Page 91 of The Dragon 1

I would kneel in worship and in ruin.

Because the moment she rose, the night itself responded. The wind shifted. The blossoms trembled. Even the moon tilted forward, greedy to see her better.

She didn't know what she'd done—simply standing, brushing her hands along the silk of her dress—but my cock twitched with want so sharp it bordered on pain.

I clenched my jaw. Tried to think of numbers, war strategies, men I’d buried.

Nothing worked.

All I could think of was how easily she could unmake me.

And the worst part?

I wanted it.

There was something dangerous about a woman who didn’t even realize the power she held. Nyomi wasn’t playing coy. She wasn’t baiting me. She was just. . . existing.

And her existence?

It destroyed me.

Because. . .I wouldbleedto be the thing she wore.

And now. . .I took the seat across from her. The table between us was small and intimate. The waitress returned and poured me sake.

The scent hit me first— dry and elegant, but Nyomi smelled even better.

Black amber and ripe plum.

It saturated the air between us.

She didn’t even know she was haunting me.

I leaned forward. “Can I order for you?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

I turned to the waitress and spoke in Japanese.“Bring us everything on the tasting menu. The best dishes. All reserved ingredients. Make sure it’s an exceptional presentation. If the chef, the rest of the staff, and you help me impress this beautiful woman tonight, all of your bank accounts will reflect it by morning.”

The waitress’s eyes widened with excitement. She bowed and hurried off.

“She looked really happy just now,” Nyomi tilted her head. “What did you say to her?”

“I simply ordered for us.”

She smiled. “Hmmm.”

The sound of theshamisenechoed through the air—a dance of three strings, plucked with aching precision. The man playing it sat on the stage, lost in the music, his fingers a blur of disciplined devotion.

Nyomi turned her head toward the sound and sighed softly. “I love this music so much. I’ve never heard it before.”

I studied her profile. Her jawline. Her full lips. The curve of her neck.

It was all poetry.

She put her view back on me. “What is this instrument called?”

“It’s ashamisen. An old instrument. What you’re hearing is skin, wood, and memory.”