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)
And the man didn’t look up.
Not at first.
He just stood there like he owned the air, the floor, and the rhythm of my breathing.
As if he was waiting to be worshipped or feared, he didn’t care which.
His features were elegant in that cruel, untouchable way. Eyes hooded and unreadable. Lips full and unsmiling. Hair thick and swept back like he’d run a hand through it in irritation and left it there.
Disheveled perfection.
But it wasn’t just the way he looked.
It was the weight of him.
The energy.
The silence that bent around his muscular body.
He looked like death incarnate.
Not cold death.
Warm, velvet death.
The kind that whispered against your throat and asked if you wanted to be ruined slowly.
And Mr. Velvet Death wasn’t alone.
A gorgeous woman stood beside him, draped in a tight silver dress, her hand trailing lazily down the length of his arm like she was trying to memorize him by touch.
She was stunning—glass-smooth skin, deep red lips, and long black hair twisted into an intricate updo.
And I couldn’t even blame her.
If I were that close, I’d want to touch him too.
But then, he looked up.
Fuck.
His eyes met mine—dark, molten, slow—and I forgot how to stand still. My body responded before I had time to process it. A flutter low in my belly. My thighs pressed together. Heat rose, low and treacherous.
I’d interviewed murderers, addicts, and Wall Street billionaires but no man had ever stripped me down with one look.
His eyes didn’t ask.
They took.
I couldn’t look away.
The woman beside him shifted, smiled, and leaned in to whisper something.
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t even glance at her.
Instead, with a flick of his wrist—subtle, controlled—he dismissed her.
Shocked, she hesitated, clearly surprised. Her hand lingered too long on his arm before she finally stepped back and left the room.
All the while, his gaze never left mine.
Not even once.
On the other side of him stood another man in a dark blue suit that seemed much more approachable.
But still dangerous.
My gaze went back to the man leaning against the desk—Mr. Velvet Death.
Holy fuck.
Clearing his throat, Jun gestured for us to come in. “Ms. Palmer, please meet Mr. Sato—the owner.”
My name barely registered.
Because the moment I stepped inside, I realized that this wasn’t just going to be a meeting.
This would be a threshold. And if I crossed it, I knew I’d leave a version of myself behind—the one who thought she could watch without feeling.
Observe without being changed.
Still, I went over the threshold and Mr. Velvet Death smiled.
Not a wide one.
Not even kind.
Just a slow curve of his lips that said one thing—You don’t belong here.
And then he spoke. His voice silk and steel, sliding under my skin like the first cut of a beautiful knife. “Very naughty.”
My pulse stuttered.
Not from fear.
But because part of me wanted to be naughty.
What the fuck?
Chapter two
Velvet Death
Nyomi
What did he mean by very naughty?
The words echoed long after they slipped past his lips.
He had said very naughty and it wasn’t an observation.
It was a verdict.
My instinct was to snap back with some quirky comment but instinct didn’t belong here. Not in a country where I didn’t know all the customs and traditions. Not to forget the fact that this man was clearly Yakuza. I damned sure didn’t want any problems with them.
I pressed my damp palms to the sides of my jeans and tried to breathe through it.
Mr. Sato stared at me.
No smile now.
Just a heavy, bone-melting gaze.
Then he turned his face slightly and glared at Jun. A low, yet fluid string of Japanese left his lips. The words carved through the room, slicing the thick silence open.
I couldn’t understand a thing he said but every syllable pulsed with warning.
Oh shit. Is Jun in trouble? Am I about to get kicked out of here?
Zo got to my side.
I leaned his way and whispered. “What is he saying?”
Zo tilted his head toward me and kept his voice hushed. “Mr. Sato said ‘why didn’t you tell me she was so beautiful?’”
My eyes widened.
Zo continued. “Jun told him he didn’t think it mattered. Mr. Sato responded with, ‘of course it matters. Any man with a dick and a pair of eyes will be all over her.’”
My skin prickled.
Men didn’t typically describe me as beautiful, upon meeting me.
Wacky.
Nosy.
Talented.
Bitchy, if you asked the wrong ex.
But no one had ever called me beautiful.
I didn’t know what to do with this information.
“And then Jun said—” Zo froze mid-translation, probably realizing the entire room had turned toward him.
Most notably, Mr. Sato, who now pushed off the desk and prowled our way.
Oh no.
The man didn’t walk. He stalked, moving like a panther that didn’t need to roar because the world already feared his silence.
Oh shit. Oh shit.
Mr. Sato stopped right in front of Zo. The top of his slick black shoes barely brushed the tips of Zo’s designer oxfords.
He stood just two inches shorter than Zo’s six-foot-four frame, but that didn’t tip the scales in Zo’s favor—not even close.