Page 14 of The Dragon 2 (Tokyo Empire #2)

Chapter eleven

The Only Way a Dragon Could Kneel

Kenji

I blinked and returned to the present, standing before the mirror once more.

Now. . .all I need to learn is. . .how to beg. . .

The thought should have disgusted me. Should have made my spine stiffen in protest.

An alpha— me —on my knees?

Pleading for a woman’s mercy; for her touch, for the heat between her thighs?

The image bloomed in my head and grew toward clarity. Me, kneeling—not because I’d been defeated, not because I was coerced, but because I chose to. Because I wanted it. I saw myself with my mouth against the inside of her thigh, lips parted, and voice hoarse.

Please, Tora. . .

My cock jerked in my pants.

Hmmm. My body likes the idea of begging her?

It was hard to understand why. Granted, I would not be begging for forgiveness. Not for power. But for access. For connection. For the chance to drown in her pleasure and be nothing but a man.

A man stripped of command, of legacy, of weapons.

A man without the title of dragon.

Without the armor of blood and violence.

My cock stiffened.

Hmmm.

Some crazy part of me even. . .trusted her to be humble with my begging and to even be mindful with the power she would have over me. God help me—I trusted her to take that power and not destroy me with it.

To own me in private while the world still feared my name.

To hold me down, not to humiliate, but to remind me I was still flesh, need, and blood beneath all the guns and fire.

My cock hardened even more, straining against my tuxedo pants and responding to the vision with a pulse that made my breath falter.

I narrowed my eyes at the mirror.

Perhaps, someday.

I stepped back from the mirror.

The silk of my shirt felt too soft against my skin; the slacks too tight around the now-rigid weight of my cock. My thoughts were getting dirtier and dirtier, twisting into scent and submission.

But that isn't where our story will begin. Not yet.

If my naughty Tiger wanted me on my knees, she'd have to understand what it meant to be there first. What it cost for the pleasure of me on my knees.

First, I’d have to teach her. Show her—not through silence or symbols but through sweat. Through erotic possession. Through the rhythm of my cock’s discipline and the deep guttural truths only found when skin met skin and control snapped like a fraying thread.

I would have to fuck it into her—not punishment, not degradation, but a reminder .

That even when I trusted her with the fragile thing inside me, I was still the one who could wreck her with a thrust. Still the one who could make her forget her own name just by pressing my hand between her legs and playing with that wet pussy.

Yes. I would give her my power.

But not before I took hers too.

Not before I gripped her hips, slammed her against the nearest flat surface, and fucked her like the world owed me a debt and her body was the final payment.

I imagined it.

Her bent over the grand piano in the suite’s salon. That tight little dress she’d worn on our first date hiked around her waist. Her thighs trembling as my fingers dug into them.

She’d whimper, bite her lip, try to pretend she could take all of me without falling apart.

And I’d give her the first thrust like a warning.

Don’t forget who made you scream.

She’d shudder. Her fingers would curl against the keys, playing nothing, creating everything.

Then the second thrust—deep and ruthless—like a line being drawn down the spine of a war map. My cock would sink in her fully, her pussy already soaked from the way I’d whispered her name in the dark hours before this.

Tora.

Not Nyomi.

Not the name the world knew.

Tora.

My naughty Tiger.

She’d snarl for my cock because she was wild. She'd take it like a woman who was always meant to ride the edge of danger and beauty. Her ass would bounce from the impact of my hips, her back arching, her mouth opening in shock as I fucked her again—and again—and again.

No teasing.

No games.

Just a man reclaiming every part of her she thought she could control.

“You want me on my knees?” I would growl into her ear, slamming her harder against the lacquered wood as her cries echoed off the ceiling. “You’ll have to learn what it means to kneel first. You’ll have to feel what I feel when I hold back.”

She’d nod, dazed and bliss drunk.

But I wouldn’t stop.

Because she needed to understand the kind of man I was when I let go .

I’d flip her onto her back, fuck her on the piano’s top like she was made for music, made for madness, made for me. Her moans would be arias, operatic and wild. I wouldn’t stop until she was limp, her thighs shaking, her body trembling with too much pleasure to speak.

Only then—when her mascara ran, and her body bore the memory of every ruthless thrust—would I whisper the truth into the space between us.

“Now you know. If I ever give you the power to bring me to my knees, you’ll understand what it means to carry it.”

Because that was what the Dragon demanded of a Queen.

Then, and only then, would I fall to my knees for her.

And I wouldn’t rise until she told me to.

My body trembled.

The door opened with a soft sound.

My personal Scales entered—three women dressed in deep garnet uniforms belted at the waist. No jewelry. No perfume. No voices unless invited.

In this world, anyone who served beneath me without holding blood, blade, or command were considered the Dragon’s Scales.

Low soldiers.

Couriers.

Cooks.

Personal attendants.

They were the shimmer, not the strike. The surface before the fangs sank in. They didn’t command but they prepared. They didn’t fight but they armored those who did.

Some stayed in their position forever.

Others—if they proved useful, sharp, and loyal—rose into something more. But almost everyone began as a Scale.

However, these Scales in my suite, were more than attendants, more than simple women. They had been chosen when they were still girls—hand-selected by my father to serve me. Trained not just in obedience but in elegance. Not just in detail but devotion.

Back then, he had called them my handmaidens . Even then, I knew what he meant. They were truly chosen to be the ones to take my virginity.

But when my father wasn’t around, my mother would teach me how to properly take care of them.

“Power means nothing if no one chooses to stay,” She would brush my hair in the evening, long after the servants were gone. “Kenji, my sweet son, if you give your handmaidens freedom then they will serve you not because they are bound, but because they want to.”

