Page 22 of The Dragon 1 (Tokyo Empire #1)

Chapter sixteen

Fangs and Worship

Nyomi

Kenji leaned back a little and then tapped his finger once against the side of his sake cup.

“Your will . . .” he said finally. “It cuts in a way I am not prepared for.”

“I hope that’s not a bad thing.”

He gave me a look that was too complex to name. Somewhere between admiration and warning. Want and calculation.

“It’s not bad,” he said. “It’s just dangerous.”

The word sent a shiver down my spine.

I forced myself to sit taller, even though part of me wanted to slide under the table and vanish into the moss. “You said I was a tiger. They have fangs too.”

He blinked and then chuckled. God, he was beautiful when he was caught off guard. His dangerous facade cracked just enough to let something human slip through.

“You’re very good,” he murmured.

I smiled. “So I’ve been told.”

He lifted his cup again. This time he didn’t drink. He just held it between us like a delicate truce.

“I’ll tell you this, Tora,” His voice went low. “You can ask about them. You can watch them. But my Fangs are not to speak to you unless I say so.”

“Kenji—”

“I’m not done,” his voice dropped into a darker tone. “I say that. . .not just because I’m growing possessive of you, but because my Fangs are weapons, not men. If they become attached to you, they become vulnerable. I don’t let my weapons rust.”

O-kay. . .

“I understand,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure I did completely. “But, I’ll still probably smile at them. I can’t help it. Kaoru’s hair is just. . .so pink. It’s adorable.”

That earned another chuckle from Kenji, this one slightly defeated.

I leaned my head to the side, “what’s so funny?”

He put the cup of sake down as if giving up on drinking it. “If you knew the things Kaoru would do to my enemies. . . adorable would not come to your mind.”

“What would come?”

“Nightmares.”

I widened my eyes. “Oh.”

“You’re trouble, Tora,” he reached forward and took my hand. His thumb stroked lightly across the back of it.

Mmmm.

Then, his thumb began to trace slow, mesmerizing circles across the back of my hand—soft, controlled, and devastating.

It was a whisper of pressure.

A tease of warmth.

And just like that, every nerve in my body woke up.

I tried to keep still. To act unaffected… it was no use. That one touch sent a hum low through my belly, tightening my thighs beneath the table and sending my pulse into a chaotic rhythm.

I bit the inside of my cheek. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how easily he could undo me.

But he already knew.

The way his gaze darkened. The way his fingers shifted—now gliding along the ridge of my knuckles, now dragging slightly along the sensitive skin between them.

He was watching and reading me. Learning what made me shiver. What made my breath catch. What made my thighs squeeze tighter under the silk of my dress.

“You’re very quiet now,” he whispered. “What happened to the woman who scolded me like a queen and challenged me like a tiger?”

“She’s. . .” I swallowed. “She’s regrouping.”

He chuckled. That sound came out deep and smooth like it belonged in a low-lit jazz bar or a bedroom filled with smoke and sex. It slid down my spine and pooled between my legs.

His thumb shifted again.

Now he was caressing the inside of my wrist, where the skin thinned and my pulse betrayed me. Every pass of his thumb was a stroke against the most vulnerable part of me. And it felt like he knew it.

His hand was big, warm, and firm. Just holding mine made me feel small in a way I didn’t hate.

Not diminished.

Not erased.

Instead, cradled and claimed.

“Tora. . .do you like when I touch you?”

It took everything in me to not lick my lips, “yes.”

“I want to touch you all night. . .and everywhere. . .”

I damn near shuddered with lust, “but you’re going to pace yourself.”

“Mmmm. That’s right.”

I bit my bottom lip.

“Just tell me one thing.”

I quirked my brows. “What?”

“Are you wet for me?”

My breath caught.

The words should have been crass to me but they felt so intimate.

A wicked smirk spread across his face. “Are you going to answer me, little Tiger?”

“I’m not.”

“So naughty,.” he brought my hand closer, slowly pulling it toward him and then his lips hovered just over my knuckles. “Do you know what you’re doing to me?”

His breath was warm against my skin.

“No,” I shivered, yearning for him to kiss my hand. “What am I doing to you?”

“Hmmm… I guess I’ll keep that a secret too.”

Yet. . .I could see it all over his face.

The man who could end lives with a glance suddenly looked like he wanted to worship me instead.

Slowly, he pressed his lips to my hand—one kiss.

Just one.

But I felt it everywhere.

Between my legs.

Across my breasts.

At the base of my throat.

Then, his mouth moved lower, to the inside of my wrist. That tender place pulsing like a war drum.

He kissed there too.

Slower.

Hotter.

Groaning, he let his teeth scrape gently along the skin.

A moan threatened to break free from my lips. I had to grit my teeth to keep it from coming out. His touch was a smoldering flame on my skin, and I ached for more. But instead of pressing further, he gently placed my hand back on my side.

“Naughty Tora,” his eyes were hooded as he sat back in his chair.

Just as the air between us turned molten, a soft rustling interrupted—bare feet against stone, the whisper of silk gliding through night.

A young woman in a pale lavender kimono approached the table with her hands folded neatly in front of her. Her hair was coiled in a smooth bun held by pins shaped like flowers.

