My ears rang, heart pounding so loud I couldn't hear anything else…until Abby screamed, a raw, panicked sound that I"d never heard from her before. But it was too late; I was on him, pinning him to the ground, and the knife plunged into his chest again. Once, twice, three times—the blade moved in a grim rhythm, driven by the force of my wrath and the need to protect what was mine. He was already dead, but no one would talk to my woman that way.

"Stop! Nathan!" Her hands grasped my shoulders, yanking me back. "Please!"

I barely registered her touch. The world had narrowed down to Tyler"s blank stare, the slick warmth of his blood, and the need to eliminate the threat he posed. But Abby"s pleas finally pierced through, and her fingers found my wrist, prying the knife from my unresisting grip.

"Enough!" she cried, tugging me back with all her might.

I stumbled off him, panting, the red mist receding as I looked down at the heap of a man I"d just made. Tyler lay there, motionless, eyes staring into nothing. His blazer twisted askew, revealing something I hadn"t expected—a glint of metal that caught the light.

An FBI badge.

Abby"s hands fell away from me, her breath coming in short gasps. Her eyes were wide, fixed on the badge, then flickering to meet mine, filled with questions and fear.

"Abby, what the fuck is going on?" The words came out ragged, torn from a throat tight with confusion and betrayal.

She shook her head, eyes still locked on Tyler"s body. "I can"t believe you did that, Nathan," she whispered, voice trembling.

"Did what? Protect you?" My chest heaved, my heart racing. "He came here for you, Abby. Why didn"t you tell me he was FBI?"

Her gaze flickered back to mine, searching, desperate. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but no words came out. Only a faint shudder ran through her, betraying more than her silence ever could.

"Talk to me, damn it!" I stepped closer, my own blood boiling beneath my skin. Every moment of peace we"d shared this morning now felt like a cruel joke. The roses on the table, the breakfast half-prepared—all a lie.

The truth was stark in front of us: Tyler Matthews, an FBI agent, dead on my living room floor.

So her ex-boyfriend was FBI.

Wait.

No.

That made no sense.

It was all becoming clear.

Abby...who was she, really? She wasn't just an innocent waitress.

Her green eyes flitted around the room, avoiding the accusation in my gaze. "I thought he would just...go away," she finally spluttered, her voice barely above a whisper. She was backing away from me, toward the kitchen—toward the knife block.

What the hell was going on?

"Go away?" I echoed, incredulous. Her shaky response didn"t fit; it was too thin, too convenient.

And then, like the final piece of a puzzle snapping into place, it clicked.

"Abby..." The suspicion crept into my voice, heavy and cold. "You were there that night, in the alley. You knew too much."

Memories surged forward—her calm demeanor when chaos swirled around us, the way she seemed to absorb information, cataloging every detail with a keen eye. It all made sense now. She had been too prepared, too ready for a world she shouldn"t have known.

"Your father"s a cop." The words felt like bile rising in my throat as I spat them out, each one a betrayal. "For fuck"s sake, Abby, you know how to handle yourself too well. How to make a shiv, how to stay cool under pressure."

Her face paled, the freckles standing out like a stark confession across her skin. For a moment, she looked like she might crumble under the weight of secrets between us.

But then, something shifted in her posture, a subtle realignment of her spine, and she met my gaze head-on.

"Say something, Abby," I demanded, my voice barely controlled. "Tell me I"m wrong."

She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. But no sound came out. It was as if the truth had lodged itself in her throat, a barrier that wouldn"t let lies pass.

"Fuck." I stepped back, feeling like I"d been sucker-punched. The room spun slightly, and I gripped the edge of the counter to steady myself.

"Abby..." My voice trailed off, unable to form the question raging through my mind. Yet, I needed to hear it from her, confirmation that would slice through the last thread of hope I clung to.

"Are you...?" I couldn"t finish. Couldn"t say the words that would sever whatever bond we had.

Her eyes—those damn green eyes I thought I knew—watched me with an intensity that burned. In them, I saw the answer before she even moved her lips.

I heard myself speak before I realized I was talking. "Fuck...you"re FBI, aren"t you?"

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