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)
In fact, it did the opposite.
Mr. Sato didn’t need height. He didn’t need size, volume, nor theatrics. He had presence—pure, distilled dominance that seeped into the air.
Everything about him demanded attention. The way his shoulders stayed perfectly aligned, the unhurried violence in his movements, the command in his stillness.
And then there were his eyes.
Solid.
Centered.
Unshakable.
Zo fidgeted under his gaze while Mr. Sato didn’t even blink.
Then, he spoke in English—smooth, clear, and laced in a velvet-soft Japanese accent. “If I wanted her to know what I was saying, I would’ve said it in English.”
Zo backed up and bowed immediately. “I’m sorry.”
Sato’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
“I’m. . .Zo,” another bow. “It’s not short for anything. Not spelled with an ‘e’ either. My mother loves to be different. It means life, you know. Have you ever read J.D. Salinger’s novel Franny and Zooey? My mother—”
I nudged his side.
His face flushed. “Just Zo. Sorry.”
Mr. Sato’s frown deepened. “Why are you here with her?”
Why the hell do you care?
I wanted to ask but kept my mouth closed.
Zo answered. “I’m helping her around the city. Escort, translator, moral support. . .we used to date.”
I blinked.
“Now we’re just friends,” Zo rushed on. “The dating part was terrible. I’m not a one-woman man. She’s not really—”
I cleared my throat.
“Thank you, Zo-without-the-e.” Mr. Sato turned to me and then stepped into my space.
Only a few inches separated us.
Every nerve in my skin went on high alert. My lungs tightened, unsure whether to inhale or hold still.
But I did.
Breathed him in.
God, he smells good. . .
Smoked sandalwood and candied ginger.
Fiery and warm but sweet.
Wood left to smolder.
Sugar just starting to burn.
He consumed me with a single, profound inhale—slow and utterly devastating.
His eyes drifted shut as he leaned in—not quite touching yet the warmth of his breath slipped along my cheek.
Ummm. . .
And for one dizzying second, I swore a dragon stood in front of me. A real one. Massive and ancient, with flared nostrils dragging in the scent of me and testing the air before baring its fangs.
I couldn’t move.
Didn’t dare breathe too deep.
I felt preyed upon in a way that didn’t make me want to run.
It made me want to burn.
Just when I thought he was going to open his eyes and step back, he fucking loudly inhaled again, even deeper.
It was a growl half-buried in his chest.
And I felt that sound.
Between my thighs.
In the base of my spine.
In the racing pulse behind my ears.
His lips parted, just barely, like he might speak—but nothing came.
Just heat.
Just want.
Then he opened his eyes and the look in them pinned me to the floor.
Not with violence.
Not even lust.
But with need.
Dark, worshipful, dangerous need.
What the fuck is going on?!
The suited men along the wall stirred, telling me that this wasn’t their boss’s typical behavior. One of them looked at another and raised a brow. Another pair exchanged glances in silence.
Meanwhile, Zo froze beside me, completely still as if he sensed a ripple of something not meant for the living.
Mr. Sato whispered. “How. . .odd. . .”
My stomach flipped. “What?”
He blinked, just once, as if still shaken. “You smell like something I’ve been searching for.”
The words made the hair on my arms rise.
I don’t understand. What has he been searching for?
He watched me. “Do you know what it means to finally find something you’ve hunted in your dreams?”
I wanted to laugh it off and say something snarky or sarcastic. Instead, I froze. Not because I was afraid. But because some part of me—some reckless, aching part—wanted to know what it felt like to be the thing a man like him dreamed of.
My voice came out softer than I intended. “I. . .I’m just here to write.”
“Tell me something, Ms. Palmer.”
“Okay. . .”
“What do people usually do. . .when they finally find what they’ve been chasing?”
“Be happy. . .I guess. . .”
His eyes narrowed in curiosity. “What perfume are you wearing?”
“I’m not wearing any perfume.”
That seemed to shake him more than anything else.
He stepped back half an inch, enough for me to finally breathe, but not enough to release me from whatever hold had just wrapped itself around us both.
“No perfume,” his voice went deeper now. “That’s impossible.”
I shook my head. “I put on lotion this morning. Drugstore brand. Vanilla something, maybe. That’s it.”
His lips parted slightly but no words came.
Finally, he murmured more to himself than anyone else. “Black amber and ripe plum.”
O-kay. . .what the fuck is that?
He extended his hand. “Give me the device.”
Just four words.
But the way he said it—low, edged in command—sent a rush of heat low in my belly.
I looked down at my recorder, then back up at him. “Give it to you?”
He nodded.
I hesitated, not because I didn’t want to hand it over—but because I felt something shift the moment his palm opened toward me.
Like a trap being set.