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)
And somewhere between the golden eye snapper and the sweet shrimp, I realized my jaw had unclenched. My shoulders had dropped. The knot I'd been carrying behind my sternum since the pyre—the one made of ash, anger, and fear—had loosened.
Not gone.
But loosened.
Like Kenji had been untying it all night, one knot at a time, with raw fish and candlelight and the patience of a man who knew that some things couldn't be healed with words.
And then it hit me.
Omakase. . .I leave it up to you.
This wasn't just dinner. This was a lesson mixed in raw fish and candlelight. Kenji hadn't chosen omakase by accident. He never did anything by accident.
Surrendering control to someone who knows what you need better than you do.
His own words. Said casually over sea bream like he was just explaining a tradition.
But he wasn't.
He was telling me how he loved.
Trust the chef. Trust him. . .
My body stilled.
After this morning, I'd been braced for an intense and difficult conversation.
For the weight of all the things we still needed to discuss.
But Kenji had given me this instead.
Candlelight, a 4D Tokyo, raw fish, and the simple pleasure of learning his world, one bite at a time.
And then. . .the sushi slowed. Chef Mariko began cleaning her tools. The koto player's melody shifted into a slower pace.
And then I heard footsteps.
Multiple sets of them.
Who’s coming?
I turned toward the entrance of the war room.
Three figures emerged from the shadows near the doorway. Two men and one woman, dressed in traditional Japanese clothing—the men in dark hakama and fitted tops, the woman in a flowing kimono that shifted colors as she moved.
The men carried swords. Real swords, from the look of them. The blades caught candlelight and threw it back in sharp silver flashes.
The woman carried nothing.
She simply glided forward in graceful movements.
"Kenji?" I looked at him. "What’s this?"
Chapter fifteen
The Performance
Nyomi
Kenji pulled me closer and wrapped his arms around my waist, drawing me to him. “Are you ready?”
“For what?”
"This is called buyō. It’s a traditional dance theater. Sword performance."
My head found the curve of his shoulder, and his hand settled on my hip, warm and possessive through the silk of my phoenix gown.
The three figures had stopped at the edge of the 4D display and waited.
This is going to be interesting.
More figures emerged from the shadows behind them.
Musicians.
Three of them, dressed in dark traditional clothing. One carried a shamisen—I recognized the three-stringed instrument from our first date. Another held a bamboo flute. A third settled behind with an odd-shaped drum. And the koto player I'd noticed earlier adjusted her position and got closer to them.
"When I was young, my father would leave for long trips. Weeks sometimes. Months." Kenji's thumb traced lazy circles on my hip. "My mother never turned on the television. She said screens were empty. Cold. Instead, she would bring performers to the house to entertain me."
I tilted my head to look at him. “That’s so cool.”
"It was. There were tons of them. Musicians. Dancers. Storytellers." A soft smile touched his lips. "I would sit with her in the great room and watch for hours. I felt like the luckiest boy in the world."
My heart squeezed. “Your mother was awesome.”
“She was. . .and although. . .she’s not here. . .” He sighed. "I wanted to share her tradition with you. Similar to your dinner for me at Hiroko’s club, showing me parts of you. I want to give you a piece of my childhood."
I reached up and touched his jaw. "Thank you."
He turned his head and pressed a kiss to my palm. “You’re welcome, Tora.”
Then the music began.
I put my view back on the performance.
The koto sang first—a single, haunting note that hung in the air.
The shamisen joined, plucking a melody that made my chest ache.
The flute breathed soft and mournful.
And beneath it all, the drum began a slow rhythmic beat.
Like a heartbeat.
Like footsteps approaching.
The woman moved first.
She glided along miniature Tokyo, weaving between buildings that rose to her shoulders.
Her fire-colored kimono rippled as she danced past Ginza’s towers, and her movements were playful and teasing.
She spun between skyscrapers, and her fingers trailed along rooftops, as a coy smile spread across her painted lips.
Further behind and almost hidden, the two men stood on opposite ends of the 4D city.
One near Shibuya, on my left. The towering buildings of that district blocked his view of the other side.
One near Shinjuku, on my right. The dense wall of skyscrapers hid everything beyond.
It didn’t seem like they could even see each other. But I knew damn well they could see her. Their gazes were locked on her playful dancing.
The music picked up, and the woman danced toward Shibuya first.
She moved through the miniature city like she owned it—hips swaying, kimono blazing, that flirtatious smile never leaving her face. She ducked beneath elevated train tracks, twirled around the Shibuya 109 building, and suddenly. . .the first man caught her.