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)
Sako.
My stomach tightened. He was the house manager, the one orchestrating the cleaning staff with quiet efficiency. He had been in this room and supervised people who touched these sheets, fluffed the pillows, arranged the flowers on the nightstand. He walked these halls with keys and access to everything. He knew our routines.
Our footsteps.
Our vulnerabilities.
I wrapped my arms around myself and stared at the bed again, but now a cold shudder rippled down my spine. The idea that someone entrusted with our living space had been a spy made the walls feel too thin, the shadows too deep.
Kenji’s world is no fucking joke.
I thought of him again, and a sharp ache squeezed my chest.
Kenji trusted Sako. Really trusted him. Maybe not with all secrets, but with the rhythm of his homes.
Surely, Kenji carried this dangerous underworld on his shoulders and didn’t often let anyone lighten that load. But Sako had been one of the few allowed to step close—to manage the softness around the steel.
My throat tightened.
Kenji was going to take this hard. So much harder than he would probably ever admit.
All I could think about was Kenji’s face when he read my text. The quiet, inward collapse that must have happened in his chest.
He needed someone with him tonight.
Not just Reo.
Not the Fangs or Claws.
But me.
Get back here, Kenji.
I pushed off the door and let my gaze drift toward the bathroom. I needed steam. Heat. Something to pull me out of my own head. I needed a reset, even if it was temporary, even if it lasted only until Kenji walked back through that door.
My scalp ached suddenly, like my braids remembered the night too.
I sighed.
I was still supposed to get my hair done tomorrow—fresh parts, clean lines, new extensions. The fact that normal life things still existed—hair appointments, routine maintenance, schedules—felt absurd.
But maybe I needed that.
Something ordinary.
Something grounded.
Something mine.
I headed for the bathroom and undressed.
The moment I stepped inside and reached for the shower handle, the familiarity of it—chrome, pressure, heat—calmed me a fraction. I turned the water on and waited until steam curled upward in thick white ribbons.
The water was scalding when I stepped under it, but I didn't adjust the temperature. I wanted to feel something other than the ghost of serpents slithering along my body.
Steam filled the space as I scrubbed my skin until my muscles finally began to unclench.
By the time I stepped out and wrapped myself in a towel, I felt almost normal again.
Almost.
Getting dressed in silk pajamas furthered the normalcy.
Then, a knock came at the bedroom door.
I froze.
Who is that?
I headed to the door and opened it. Surprise hit me. It wasn't Hiro or Kenji standing there.
It was four of Kenji’s guards—all tall, stone-faced men I vaguely recognized from the security team.
One of them stepped forward and his expression revealed nothing. "Apologies for the intrusion, I'm here to retrieve Totoro for Kenji-sama."
The flame torch.
My stomach dropped.
I stepped aside, and the guards moved past me, lowered by the bed, and then pulled a massive equipment bag from under it.
Wow.
Without hesitation, one unzipped the bag and two other men pulled out the device.
Totoro. Such an innocent name for something so brutal.
The flame torch's polished metal caught the light with a blaze even though unlit. I bet when it was active, its controlled fire created a sphere of warm illumination that pushed back any darkness.
The guards gave me a curt nod, lifted the heavy thing, and then disappeared back through the door, closing it softly behind him.
My pulse hit a frantic staccato.
Kenji was going to burn someone tonight.
Several someones.
Alive.
And my mind—traitorous, vivid—began to paint the scene.
I heard the first scream before I even realized I had imagined it. A raw, animal sound echoing against concrete walls.
A body thrashing, tied to a metal chair.
The hiss of Totoro’s ignition, a whoosh of hungry air collapsing in on itself before the flame bloomed bright and furious.
The smell—God, the smell—seared into my imagination: hair singeing, skin blistering, layers of tissue melting into grotesque shadow-puppets dancing on the wall behind the victim.
I squeezed my eyes shut, but the images didn’t stop.
They only sharpened.
Kenji, standing over all traitors, face carved from shadow and bone. Calm. Controlled. Beautiful in that terrifying way of his—beautiful like a storm at its peak, when the wind has decided to tear roofs from houses and doesn’t care about any harm.
The traitors’ screaming turning hoarse, then soft, then silent.
Smoke curled upward in elegant gray ribbons, the same way steam curled in my shower minutes ago.
My stomach twisted at the grotesque mirror of it—cleansing versus destruction.
I forced myself to breathe through my nose.
But the choking phantom scent lingered: charred flesh, burnt hair, fear sweating out of pores in thick beads.
I opened my eyes.
The room was serene again. Silver moonlight, silk sheets, the soft hum of the air vent.
He’s really going to burn people alive. . .