Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 161615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 539(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 161615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 539(@300wpm)
"Not unless it’s a holiday. Back in Tokyo, my brother is typically never in his mansion. He’s usually in one of his club offices or in a hotel suite somewhere."
He left the rest of the explanation hanging in the air.
But I understood.
If Kenji was in a hotel suite, he was having sex with some woman. Or women. The Scales ate together because Kenji wasn't available to eat with them—wasn't interested in the domestic intimacy of shared meals.
They were close to him.
But not close enough.
I smirked. "Got it."
"Assess the living room first, before the bedrooms. You never know." Hiro stepped back, giving me space.
I lifted my phone and started documenting.
A faint sound echoed down the hallway—soft, almost nothing, like a footstep catching itself before it made noise.
What was that?
I froze, pulse tightening.
Hiro turned his head slightly. “Stay here.”
I nodded.
Hiro moved toward the hallway with that predatory glide that made no sound at all. I held my breath, listening hard, the suite suddenly feeling too large, too quiet, too full of shadows that didn’t belong to us.
A door clicked somewhere deeper inside the suite—the soft, unmistakable sound of metal settling into a frame.
What the fuck?
My heart slammed once, hard.
Hiro disappeared around the corner.
Seconds stretched.
Then another few.
Then another.
The silence grew teeth.
Finally, Hiro reappeared, expression composed but eyes sharper than before. “There’s nothing.”
My voice came out low. “That was odd.”
“Yes.” He scanned the walls again. “The twins made sure the suite was clear before we arrived, but. . .”
I stepped closer. “But what?”
“This mansion has tons of servant passageways. Hidden halls. Secret entrances and exits meant for staff to move through the building unseen. So they don’t bother us.”
A cold thread slid down my spine. “So. . .someone could be in here without us knowing?”
Hiro’s gaze locked on mine. “Don’t worry. I will know if someone decides to sneak in here while we are here too.”
He said it with confidence.
But not certainty.
And that tiny difference made every hair on my arms lift.
He gestured to the room. “Check the space.”
A cold shiver ran up my spine.
I swallowed and looked around.
The shared living room spread before me, and my breath caught.
The walls were painted in deep, layered twilight—bruised purples bleeding into midnight blues, touched with veins of molten gold that caught the moonlight streaming through all of the tall windows. The effect was breathtaking, like standing inside the sky just before dawn breaks or just after dusk swallows the sun.
A large couch in deep forest-green velvet dominated the center. A matching armchair angled toward the windows. The coffee table had curved edges and delicate legs carved from dark wood.
But it was the paintings that stopped me cold.
Wow.
Massive oil paintings, again. . .museum-quality. Each one was easily six feet tall and hung in ornate frames carved from dark wood and edged in hammered gold. They lined the walls like windows into another world.
With my phone raised, I moved closer to the first one.
The painting showed a massive dragon mid-flight against a star-scattered sky. Scales painted in layers of black obsidian and fused with burnished gold. The wings were stretched wide and veined in gold.
The dragon's eyes—molten, burning, alive—stared down at something below with pure hunger.
The brushwork was masterful. I could see individual scales, the texture of those leathery wings, the way smoke curled from the dragon's nostrils.
The background showed a burning city, towers collapsing, armies scattering like ants.
Korin. It has to be.
I moved to the next painting, my pulse picking up.
This one showed a dark brown-skinned woman standing in a burning city square. She wore tattered white linen, her dark brown skin glowed against the flames. Her long black hair whipped in wind that shouldn't exist. But it was her hands that drew my eye—raised, palms forward, shooting twin arcs of silvery-blue ice toward the distant dragon circling above.
Sol.
The artist had captured the exact moment the ice left her hands, frozen in time—I could see the crystalline structure, the way frost bloomed in the air, the power radiating from her fingertips.
And the dragon—that same golden-black beast—wasn't attacking.
He was watching her.
Hovering.
His massive form backlit by flames, but his eyes locked on her with that same hunger and even wonder.
My throat tightened.
I moved to the third painting, larger than the others.
This one showed the interior of a cave—no, a hoard. Mountains of treasure rose in glittering dunes. Gold coins spilled like rivers. Jeweled crowns lay scattered among ruby-studded goblets and diamond-encrusted chalices. Ancient weapons with ornate hilts jutted from piles of pearls.
And in the center, the same massive dragon lay coiled protectively around the sleeping Black woman.
She rested against his scales, one hand tucked under her cheek, the other on his massive foreleg. The dragon's wing curved over her like a living blanket, sheltering her from the world.
His eyes were closed, but even in sleep, he looked possessive.
Protective.
Oh my God.