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)
I should have been back in Kenji's arms by now.
Instead, I was here.
Choosing this.
And the strangest part?
I felt at home.
My hands moved automatically, reaching for the mixing bowl, checking the oven temperature, organizing ingredients. This was my element. Words and food—they were the two things I'd always understood, the two ways I knew how to connect with people.
I'd interviewed strangers over shared meals. I'd cooked for sources who wouldn't talk until they trusted me and had my specially baked donut in their hands. Food was a language I spoke fluently, and right now, I believed that Hiro needed that language more than he needed anything else.
The knife at my throat was already becoming a story I'd process later.
Right now, I was cooking.
And somehow, that felt exactly right.
Soon the guard connected the radio, and Bob Marley's "Three Little Birds" filled the kitchen.
Hiro's face lit up. "I love this song."
“Hell yeah. How could you not? This is a classic.”
We smiled at each other, and I started swaying slightly to the beat as I gathered the rest of the ingredients.
The guard who'd helped in the pantry stepped forward. "Do you need me to do anything?"
"Absolutely." I gestured to the bananas. "Take off your jacket, roll up your sleeves. You're on banana bread duty."
He looked genuinely excited as he shrugged out of his jacket and rolled his sleeves to his elbows. "I'll do anything you need, Tiger."
I blinked at his using my nickname and then slowly walked him through mashing the bananas, measuring flour, and the importance of not overmixing.
Meanwhile, Hiro was getting into a rhythm with the potatoes. His cuts became more even with each slice.
Some time passed.
Once I was sure the guard had everything on point with the banana bread, I headed back over to Hiro. “How are we doing?”
“Almost done.”
“Good.”
"You know," Hiro said, not looking up from his work, "you're going to have to make Kenji something to eat too."
"Of course. Kenji is going to have the biggest plate, the biggest portions, everything. I know he's asleep, but—"
"Wake him up when you're done." Hiro's voice was serious. "Because if he doesn't get food before everyone else, and it's not the biggest and the best. . ." He paused. "Forget about the war in Tokyo. There will be a war on this island."
I laughed.
"I love my brother, but his temper is insane. I do not want to upset him."
I thought that it was saying a lot being that Hiro had just defended himself in his sleep. That made me not want to ever witness Kenji’s temper.
I winked. "Got it, also. . .I don't want to get in any more trouble either when it comes to handing out food."
He snickered.
“Speaking of that, what do you think will be good for you and the Claws?”
“What do you want to do?”
“I was thinking a nice sit-down dinner.”
“That might be tricky.”
“Why?” I went and turned on the oven. “The Claws would be happy.”
“They would but then the Fangs and Roar would feel slighted because an extravagant dinner is much more than bento boxes.”
“True. So then, I invite them.”
“Which puts the Claws back into our grievances because it isn’t equal.”
“So. . .” I tapped my foot against the floor. “Alright. We still do a sit-down dinner because that would be fun, and all are invited—Roar, Fangs, and Claws—”
“And the Dragon.”
“Always the Dragon.” I held up a finger. “However, check this out.”
Hiro leaned his head to the side.
“We do a special Claws cocktail hour with hors d'oeuvres.”
Hiro’s brows lifted. “A Claws cocktail hour?”
“Yes. Right before dinner. Exclusive. Claws-only. Small bites. Crafted cocktails.”
“I like this.”
“For drinks. . .” I crossed to the drawer beside the stove and pulled out a small saucepan. “We start with something bold, strong, and a little dangerous. Maybe something like a yuzu old-fashioned. It’s citrusy, smoky, smooth—but it bites back at the end. That’ll be your drink.”
Hiro’s eyes sparked. “This is good.”
“Exactly.” I reached for a skillet next, placing it on the burner. The cold metal clicked against the grate. “Then, we do tiny shots in crystal glasses. Maybe a wasabi margarita rimmed with black salt. Or a matcha martini with white chocolate shavings. Something elegant, but with a kick. Everything should hit the throat like a threat, just like claws. Get it?”
He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “I get it.”
To help out the guard, I grabbed a few eggs and cracked them into a bowl. The yolks slipped free with soft, golden plops. “Now food. The Claws can’t just have basic hors d’oeuvres. They need things that look beautiful but could double as weapons.”
“Weapons?”
“Obviously,” I moving to the drawer for a whisk. “Mini tuna tartare cones with gold leaf—sharp enough to pierce an ego. Spicy karaage bites served on skewers that look like daggers. Wagyu sliders with wasabi aioli, each one wrapped in edible rice paper.”