Page 14 of The Dragon 1 (Tokyo Empire #1)

“Would you stop it? And you don’t have a balcony. You have a little place outside with barely enough room to put a plant and maybe a coke while you lean your head outside to catch some sun.” I carried my flowery vagina to his balcony which was barely three feet wide and long.

According to Zo, his tiny balcony was one of the biggest ones on this side of the district.

Insanity.

“You’re just so jealous that I live here,” he laughed.

“I actually am, even though the living space sucks in this city. I thought New York was horrible until I came here.”

Zo turned on all the lights. “Back to the gifts. You’ll have to give Kenji something of equal value.”

“So, a book about tigers that knee men and a plant that looks like a penis.”

“You better not! You’re now in his good grace, which means no one will die.” Zo clapped. “We can look in my closet for something. I have a case of good whiskey that I smuggled over. I’ll give you a bottle and maybe. . .we can give him a nice tie. I already saw that he has exquisite taste.”

I opened the glass door and set my plant on the ground.

Moonlight gleamed on the petals.

A chilly breeze wisped by but the flower seemed fine.

Cars passed below and even a few people traveled the sidewalks.

Then suddenly this creeping sensation came over my body as if someone had their gaze pinned on me. It crawled up the back of my neck, making the hairs stand straight.

My body responded before my mind could. Shoulders tensed. Breath hitched. My hand hovered protectively near my thigh.

Is someone out there looking at me?

I leaned over the edge of the balcony and scanned the street below. The wind ghosted across my legs like a warning, and still, my gaze combed the shadows.

Nothing crazy.

Just another car rolling by.

A man lighting a cigarette as he walked his dog.

No one looking up or standing still.

Still, the unease lingered.

Very odd.

I stepped back, slid the balcony door shut, and locked it.

Zo watched me head back, “everything okay? You look freaked out.”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Zo tilted his head. “What else did he want? The person said something about signing something.”

“It was a message talking about a date at eight tomorrow.”

“Wow. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Me either.”

“What did you say?”

“Yes. Of course. I want to make sure we’re cool so you don’t have to be terrified here.”

“Thank you very much. I love being able to live without fear.”

“Yeah, I figured that.”

“I’m dressing you for this date.”

“Is that a question or a statement?”

“Statement. I can’t trust you to dress yourself for something so important. Besides, I know what men like to see.”

I’d met Zo at eighteen years old while sitting in the green room of the Good Morning America show.

A trashcan sat in front of me.

I’d vomited in it twice.

The whole time, Zo sat across from me, holding a napkin to his nose and widening his eyes in fear. By the time I threw up for the last time, he gave up and asked me what the hell my problem was.

I’d confessed that I was nervous.

He looked me up and down and admitted that I should be worried to go out in front of cameras in the outfit that I’d chosen.

To say my anxiety left after his announcement was a huge lie.

However, he rescued me—rushing off to the show’s dressing rooms, convincing some stylist to loan him some pieces and dressing me in time to make my first national interview ever.

Of course, I was there to promote my book and knew that they all would want to know about my dad.

Zo had been there to do a segment on affordable fashions for spring.

We both did a good job.

I’d stayed after my questions to see how he did and thank him.

That night, we had dinner.

The next day, he took me shopping, transforming my new adult closet into a fashionista’s wet dream.

What would I ever do without him?

Zo’s words brought me back to reality and his small apartment. “Nyomi, I know what you need to wear so don’t fight me on this.”

“Okay. I’m not disagreeing. I’m just saying. I’ve been doing well since your fashion lessons in these past years.”

He pointed to my scratched-up army boots. “Is that what you call an example of what I’ve taught you?”

“What, my boots? They’re comfortable and hip.”

“You’re stuck in the 90s and you were barely alive long enough to be so into the style. I don’t get it.”

“Hey, I was a kid then—”

“I’m dressing you.”

“In a nice pants suit, I hope. Maybe with some stripes or something.” He fake growled.

Really?

“Fine. You can dress me. I didn’t bring any date wear anyway,” I leaned my weight to my other foot. “I’m more surprised you’re not warning me against dating the gangster.”

“Don’t call him that. The Yakuza doesn’t exist.”

“You’ve been screaming he’s the Dragon all night—”

“That doesn’t mean you should say it. Knowing you, you’ll let that slip out of your mouth in front of him or even worse, try and interview him. Just go on the date and nicely tell him you’re not interested.”

“I will, while I get him to let me write about his soapland and hand back my recorder.”

“It’s always the book with you, isn’t it?”

“I’m addicted to the story. Writing is like cocaine, baby. Every page I finish is a snorted line.”

“Thank goodness your writing is better than your metaphors.”

“Ha!”

Zo then began to rattle on about color palettes and hem lengths, I nodded, but my thoughts drifted—slipping right to him.

Kenji Sato.

The fucking Dragon.

The man I kneed in the balls and who, instead of retaliating with bullets, sent me a sex flower, a fantasy novel, and a date request.

What kind of gangster does that?

My palms still remembered the heat of his chest. My knee, the shocking hardness of his body beneath that tailored suit.

And. . .what kind of man makes my palms sweat just thinking about being alone with him again?

I wasn’t sure if I was walking into a dinner, an ambush, or something far more dangerous.

But the thing that scared me most?

I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to resist him… even if it ruined me.

Fuck. What is going to happen on this date?

After a while, Zo finally stopped talking.

It took him twenty straight minutes of listing every possible color I should not wear on a first date for his brain to burn out. After that, he grabbed a bottle of coconut water, disappeared into the bedroom, and slid the door closed behind him.

Thank God.

Silence wrapped around me.

The Dragon is not going to kill me. . .he’s just going to. . .charm my panties off apparently.

The apartment dimmed.

The city outside hummed its late-night lullaby—faint car engines, heels clacking against pavement, the gentle whir of wind rushing between glass buildings.

I lay on the futon, stretched out with a thick white blanket pulled over my body and the fantasy book pressed against my stomach.

When the Dragon Swallowed the Moon.

I looked at it.

Why did you give me this Kenji, especially after I kneed you?

I picked up the book and shifted to my side. The cover caught the moonlight again—deep obsidian and glimmers of molten gold flickering. The silver lettering shimmered too.

I must say this is quite a cover. So enchanting. . .Almost as enchanting as him.

I shouldn’t have been thinking about Kenji.

But there he was.

In my head.

Again.

Every detail—the smooth, controlled voice, the heat of his skin against mine, the way his eyes narrowed like they were memorizing my every breath—kept playing on repeat.

Over and over.

God, what is wrong with me?

The man groped my face and pinned me against a wall like he owned me. And yet here I was, thinking about the gifts, the scent of that flower, the way his note in the book made my chest ache a little.

To the one who made me lose my breath.

—K

I should’ve tossed the book across the room. Or buried it in Zo’s overstuffed closet. Or, hell, left it outside with the clitoria to soak in some shame.

But I didn’t do any of that.

I held it tighter.

There was something magnetic about this whole thing. About him. About how the line between danger and desire kept shifting underneath me like cracked glass.

And now. . .this story.

Kenji had called it rare and special.

Again, the same question hit me.

Why would he risk sending me something personal—something treasured—when he could’ve just sent flowers?

Because this was. . .a message.

And if I wanted to have any hope of walking into that date tomorrow with my head on straight and my emotions untangled, I needed to know what that message really meant.

Alright. Time to put my detective hat on.

I adjusted the blanket, curled onto my other side, and took a deep breath. My fingers slipped between the first few pages, the scent of incense and parchment rising into the air.

Then, I opened the book.

And began to read.