Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 101427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Still carrying her, Korin turned to the hill. “Open.”
From the slope of that golden hill, the coins shifted, then melted in slow ribbons of heat and light until soon a door revealed itself.
Seamless.
Tall.
Covered in claw marks.
It creaked open.
And that scent—roses and black violet, dusk and blood—poured out in a slow, seductive wave, wrapping itself around her body like a silk noose.
Next, came a distant roar that rose up from somewhere beyond the door.
Not Korin’s.
This one was colder.
Hungrier.
And Korin was taking her to it.
Chapter fourteen
A Soul Food Battle to the Death
Kenji
Japanese parables often used bamboo to illustrate themes of resilience, flexibility, and adaptability.
A common proverb stated, "The bamboo that bends with the wind is stronger than the oak that resists."
It sounded poetic.
It sounded wise.
But I was not born bamboo.
I was born steel. Wrought in fire. Sharpened in blood. Raised to bend for no one.
Let it be known. . .the second the wind shifted I would strike.
They interrupted my date.
They interrupted her moans.
They tried to assassinate me, while I was inside my Tiger, not just inside her body, but within the place where she stored her fears, her love, her fire, her surrender.
And now?
I wanted to make someone bleed for that.
Hiro walked to my right.
Pissed.
He hadn’t even bothered with a shirt when he left Tokyo. Just black pants, sneakers, and his favorite butcher knife. They said that he had gotten on the roof of his condo barefoot with his eyes wild and called in his chopper.
Even when I hugged him he hadn’t dropped that blade.
Now we were here, storming the gravel path toward my island’s edge with vengeance roaring between us.
Behind us, the Claws and ten of my personal security guards followed. Shadows of violence. Muscles coiled. No chatter. No smiles. Just fury on legs.
Kaede led with eerie calm, his platinum-blond hair tied in a low knot at the nape of his neck. He wore a high-collared black suit so immaculately pressed it could’ve passed for ceremonial wear. His shirt was bone white, his gloves leather. One eye was glass, the other glacial, but both looked at the world like it was already bleeding. Kaede didn’t like mess. He preferred his killings clean—precise enough to forget they’d happened.
Daisuke hovered behind Hiro’s shoulder, nearly indistinguishable in the dim lighting except for the sharp black mohawk slicing over his otherwise silent silhouette. He wore all charcoal-gray, the jacket long, the lines soft enough to blur him into shadows. When Daisuke moved, he didn’t walk—he drifted. Like smoke. And when he struck, it was without sound.
Meanwhile, Toma walked loud. His bright purple mohawk was upright and defiant. His his black jacket was left intentionally open to show off the tattoos clawing up his throat. It was all violent ink telling stories no one wanted to hear. His pants were tight. His boots steel-toed. He walked like a dare: grin too wide, steps too smooth.
Toma didn’t hide in shadows.
He wanted to be seen.
He craved the fear.
And the twins, Aki and Yuki, closed the line—perfect mirrors in slim black suits and slicked-back hair. The identical burn scars beneath their chins caught the light every so often, like glowing brands of survival. They didn’t speak. They never did unless they had to. And when they did, it was in a fragmented echo, like one mind split in two bodies.
They moved in unison.
Always had.
Even now, their footsteps matched without effort.
Ten of my men followed behind them, tense and trained, but even they moved like satellites orbiting a darker moon.
The Claws didn’t just bring danger into the space.
They were the danger.
Silent, threatening danger.
Only Hiro let his lollipop click against his teeth. That sound was worse than silence. It was a promise of death to the discovered traitor.
Soon we’ll be there and I’ll get some fucking answers.
From this hill, I could see it.
The bamboo room.
Far at the rear edge of the compound, past the servant quarters and guard barracks, beyond the koi ponds and night gardens, it glowed faintly in the dark.
Glass walls stretched high and clear, catching the moonlight. The light from within was low and gold. Inside, I could make out the faint sway of the bamboo—lush green stalks moving in time with the wind, their shadows slithering like dancers on the panes.
A large koi pond curved around the building’s eastern side, tranquil and untouched. The sliding door faced the path we were walking on now.
And then I heard it.
A scream. Far off. Male. Ragged. Torn straight from the lungs. It wasn’t the sound of a man being punished. It was the sound of a man realizing—too late—that his punishment was just beginning.
Another scream followed. Shorter. Higher. Then silence. Even the wind went still for a moment as if it wanted no part of what could come next.
But these were normal sounds when heading to my bamboo room, so I ignored them.