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)
This man’s body was closed off. Hands behind his back. Chin up. But his weight shifted subtly when I got close. His pupils widened for a fraction of a second. And his nostrils flared before he masked it all with a blank face.
I think he is hiding something.
Maybe it was nothing.
Maybe it was just my nerves.
Maybe he was acting that way because the Dragon’s lover was walking toward a room full of killers, in six-inch heels.
But maybe. . .I’d have to tell Kenji that this guy was tripping my internal alarm.
I just hoped I wasn’t wrong about him. After seeing the bombs erupt across Tokyo on Hiroko’s screen, I knew what Kenji did to his enemies. And I would never forgive myself if I sent an innocent man to burn in the Dragon’s flames.
We’ll see.
A few steps ahead, I spotted others gathered near the war room door.
Huh?
I almost faltered, but my queen-stride held—heels lethal, spine straight—even while my gut cringed.
Who is this?
A woman lounged in a leather armchair that definitely had not been in the hallway last night. And she sat in it right across from the war room door like it was her throne.
Fuck. . .is that. . .her?
Her belly swelled beneath a blush-pink silk wrap dress. I guessed she was at least six months along. Maybe more. Her ankles were slightly swollen, though she wore open-toe slippers with pearl straps.
Yep. That was her. The maybe-mother of his twins.
Of course she would be on the island too, safe from any possible harm from his father. I just never considered the fact that I would be bumping into her so soon.
Goddamn it. I was ready to walk into the war room, but I was not ready for this.
And the alleged baby mama was holding court, had a whole audience.
One woman knelt at her feet, carefully filing and painting her toenails a soft coral pink.
Another stood to her left, waving a fan so large it looked like it belonged in an opera about a goddess being adored.
A third stood behind her, holding a porcelain teacup and saucer with the reverence of a priest presenting communion.
But it didn’t stop there.
Two other women stood near the walls—both elegant, dressed in flowing muted pastels. One of them giggled behind her hand when she saw me, eyes darting from my heels to the curve of my hips, like I’d shown up to the wrong kingdom.
Next to them stood a Japanese man in a sharp cream kimono, long hair slicked back, his features soft and beautiful—too beautiful, almost painted. His nails were glossy and perfectly shaped. His gaze skimmed over me with slow, open curiosity. . .and just the hint of a smirk.
Even more, it all felt. . .choreographed. Designed. Not a performance, but an ambush in blush pink.
They watched me walk like I was entertainment and they were the real royalty.
And his maybe-baby mama?
She didn’t even look my way. She just sipped her tea with the serenity of someone who believed the war was already over—and I was just some clueless bitch walking into her victory parade.
Tons of thoughts spun in my head.
What the fuck do I do? Nod? Say hello? Wave like an idiot? No. Just walk. You’re a queen. Stay Straight-backed. Keep those eyes forward. You’re not here to play her game. You’re here to win yours.
When I got two feet from the door and was about to address the guards, the maybe-baby mama raised her hand in my direction and then snapped her fingers.
Oh no she didn’t.
I shouldn’t have, but I looked her way just to make sure she was really snapping those fingers at me.
She was.
And even more, she snapped those fingers my way again.
The woman fanning stilled. The woman holding tea tilted slightly in my direction. The rest of the court hit me with wicked smirks.
Then, maybe-baby mama said something sharp in Japanese.
"I’m sorry," I shook my head. "I only speak English."
She smiled, and that smile was the kind of sweet that gets ants killed. "Oh, how charming, Kenji’s new maid speaks English."
Maid? Girl, bye.
“Anyway.” She placed a manicured hand on her belly, and splayed her fingers with pride. "The Dragon’s sons are hungry, I would like some okonomiyaki. That’s their favorite."
She stared at me the way a queen might study a commoner with good bone structure. There was mischief in her eyes. But also knowledge.
She knew who I was, and she knew damned well that I was not the maid.
And I had a thousand retorts loaded. I was a New York chick—I didn’t do meek. I had verbal grenades strapped to every nerve.
But then I heard Hiroko’s voice:
Queens don’t talk to peasants.
And more than that, I remembered what I’d read about pregnancies:
Arguing with a pregnant woman agitates the babies. And babies absorb their mother’s stress like it’s air.
Stress increases cortisol levels. Cortisol disrupts fetal development, especially in the third trimester.