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)
The detail was staggering. I could see individual coins in the treasure, each one painted with care. The texture of scales—how they overlapped, how light caught the ridges. The soft rise and fall of the woman's chest. The way her dark skin glowed warm against the gold surrounding her.
It should have looked monstrous—a beast holding a woman captive.
Instead, it looked. . .breathtakingly sacred.
I swallowed hard and moved to the final painting, knowing that I was probably going to get spoiled since I hadn’t read the rest of the book yet.
Oh my.
This one showed a massive bed draped in furs and silk the color of cream. And on that bed, three figures were intertwined in an intimate embrace.
The same woman—Sol—from the other paintings lay at the center, naked, her dark skin luminous against white sheets. Her black hair spilled across pillows like ink.
On one side, a man with long black hair and golden eyes held her, his face buried in her neck, one arm possessively wrapped around her waist. His body curved into hers with desperate tenderness.
On the other side, another man—identical to the first, mirror-perfect except for the way he looked at her. This one seemed way more intense. He had his hand tangled in her hair, lips pressed against her temple. His eyes were open, golden and burning, watching her like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing.
Twin dragons.
Both impossibly beautiful.
Both golden-eyed, black-haired, and muscular.
Both wrapped around her like she was the axis their world turned on.
The painting was tasteful but unmistakably sensual. The way their bodies curved together. The intimacy in every touch. The absolute devotion in their golden gazes as they held her between them.
This wasn't just sex.
This was worship.
Damn. I need to get back to the book. I’m ready for this scene.
I stepped back and snapped pictures. Then, a thought came to me.
My brain scrambled to connect the pieces.
The dragon. The woman with ice powers. The hoard. The twins. The gold and black color scheme repeated in every painting.
And then the twilight walls. The gold veining. The carefully chosen color palette for all of the furniture.
My eyes swept the room again, seeing details I'd missed before.
The coffee table held an art book, but beneath it were other books.
I crouched down and snapped more pictures.
Multiple copies of the same book. Different editions. Some in Japanese, some in English, one that looked ancient and leather-bound.
When the Dragon Swallowed the Moon.
I reached out and slid one of the copies from the stack, my fingers brushing the worn spine. Touching it felt invasive in a way looking didn’t—as if I’d crossed a boundary they never expected anyone to cross. The book was warm, like someone had held it recently.
I straightened slowly. “Who decorated this room?”
“They did. Granted, this looks exactly like their living room in Tokyo.”
The side table nearby held hand-painted bookmarks depicting three dragons. There were also small figurines of dragons carved from obsidian and gold and one in ivory.
Next to those were candle holders shaped like dragon claws.
Even the plants on the windowsill—I looked closer—night-blooming jasmine and moonflowers. Their white petals glowed in the dim light.
Every single detail drives back to the story.
I sighed. "This is from When the Dragon Swallowed the Moon."
"It is."
“Who painted them?”
“Mami.”
“Damn. She’s super talented.”
“She is.”
“So the Scales love the book too.”
"No."
I blinked. “No?”
"Yuki hates fantasy. Says it's childish escapism. She only reads medical journals and historical biographies."
I blinked again.
"Mami only reads art books and poetry. She thinks genre fiction is beneath her. She's told me multiple times that dragons are 'aesthetically interesting but narratively juvenile.'"
"And Hina?"
"She thinks the book is ridiculous." His jaw tightened. "She once told me she couldn't understand why anyone would want to read about monsters pretending to be romantic. She said it glorifies captivity. She would rather read about architecture."
"So this room is themed in a book that they don’t even like." I gestured at the paintings, the color scheme, the carefully curated details. "Did they do it for Kenji?"
“They try to like what he likes.”
“Yikes.” I lowered my camera.
He moved closer to one of the paintings—the one with Sol sleeping in the dragon's hoard. "When we were children, they memorized passages and would repeat them in front of Kenji, just to make him smile.”
“Did it make him smile?”
“Always. In fact, he would say, ‘Again, do it again.’ And they would do it with not one complaint.”
My throat tightened as I tried to imagine three little girls acting out a story they didn't even like, just to see him happy.
I looked at the paintings again—each one a scene from a book none of these women chose to love. This wasn't their home. This was a stage. A performance space designed to prove their devotion to something they didn't even believe in.
I thought of the bookmarks. The figurines. The candle holder shaped like claws. Every detail chosen not because it brought them joy, but because it might bring him joy if he ever came in and noticed.