Page 104 of The Dragon 1

The rice gave just enough resistance.

The seaweed snapped softly at the finish.

I didn’t speak.

I didn’t need to.

Holy fuck. I may ditch Kenji and run off with the chef.

I chuckled at the thought.

The third course came covered in golden lacquered ceramic, which the chef removed with a gentle nod. Inside was a rich arrangement of deep pink duck breast slices, fanned across a plate streaked with amber.

“This is matcha-smoked duck, paired with roastedsatsumaimo—a Japanese sweet potato—and finished withkuroshioblack sea salt and fresh truffle shavings,” he opened a small silver tin and used a blade to curl thin slices of truffle right at the table, the earthy scent curling into the night.

Now this is the fucking life.

The chef dropped way more slices of truffle onto the duck than I was ever accustomed to with my meager budget, “the bitterness of the green tea smoke against the sweetness of the potato is meant to reflect the balance of strength and softness. Masculine and feminine in harmony.”

Seconds later, I grabbed a truffle-covered slice of duck and took a bite. It was just that harmonious balance he talked about—smoky, sweet, a little bitter, salty. Somehow rich and clean all at once.

“We will return with the next courses,” the chef and server bowed.

Next courses? Damn, I’m already about to be full with these.

I swallowed down the duck and then looked at Kenji. “You’re spoiling me.”

“You should be spoiled.”

“Why?”

He tilted his head slightly, studying me like he was about to offer a truth I hadn’t earned—but one he was willing to give anyway. “Because. . .a woman like you should never lift a finger when you were born to be adorned, fed, protected, and worshipped.”

My breath caught.

He kept going, “you walked into my office and changed the air. You challenge me. You awaken parts of me that no one else dares touch. So yes—I'm going to spoil you, Nyomi. Because a king knows the worth of a queen and only a fool would let a goddess starve.”

The air around us thickened.

I felt those damned words—every cell in my body stood at attention. My skin flushed. My throat tightened. My pulse raced in places no one could see.

Before I could reply, movement stirred at the edge of the garden.

A Japanese woman stepped forward.

No.

Glided.

Who is this? There’s no way she’s a waitress.

She wore a long black silk robe that shimmered as she moved. Its hem trailed like ink along the stone. Her hair was pinned up in an intricate updo, the kind one saw in woodblock paintings. Her skin was luminous in the moonlight, and her face was carved perfection—lips painted a muted rose, expression unreadable.

She was beautiful. Striking in that way that felt intentional, composed, and crafted.

At her side was a very handsome Japanese man in black clothes—tall and solid. His expression was blank. He carried something in his arms—something thick and coiled. It took me a moment to realize what it was.

Red rope. Why?