Behind her, followed a man in crisp chef whites, older, with silver dusting his temples and a quiet nobility in the way he moved. He bowed first, spine straight, eyes polite.

“Welcome,” he said in perfect English.

Kenji nodded once. “You may begin.”

The waitress bowed deeply, then stepped aside to reveal a sleek black cart that glided soundlessly behind her—six covered trays, each shaped like a shallow bowl of obsidian.

Beneath their lids, I knew without a doubt that something magical awaited.

The chef lifted the first lid.

A fine mist of cold fog curled into the night air.

Wow.

Inside were paper-thin slices of fish, glistening over a bed of crushed ice. The cuts were so delicate I could see light pass through the edges.

They were arranged like glittering silver scales, draped across a frozen koi fish, sculpted entirely from ice.

The chef gestured. “This is madai , Japanese sea bream.”

I peered closer.

“This is a traditional fish for celebration. It is symbolic of joy and transformation.” The chef held up two fingers. “It is also aged for two days to deepen its flavor and served with yuzu kosho , a spicy citrus paste, and freshly grated hon-wasabi , which comes from a farm in Shizuoka.”

I blinked, completely speechless.

He continued, “the sculpture beneath is yuzu ice, shaped as a koi. In legend, koi swim upstream and if they succeed, they become dragons. Therefore, this dish is a symbol of perseverance and ascension.”

For a second, I could see it.

A small koi, golden and red, shimmering like a flame in water fighting its way up a rushing stream.

Pebbles rattled beneath the surface. White spray blurred its vision.

But the koi didn’t stop. It climbed the water like a force of nature, breaking through the crest of the current and then suddenly rising in the air.

It shifted .

Scales lengthened into armor. Gills flared and vanished. Wings burst from its sides. The koi roared, no longer fish but flame, and took to the sky.

A dragon.

I smiled so hard my cheeks ached. “I love this. I have never heard the legend about koi either.”

The chef appeared quite pleased with himself.

Kenji grabbed his chopsticks, broke off a piece first, and dipped it lightly into the sauce before lifting it to his mouth.

“Mmm,” he groaned. Then, without looking at the chef, he reached for another slice, carefully cradled it between his chopsticks and leaned across the table toward me. “Try this.”

I froze.

He was feeding me.

Not playfully.

Not teasingly.

But with this utter smoothness that made my heart catch. Like he was offering a secret. Or sealing a vow.

I opened my mouth.

He placed the fish on my tongue.

It was cold at first. Silky . Then, citrus heat bloomed on the edges. The umami hit next—deep and rich, whispering of ocean, flame, and legends older than language.

I let out a quiet moan.

Kenji’s eyes darkened and his lips curved, just slightly.

God.

Even more I knew for sure that this man didn’t do anything without intention. Not one gesture or glance. Which meant. . . feeding me like that wasn’t just about taste. It was about claiming me. About testing how close he could get to my mouth, how soon I’d let myself become his.

And I had.

I was melting faster than the ice under that sashimi.

Or is this all in my mind?

“I am glad that you both are pleased,” the chef bowed again, then lifted the lid on the next tray.

I grabbed my chopsticks.

A sudden wisp of smoke rose into the air—earthy, warm, and aromatic. The dish sat on a square cedar board, over which hovered a delicate glass dome. Inside were glistening pieces of sushi.

“This is binchō-tan smoked toro ,” he said.

“That’s fatty tuna belly—very prized in Japan.

It’s lightly torched, then enclosed in this dome to capture the smoke from binchō-tan , a type of white charcoal made from Japanese oak.

The rice is seasoned with red vinegar and the garnish is pickled daikon radish and cherry blossom petals. ”

Oh wow.

The aroma hit—wood, salt, and fat.

I picked the sushi up with my chopsticks, took a bite, and had to close my eyes.

Fire and flesh.

Melted fat coating the tongue.

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 roasted satsumaimo —a Japanese sweet potato—and finished with kuroshio black 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?

There was lots of it too. Coiled in looped bundles over his forearms. It was the kind of rope that didn’t belong to boats or packages or even construction sites.

Slowly, they walked right past our table and I couldn’t help it—I watched them with wide eyes, unsure whether to feel curious or breathless.

Kenji didn’t speak.

I glanced at him and he had a knowing smile.

Like he’d been waiting for this moment.

Like this was the true part of the date all along.

“What’s going on?” I whispered.

Kenji didn’t answer.

He just tilted his head toward the stage.

And so, I looked.

The woman ascended the platform in silence, the man moved behind her.

She walked to the very center—right beneath the iron hook that had haunted me since I first stepped foot into this garden.

O-kay. . .

The man knelt at her feet, carefully setting the bundles of red rope onto the wooden floor.

And then. . .he rose.

The shamisen player stopped mid-song.

The garden held its breath. Silence spread like oil across water—thick and glistening with potential.

That was when I realized that I was finally about to learn why that hook was there in the first place.

I was hyped and hypnotized.

Every inch of my skin came alive, tingling with the thrill of the unknown. My fingers gripped the edge of the table. My breath slowed, synced to the stillness in the air.

Whatever this was going to be. . .I was ready for it.

At least. . .I think I was ready.