Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 154368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 772(@200wpm)___ 617(@250wpm)___ 515(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 772(@200wpm)___ 617(@250wpm)___ 515(@300wpm)
My wine glass was empty. I didn't remember drinking while reading, but I must have.
The sun was long gone. The kitchen glowed under warm overhead lights, and the windows had turned into dark mirrors reflecting the space back at itself.
Kaoru answered his phone on the third ring. “Yes. I’m here.”
I checked my left.
Steam rose from multiple pots now, curling thick toward the ceiling. Chef Bunzō stood over a wide plate, arranging vegetables with the focus of a man defusing a bomb. His fingers placed each piece with surgical accuracy.
Green, white, yellow, red, black. The rule of five.
One of his assistants ladled miso into small bowls, and another lifted a tray of steamed tofu glistening with a dark glaze.
The whole kitchen smelled different than when I'd opened the book.
Richer.
Layered.
Earthy root vegetables filled the space with herbal fragrances while the clean scent of steamed rice had settled over everything like a blanket.
Kaoru nodded. “Yeah. I’m with the Heart.”
I blinked and looked at him.
“Yeah.” Kaoru sighed. “She told us.”
I felt someone watching and checked that direction.
Yoichi still leaned against the wall with his arms folded, but the amber in his eyes had gone dark with the fading light. “Do you want more wine, Nyomi?”
“Well. . .” I considered that and decided I was already decently tipsy enough. “No. I’ll have some later.”
“Sounds good.” Yoichi winked.
Kaoru bobbed his head. "Alright. Got it. Yes, sir. I'll let her know."
I quirked my brows.
He hung up. "That was the Roar. They're close. Maybe ten minutes out."
My chest loosened. My shoulders relaxed.
Finally.
I closed the book and my whole body softened.
Ten minutes and I'll be in Kenji’s arms.
Then Hiroko's face moved through my mind. Quick and uninvited. The way her eyes had sparkled when she talked. The way she'd leaned in close like every piece of advice was a secret she was trusting me to keep.
My throat tightened.
I shoved my sadness away.
I'll grieve later. Right now, I need to be ready for them.
I smoothed my hand across the cover, stood, and looked at Chef Bunzō and then at Yoichi. "Let's set everything up at the big dining table."
They nodded, and we got to work.
The dining room was massive. A long wooden table stretched through the center of it, dark-stained and polished enough to catch the overhead light. We brought out dishes, plates, cups, sake, beer, and wine. The ceramic clinked as we set each place.
Chef Bunzō's assistants helped arrange the food while Yoichi and Kaoru positioned chairs.
Satoshi and Zo still hadn't come back which told me that they were definitely fucking.
And what about Rin?
I looked at Kaoru as he set a chair down. "Could you check to make sure Deja made it back to their villa?"
Kaoru smiled—a wicked smile that made me nervous. "I've already checked. Everything is fine."
I frowned. “That isn't an exact answer about what is going on.”
“She’s safe.”
“Safe from Rin?”
Kaoru and Yoichi exchanged glances, and then they remained silent.
Wow. The Fangs are definitely loyal to each other.
I placed my hands on my hips. "Rin better not be trying to have sex with Deja and put a silk bag on her head. I'm going to go off on him if he does."
Yoichi chose that moment to go in the kitchen.
Kaoru raised his hands, surrendering. "Hey, I have nothing to do with any of this."
"I'm just saying."
Kaoru grinned wider. "In this situation, everyone's consenting adults."
“Deja won’t be consenting to a bag over her head. She might knock Rin out for even suggesting it.”
Kaoru chuckled. “Rin can take a hit or two.”
“Whatever.” I straightened the last glass and stood there for a second. The table looked good. Full, ready, and waiting for people I loved to fill it.
Then, the door opened.
"Tora."
Every nerve in my body went still.
I turned.
Kenji.
Chapter forty-seven
Homecoming
Nyomi
Kenji filled the doorway the same way a gun sat in its holster—contained, still, and dangerous even at rest. His massive shoulders were squared, yet his weight leaned left. That was the only crack in a posture that belonged to samurai bloodlines and centuries of men who refused to kneel.
The white bandage on his forehead couldn't hide the bloom of blood beneath, a crimson confession of what he'd endured. Purple bruises marked his jaw and cheekbone.
Baby. . .
His grey shirt stretched across his chest, still damp from whatever rushed shower he'd taken. The fabric clung to the hard planes of his body and left nothing to my imagination. The edges of his tattoos crept past his collar and along his forearms— dark ink against golden skin.
His gaze seared me across the room, and the air between us collapsed.
My heart slammed in my chest.
I crossed the dining room before my brain caught up to my legs.
Once near, I hit his chest hard enough to hear the breath leave him, and his arms locked around me—one across my back, the other cradling the base of my head. He crushed me against the solid heat of him so tight my ribs ached.