Page 23 of The Dragon 1 (Tokyo Empire #1)

Chapter seventeen

Suspension

Nyomi

The shamisen player stood, bowed once, and disappeared into the shadows.

Oh. He’s leaving.

The man in black moved without sound.

He carried the coils of red rope, cradled across his forearms. They were thick. He crossed the stage and walked right to that hook.

What is he going to do?

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.

Starting and ending.

Over and over.

A mesmerizing worship of time.

The man beckoned her to walk over to him and where the red rope was tied to the hook. And that’s when my brain started to spiral—just a little.

What exactly is this? Is she going to swing? Float? Climb? Is this some sort of ritual? A dance? A hanging?

God, I hoped not that last one.

My heart gave a little kick in my chest.

I mean—I was in Japan. Their definition of art and entertainment might not line up with my American sensibilities. Granted, I always figured America was much more of a violent country than Japan, but I didn’t know enough to truly expand on that topic.

The rope swayed lightly in the night breeze. The cello moaned and a chill rippled down my spine.

But I was alert.

Watching.

Waiting.

Please don’t let this be one of those “death as art” kind of things .

I liked the woman.

There was something powerful in the way she carried herself. Calm. Proud. She hadn’t even spoken and I already admired her. She didn’t strike me as the type to participate in a final act. Not like that.

Still, the rope.

The hook.

The music.

It all felt so. . .loaded.

But Kenji sat completely still beside me.

Which helped me breathe.

If something were about to go terribly sideways, I had the sense that Kenji wouldn’t be sipping sake and smirking like this. His posture was too open. Too grounded. He looked like a man watching a prayer unfold.

And the woman. . .she looked free.

Not in a reckless way.

In a chosen way.

I let out a breath, leaned back in my seat, and grabbed my cup of sake.

Okay.

I didn’t know what was coming but I was ready to see it. As long as nobody bled or caught fire, I was game.

The woman got right by the hook, the rope hanging from it, and the man.

My breath caught.

He didn’t touch her right away. First, he knelt and began looping the thick coils of rope, lifting the end and brushing it between his palms as if to warm it.

Then. . .he lifted the rope up to her.

The moment the rope touched her skin, something shifted. Not on her body, but in the air . As if we’d all crossed into another dimension.

She closed her eyes and lifted her chin.

He tied the first knot at her sternum, right between her breasts. The rope pressed against her skin and made her let out a sharp inhale.

I exhaled too, not realizing I’d been holding my breath.

The red rope shimmered under the moonlight.

Then he began wrapping more rope around her but he didn’t just tie knots—he sculpted. He wove the rope like it was silk spun from flame. He threaded lines across her chest, framing the fullness of her breasts. The rope cinched just enough to lift them, emphasize them, showcase them.

He slipped more rope around her waist and let the taut lines trace the dip of her belly and the arc of her ribs.

The fibers sank into her skin.

Her thighs flexed slightly as he moved behind her, pulling the cords tighter around her hips.

He looped them just under the swell of her ass, cinching upward to lift, to cradle, to emphasize.

My thighs clenched without permission. I felt the phantom trail of that rope across my own skin.

As he continued to work, she never flinched. Her breath remained steady.

Knots began to adorn her body with a stunning pattern that paralleled the moon phases tattooed on her skin.

Then he moved back to the front, his hands running over the ropes, checking their grip and tension.

His hands plunged into the coils again, threading it from her back around the left thigh, then crossing behind to wrap it around her right thigh.

She was a canvas of rope and skin.

Soon, he stopped tying the rope around her and stepped back, taking a few seconds to examine his handiwork.

Wow.

As if hearing my thoughts and wanting to show off more, he pulled sharply at the rope.

Her body lifted off the ground, just an inch at first.

Then he pulled more, she rose and was suspended entirely.

Her feet no longer touched the platform.

The rope held.

The knots cinched.

And she hung there like a spell suspended mid-syllable.

She was floating.

The cellist played on.

The woman's face was a serene mask, her eyes closed, her posture relaxed as if she were lounging rather than hanging in mid-air.

The man slowly circled around her once and I just could not turn away.

The man reached for another section of rope threaded through the hook, and with slow, measured tension, he began to turn her.

Just slightly.

At first, it was a soft pivot of her hips.

A micro-shift.

Her body rotated an inch or two.

Then more.

And more.

She delicately twirled like a ballerina.

And God, it was mesmerizing.

My eyes locked on the curve of her back, the line of rope that bisected the moon tattoos running down her spine. The silk of her skin. The shimmer of sweat on her thighs. The glint of red cords hugging every curve.

It all blurred slightly with the motion, not in chaos, but in hypnotic grace.

I felt it in my body, the pull in my gut. The shift in my balance. As if some invisible part of me had been tied to her and now I was spinning too.

The world tilted.

Something about this moment was waking up muscles I hadn’t realized I’d been holding in tension.

A deep warmth unfurled low in my belly.

God help me but I kind of. . .wanted to know what that felt like.

The cello wept behind her. One long note stretched through the air.

The rope creaked faintly above as her spin slowed and the man reached out—not to stop her but to guide her once again.

His fingers brushed the rope near her thigh, shifting the angle, adjusting her direction.

She moved again, slowly twirling again like a ballerina hung from the stars.

Spinning.

Suspended.

Surrendered.

It was so intimate.

Exposed.

Tender.

Dangerous.

Beautiful.

I could see her blood rushing down from her ankles, flushing her skin from foot to thigh. Her face had taken on a warm, pinkish tone, a flush that mirrored the emotions blooming in my chest.

She wasn’t struggling.

She was glowing.

My pulse throbbed behind my knees, inside my wrists. I shifted slightly in my seat, thighs tightening, again, of their own accord.

I couldn’t look away.

I didn’t want to.

And when she made a full rotation—back to facing me again—her eyes opened.

Only for a moment.

But they locked on mine.

And in that single second, it felt like she saw everything.

My desire.

My envy.

My awe.

She smiled—just faintly.

Then she turned away again, spinning once more into the night.

The rope creaked softly.

The cello sang low.

I sat there, anchored in my body, yet drifting.

Caught between wonder and want.

Between safety and surrender.

Between watching her and wanting to become her.

Kenji’s deep voice filled the air, “what do you think of this performance?”

“It’s hard to even. . .think or truly try to. . .explain what I’m seeing. But it’s enchanting.”

He nodded, sipping his own sake as he watched the woman spin gently in the moonlight. “This is Shibari. It's an ancient Japanese art form that combines bondage, performance, and spirituality.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Shibari is about connection and trust. The rope is the medium of communication between the nawashi— the rope artist—and his muse. This performance is a conversation about dominance and submission.”

His words sank into me.

My heart throbbed in rhythm with the strings of the cello.

The woman was still spinning slowly, her body swaying gently with every turn. I could see the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed deeply.

Her face was a picture of pure bliss.

The man in black—the nawashi—stepped in again, reaching for another coil of rope and began to weave more around her body.

I took a sip of my sake. “I would think she was in pain with all the rope but she looks like. . .she’s really enjoying this.”

Kenji smiled slightly. “Pain is subjective. Some might find it painful others might find it pleasurable, even liberating.”