Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 66993 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66993 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
His holster peeked beneath the blazer’s edge, the sleek handle of his signature white Glock catching the light.
In his other hand, he carried a worn paperback, one I would bet was an old mystery.
The cover, frayed at the edges and sun-bleached at the spine, featured a woman in silhouette standing beneath a streetlamp, her trench coat cinched at the waist. A revolver was at her side.
Blood dripped from the corner of the lamppost.
I eyed the title.
The Girl with the Crimson Shoes.
Lifting the book, Reo thumbed the corner of the page, closed it and tucked the novel into the inside pocket of his blazer with the same ease as sheathing a blade.
My smile widened.
Of course, he’d taken time to read when I dismissed them.
He closed the door behind him with the softest click and let his gaze sweep over me. “You appear. . .uncomposed.”
“That’s one conclusion.”
“And the other?”
“I want to know everything about her immediately, starting with where she is staying and how soon she can be in my bed.”
Reo checked his Rolex. “You have the meeting with the Lion in thirty minutes.”
“Forget the Lion,” I waved him off. “Focus on the Tiger. I also want all of her books.”
That got a knowing smirk out of him. “Your tiger won’t be hard to find. I already have men following her and I sent Ali off to the foreign bookstore to see if we can find any copies of her books in Tokyo.”
Pleasure rolled through my chest. “Good.”
“The men you have following her. . .tell them not to get too close,” I murmured. “She’s skittish. Fierce. But she’s watching everything. That kind of woman notices ghosts before they appear.”
Already ten steps ahead, he shrugged. “I told them to remain in the shadows.”
“I should’ve known you would have eyes on her,” I looked at him then, really looked.
Reo was my brother only by bond and he was one of the most dangerous men I’d ever met—because his mind was a brutal maze with no exit and a thousand hidden doors.
Other men killed with fists or blades.
Reo?
He killed with strategy.
Long ago, I’d named him the Dragon’s Roar.
The warning before the fire came.
The sound before the skies split open to rain down blood.
Almost every man in Japan feared me. But they flinched when Reo entered a room. Because I might destroy your body but Reo? Reo would dismantle your legacy, your lineage, your reason for existing.
I watched him. “Her scent—black amber and ripe plum. Did you catch that?”
“I did not,” Reo adjusted the cuff of his jacket.
“Are you sure you didn’t smell that on her?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied me and then shrugged. “She said she didn’t wear perfume. I inhaled. There was nothing. Perhaps her scent wasn’t in the air at all.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means your soul might have smelled her, not your nose.”
I stared at him caught somewhere between amusement and a chill I couldn’t shake. “That’s not real science.”
“Neither are most of the things we claim to believe,” his expression remained unreadable. “But if a woman walks in and everything in you howls to remember—maybe it isn’t about the scent. Maybe it’s about the part of you that’s been asleep for years finally waking up.”
His words settled on me like smoke over water.
Still, I tilted my head back and drew in a slow breath.
He’s wrong. The scent is still there. Amber. Plum.
In fact, it clung to my clothes, my hair, the air I breathed. It threaded through my office like it belonged here now, like it had always been waiting.
I looked back at him. “And you can’t smell it now?”
“I cannot.”
“But it’s everywhere.”
“It is not, Kenji.”
I glared at him.
Reo shrugged. “In The Tale of Genji, Lady Murasaki wrote of how the scent of a woman could linger longer than her presence. It’s a symbol in courtship. An omen. The moment her fragrance outlasts her body; the man is already losing control.”
“Are you quoting 11th century literature to explain why I’m losing my fucking mind?”
“Yes and it fits.”
I let out a bitter laugh, walked behind my desk, sat down, and leaned back in my chair.
My body still buzzed.
The door opened again.
Hiro stepped in.
Not a sound.
Not a greeting.
Just quiet violence—a loaded gun placed gently on silk.
A lollipop was already in his mouth. The stick bobbed a little.
His gaze swept the room. He didn’t ask if I was alright. Because Hiro didn’t deal in softness. He dealt in finality.
He was my blood brother—born of the same ruthless father. A man who bred sons to have weapons and didn’t know the meaning of gentleness.
Hiro took position against the far wall and folded his arms.
The rest of the Dragon’s Claws stayed outside—because they knew the order of things.
Hiro was the head of the Dragon’s Claws. He was the first blade—the strike before the threat.