Under her secret guidance, I gave them private quarters, free time, autonomy, choice. I made sure they had access to books, language tutors, music, and theater.

Listening to my mother, I never touched them. Besides, there were more than enough willing women for that anyway once I became an adult.

And in the end, my personal Scales, they would serve me to the end and even die for me. Granted. . .if they were ever harmed—if someone dared to touch a strand of their hair without my permission—I wouldn’t hunt that man.

I would erase his bloodline.

Yuki approached first head bowed. She was slender with her black hair twisted into a smooth knot. “We have the remaining items. May we finish preparing you for your meeting, sir?”

I nodded.

Yuki took her time with my dragon cufflinks, sliding them into place with ease. The gold cooled against my wrist. Each dragon’s mouth was open with a pearl locked in its jaw.

She adjusted the angle of one slightly. Her hands never shook. Her eyes never rose to mine. Once she was done, she stepped back and bowed low.

To my right, Mami stepped forward with the bottle of cologne . She misted it once at my throat, once at the edge of my jaw, and another beneath the open collar.

I inhaled slowly, letting the blend settle into me.

Then came the third—Hina.

She was the youngest but her hands were no less steady. She approached from behind and reached up to lift the starched white collar of my shirt. Her fingers smoothed the fabric, folding it into place. Next, she lifted the bow tie from a tray.

I watched her through the mirror as she tugged the silk until it sat flush against my throat and then carefully tied it. “Have you three enjoyed Paris this trip?”

Hani smiled. “We are excited about the opera tomorrow.”

“Yes. The opera,” I gave the slightest nod. “I hope Reo got you good seats.”

Yuki blushed in front of me. “Reo always gets us the best tickets for anything .”

Mami set the cologne down and gave me a final perusal. “You and Reo spoil us.”

I looked at Mami. “I spoil what belongs to me.”

A beat passed.

The room was still.

Then Hina, the youngest, braver than the rest, tilted her head just slightly and murmured beneath her breath. “Even if you never touch what belongs to you?”

Yuki’s breath caught.

Mami blinked once as if unsure whether to smile or freeze.

My eyes met Hina’s in the mirror’s reflection. She didn’t look away yet a blush rose on her cheeks.

“Even if I never touch,” I gave a single nod. “Remember, although you three belong to me, that does not mean you cannot be lovingly touched by others . They would just need your consent and my approval.”

“Of course, sir.” Yuki’s hands lingered just a moment too long on my cuffs. When she stepped back, she kept her head down, but her cheeks grew flushed.

Mami’s gaze flicked to my lips. Her breath caught and her fingers trembled just slightly as she adjusted the bottle on the tray.

Hina dared one final glance in the mirror and then looked to the floor, “I understand, sir.”

A knock disrupted the moment.

The scent of steel entered before my men did.

Reo walked in all quiet elegance—sharp suit, darker intent. Mami shifted, breath catching just slightly, as if his silence brushed the back of her neck.

Their reaction to him always amused me. Even my Scales—trained for composure, forged in elegance—grew a little too graceful when Reo walked in. Too aware of how close he passed, too precise in how they breathed.

When Reo passed behind Yuki, she lowered her eyes but not fast enough—I saw the way her lips parted, like she'd just caught the scent of something forbidden.

Holding in my chuckle, I nodded at them. “You three may leave.”

They bowed and hurried away.

Hina’s hand brushed Reo’s sleeve by accident and she whispered an apology like it was a confession. He just gave her a playful wink and let the moment coil between them like silk on skin.

Next came my Fangs, lethal, donning suits, and armed beneath every seam.

Then Hiro entered. My brother. He stepped inside flanked by his Claws. They looked alert and dangerous as usual, but Hiro. . .

Damn it.

Hiro appeared untouched by rest. Eyes rimmed with exhaustion. Jaw locked. Hands fisted at his sides. His hair was slicked back in an afterthought. His suit was clean and new, but wrinkled, something he would have never normally allow.

He hadn’t slept.

I knew this because I had tried to help him go to sleep by having one of the top Parisian girls sent to him. A trained seductress, she went to his suite, stripped him of his clothes, climbed into his lap, and bounced on his cock like I’d instructed.

I knew this because her moans had reached even my door—wild and high, echoing through the suite hallway.

She left satisfied.

Hiro?

Probably. . .not so much.

The guards said they spotted him on his balcony, sucking on a lollipop and staring at the Parisian skyline as if considering jumping off the edge.

So, I tried something else.

I sent a man to his room. This one had been skilled in sucking a man’s cock to perfection. Again, the hallway filled with sounds, not my brother’s but the man’s loud groaning. Surely, Hiro had showed the man a thing or two.

When he left, my guards reported that Hiro was back on the balcony, sucking on a lollipop and perched there like a goddamn bored gargoyle.

Nura’s death was going to be a loss that wouldn’t be soothed by touch alone.

How do I fix this? Please God. . .don’t let my brother crack and wither away.

While everyone got in front of me, Hiro went to the window and stared out of it.

Damn it.

All my money. All my power. All my deadly violence. None of it could fix my brother. In fact, I was terrified that this would be my brother’s behavior from now on and that no war we fought against our father would change Hiro back.

I exchanged a look with Reo.

Reo glanced toward Hiro—just a flicker—but it was full of grief, full of strategy. Reo didn’t mourn with tears. He mourned with plans.

Hopefully, we would figure something out.

Reo nodded as if he heard my thoughts. . .knowing him. . .he probably did.

“Before we go,” I cleared my throat. “Any updates?”

Reo’s face further twisted with stress. “More than you may be comfortable with.”

Fuck. What now?