Page 8 of The Dragon 1

Their eyes were flat, unreadable. Their faces, carved from stone.

A few bore jagged scars—one across a cheekbone, another along the side of his forehead, a third curling down his throat like it had been chewed by fire.

Though they all wore the same shade of midnight-black suits, their hairstyles varied —black to bright purple, bald to mohawk.

One man had long blond hair pulled into a low knot, his features so delicate and feminine they bordered on ethereal—like a doll sculpted for display, not war.

Another had short black hair with a bold red streak slashing down the right side—like someone had dipped a brush in blood and then painted it on. That one leaned against the wall with casual arrogance; His eyes razor-sharp, scanning everything.

They were like predators dressed for a funeral. The kind of men who didn’t raise their voices because they never needed to.

And they didn’t watch me.

Not directly.

Though I felt them monitoring me the way one could feel a sharp blade resting against their skin, patient and waiting for a reason to cut.

That being said, it wasn’tthemwho made my skin tighten…

It washim.

In the center of the room, a man that must have been in his late thirties, leaned back against a wide black desk, the overhead light slanting across the sharp line of his jaw. His designer suit midnight black tailored to perfection worn without a tie or apology.

The open collar exposed the base of his throat, the edge of ink—a single curve of black, coiling. Not enough to see the tattoo, but enough to know it was there.

And the man didn’t look up.

Not at first.

He just stood there like he owned the air, the floor, and the rhythm of my breathing.

As if he was waiting to be worshipped or feared, he didn’t care which.

His features were elegant in that cruel, untouchable way. Eyes hooded and unreadable. Lips full and unsmiling. Hair thick andswept back like he’d run a hand through it in irritation and left it there.

Disheveled perfection.

But it wasn’t just the way he looked.

It was the weight of him.

The energy.

The silence that bent around his muscular body.

He looked like death incarnate.

Not cold death.

Warm, velvet death.

The kind that whispered against your throat and asked if you wanted to be ruined slowly.

And Mr. Velvet Death wasn’t alone.

A gorgeous woman stood beside him, draped in a tight silver dress, her hand trailing lazily down the length of his arm like she was trying to memorize him by touch.

She was stunning—glass-smooth skin, deep red lips, and long black hair twisted into an intricate updo.