Page 45 of The Dragon 2 (Tokyo Empire #2)

Chapter forty-one

Deprogramming

Nyomi

The space trembled—or was it just my heart?

Regardless, I stood at the center of it.

A black cape draped from my shoulders. Deep blood-red satin lined it, swaying with every shift of my body.

The high collar brushed the nape of my neck and the train fanned out behind me in royal waves.

Under the cape?

Mmmm.

It turned me on just thinking about it.

The leather bodysuit clung to me like a second skin, molded over my curves with black shine and gold-threaded seams. Boning wrapped around my waist, hugged my exposed hips wide, and lifted my breasts like an offering.

My nipples pushed through cutouts, exposed to the air and craving to be bitten.

Between my thighs, was a narrow slit.

I could feel the air kiss my pussy when I shifted, teasing me.

The slit didn’t gape wide when I stood.

But when I sat. . .the slit would open fully, exposing all of my pussy.

For now, that surprise was hidden from Kenji’s gaze. He would have to earn the right to see it.

Already he had been odd.

He’d peeked in once, saw just enough to close the door again like he was catching his breath.

What was he doing out there?

Preparing to kneel, I hoped. Because if he wanted the surprise waiting for him when I sat. . .he’d better remember exactly who commanded this room.

I had only one leg peeking out through the thigh-high slit, coated in a fuck-me-hard-red stocking, sheer and gleaming.

On my feet—six inches of sharpened want. Diamond stilettos. Red soles. Weapons that sparkled and kissed.

I hadn’t stood like this by accident.

Hiroko had taught me.

She made me stand in front of a mirror earlier today—shoulders back, leg forward, chin high, mouth soft but unreadable.

“A queen doesn’t reveal all at once,” she circled me like a panther. “A queen lets the mystery walk ahead of her. Let him chase shadow before he sees skin.”

The outfit beneath the cape was locked away like a secret weapon but that single exposed leg—rich with color, height, danger— that was the promise.

The whisper of something devastating.

Hiroko called it the Tease of Control.

I thought back to minutes ago.

She adjusted the collar at my throat before leaving. “Every inch you show is a decision . Not his gift. Not your mistake. It is the bold declaration of a queen.”

“Got it.”

She stepped back, tilted her head, and looked me over like a sculptor deciding if her masterpiece needed just one more stroke. “Men like him. . .they don’t kneel easily.”

“Correct.”

“You must give him a reason to. But never beg for it and never ask. Make him earn the right to serve you.”

I swallowed. “Got it.”

But Hiroko wasn’t finished.

Her gaze pinned me like a blade. “And when he finally lowers himself, do not flinch. Do not shrink. Do not smile. That moment isn’t about his power softening. It’s about yours being recognized. Remember that.”

My heart thudded.

She came closer, placed her manicured hand over the red slit in my cape, just above the gartered thigh.

“And this,” she said softly. “This moment tonight is not just sex. This is strategy. A man on his knees doesn’t just want to fuck you. He wants forgiveness. He wants to crawl inside the heat and the hurt and ask to be let in.”

She met my eyes again. “And you—my darling Tiger—will decide if he’s worthy of the yes. Remember. You never have to give your body to him. . .you can simply walk away . ”

I had widened my eyes.

Then she had turned, as if she hadn’t just deprogrammed all my internalized misogyny in a single breath.

As if she hadn’t untangled decades of warnings, sermons, side-eyes, and lessons passed down from my mother and every other well-meaning woman who’d survived long enough to teach me how to shrink.

Be small.

Be polite.

Be desirable.

Be strong, not weak.

But don’t ask.

Don’t take.

Don’t argue too much.

Don’t be loud.

Don’t be seen wanting.

I’d sat in pews with my knees clenched and my dress pulled down too far, trying to be holy enough to earn love.

I’d swallowed my moans. I’d smiled when I wanted to scream. I’d whispered apologies when I should’ve roared.

I’d gone to church so many times in my life but today—wrapped in leather and satin, collared and bare underneath— this was the first time I’d heard the true gospel.

And it didn’t come from a pulpit.

It came from a Japanese dominatrix in pearls.

And it wasn’t about sacrifice.

It was about the raw holy power of women who no longer beg to be seen but dare to be worshipped.

And all I could think was. . .

Damn. I’m never going back to old Nyomi again. This is me now. . .this is who I am. . .

So as I stood there now, in the room lit with danger and red shadows, leg exposed, desire glistening between my thighs—I didn’t just feel beautiful.

I felt royal and armed.

And. . .I had to admit that I adored having a Fairy Dominatrix Godmother.

Every woman deserved one.

Hiroko hadn’t given me a pumpkin carriage or glass slippers. She’d given me thigh straps, an open-slit bodysuit, and the exact words and action to make a man kneel for me.

This wasn’t Cinderella’s ballroom story.

No enchanted mice.

No chandelier twirls.

No clock ticking away my magic.

No countdown.

No curfew.

Only worship.

It was a dungeon retelling.

Yet, my breath still caught because I had never seen myself like this.

Some of my old programming was still in my mind too, struggling to be revived, whispering. . . are you really ready to be worshipped.

I did my best to ignore it.

My heart pounded against my chest.

And then. . .the door began to open.

Oh shit. Time to begin.