Page 116 of The Dragon 2

And for the first time in the entire conversation, Reo chuckled before hanging up.

Chapter twenty-one

To Tame a Beast

Nyomi

By nightfall, the nerves had officially set in. I’d spent the whole day prepping the surprise—and now I was standing inside a Tokyo BDSM club that looked like it had been built for emperors and sins no one confessed out loud.

The Iron Blossom was tucked deep in Shinjuku, past the neon chaos and pachinko madness, behind a thick wall of wisteria vines and an unmarked black door.

It was one of the most exclusive BDSM clubs in all of Japan, not just because of the clientele—politicians, pop stars, and surgeons —but because of who owned it.

Ms. Hiroko Watanabe.

A former geisha turned dominatrix turned real estate mogul, apparently, she had ruled Tokyo’s underground kink scene for over thirty years.

Her clients called her The Widow. Not because she’d lost a husband, but because she had a reputation for tying powerful men into delicate little knots—mentally and physically—and then watching them unravel with a gentle smile.

Zo met Ms. Hiroko Watanabe at a Kyoto fashion gala ten years ago, back when he was still freelancing as a stylist for daring couture houses and avant-garde magazine shoots.

Rumor had it that she’d fired her entire glam team fifteen minutes before walking the red carpet, refusing to be dressed by “soulless fabric technicians.”

Zo had been called in last-minute as a backup and with nothing but a silk ribbon, a vintage obi belt, and a kimono jacket from his own suitcase, he turned her into the main event. She’d purred his name for the rest of the night and called him her “little king of aesthetic warfare.”

Since then, he’d styled her for everything from Tokyo Film Festival appearances to underground kink galas hosted in abandoned shrines.

She always paid in cash, Chanel, or secrets.

Sometimes all three.

When Zo introduced us yesterday and I told her my idea, she didn’t flinch. She simply folded her arms, arched a brow, and said, “you are becoming the goddess you were meant to be. So many women forget that part of themselves. Women weren’t put on this Earth to bend to any man’s needs. We are here to dominate.”

She then slid her hand from under her vintage silver-streaked chignon and held it out to me. A rare emerald ring sparkled on her finger. "And in this place, my dear, you'll learn how to do just that."

I shook her hand.

Excitement surged through me.

I was stepping into a world that was the antithesis of my own existence yet I felt more at home than I ever had before.

She watched me. “Who do you want to dominate?”

“I must keep that a secret.”

“Then, he’s powerful and famous.”

“He is.”

She tilted her head, studying me. “Let me tell you a secret most women never hear; The stronger the man, the deeper his ache to surrender.”

I blinked. “You think so?”

She smiled. “I know so. Alpha men spend every moment of every day making decisions, commanding people, and orchestrating worlds. They wear their dominance like armor. But armor is heavy. Power is lonely. In the quiet moments—in the dark—they long for relief. They want to be told what to do. To be undone. Most die never getting that relief.”

“Why?”

“Because true surrender requires immense trust and many men of this sort see it as weakness.”