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)
Next, my fingers dug into the gold paper.
Once I removed it, I spotted a flat, square lacquered box made of dark polished wood—wenge maybe, or ebony.
Expensive.
Lush.
Like me, Nyomi didn’t do cheap.
What could be inside?
Reo watched too, just as curious.
The moment I opened the lid, my breath hitched.
There, folded with intimate grace, was a silk handkerchief.
And not just any silk.
This was Habotai, the kind that shimmered like moonlight on moving water. Turquoise—vibrant and royal—the color of oceans that had never known storms.
Embroidered into the center in painstaking detail was a tiger.
Not a cartoon image.
Not some abstract wash of stripes.
This was a real tiger watching a breathtaking and huge dragon—shoulders low, body crouched, eyes alight with intelligence.
Not in fear.
Not even in challenge.
Just awareness.
Like the tiger had found something equal.
Or holy.
The threadwork was exquisite.
Every whisker.
Every stripe.
Every scale on the dragon.
Gold and black shimmered against the turquoise background.
Reo spoke. “That is an incredible piece of art.”
My fingers brushed the silk. It felt like her skin.
Cool.
Smooth.
Sensual in a way that made my lungs tighten.
“Beautiful,” I turned it over with trembling hands.
There, stitched in the bottom corner in the tiniest, cleanest script—was the message:
“For when you must hide your fire but still burn.” — N.
The words swallowed me whole.
My throat closed up.
“For when you must hide your fire but still burn.”
I stared at the embroidery.
A silk handkerchief but it might as well have been armor.
I closed my eyes and let the weight of it settle into my palm. Her fire. My fire. The kind of burn I couldn’t show now, not yet. The kind I had to sheath behind diplomacy, behind strategy.
But I was burning.
God, I was burning.
A war had begun the moment that bullet cracked Nura’s skull.
A father had declared war against sons.
And the battlefield would be Tokyo, painted in blood and violence.
Had Reo not been in the car, I might’ve pressed the silk to my face and disappeared into it. Just for a moment. Just long enough to remember the scent of peace.
Instead, I brought it slowly to my nose and breathed it in.
Her scent—black amber and ripe plum—curled around my senses. Rich. Intoxicating. Feminine in a way that made my chest ache. The silk had absorbed it. As if even the threads had longed to hold her.
I swallowed against the tightness building in my throat.
The handkerchief trembled slightly in my grip.
I had to wear a mask of stillness, of logic, of leadership.
But beneath it?
I was setting Tokyo on fire.
“For when you must hide your fire but still burn.”
Reo was silent across from me, letting me breathe her scent in like a madman.
Sighing, I pressed the silk flat against my chest, right over my heart.
And I didn’t let go.
Not for a long time.
Not even as the car turned, and Tokyo’s bright lights faded into shadows. Then, with a breath that felt like surrender and resurrection wrapped in one, I folded the handkerchief carefully and I slipped it into the inner pocket of my jacket.
Right next to my heart.
Where her fire would stay.
Where her scent could remind me of what I was fighting for.
Not revenge.
Not power.
But love.
Because I believed what Reo said. . .my father’s lesson wasn’t just about Nura, he was warning me to stay away from Nyomi, just because she wasn’t Japanese. He was saying that bullet would hit her skull next if I didn’t put on his leash and bow to him.
But that would never fucking happen.
I would do anything to keep all violence away from my tiger and in that same breath, I would fight for our new love too. Rip my father's fucking heart out of his body just to have the ability to have her heart all to myself.
She gave me silk. I will give her war.