Page 106 of The Dragon 1

The woman took several steps away from the hook.

The man remained right there.

With a steady hand, he reached up and began tying one end of the rope to the hook and knotted it several times.

Curiosity fluttered in my chest.

I sat forward slightly in my chair and checked the woman’s reaction.

She didn’t look afraid.

She looked willing and absolutely ready for whatever was going to happen.

The rope swayed gently as the man stepped back and checked the tension.

There was no rush in his movements.

No showmanship.

Just quiet ritual.

And yet, every nerve in my body was on edge.

Suddenly, a new sound stirred behind the stage, a new man stepped into the space and climbed onto the stage.

Who’s this?

He was small but composed, draped in a deep blood-red robe. He carried a cello as if it were a sacred object.

Without a word, he took his seat nestled the cello between his knees and closed his eyes.

The bow met the strings.

The first note spilled into the night air.

Low, dark, and blooming.

Heat rising from the earth.

And as the bow slid across the strings, the woman on stage stirred.

Her hands rose.

She untied the black silk robe at her waist. It fell along her body and pooled around her feet.

She stood there in the center of the stage; naked and breathtaking.

I widened my eyes.

What sort of performance is this going to be?

Her body was art. Her hips curved with intent. Her breasts were full. What struck me most was the ink that adorned her skin.

Her tattoos were a vertical line of moon phases that ran from the hollow of her throat, between her breasts, across her navel, and down into the soft dip of her pelvis.

New moon to full moon.

Waning to waxed.