Chapter 14 Healing and Hunger
Chapter fourteen
Healing and Hunger
Nyomi
Hiro watched Kenji have sex a lot? Oh. I really need the tea.
“So. . .” I nearly dropped the eggs. "Were you one of his Eyes?"
He laughed—a genuine sound that transformed his tired face. "His Eye? No. Not at all."
"Well, I have so many questions, but keep in mind, I'm a journalist." I set the eggs down carefully. "We always have questions. We always want to know more. So, if you think I'm nosy, I apologize and I won’t ask any more questions."
"Ask whatever you want. It doesn't matter."
I grabbed a bowl and handed it to him for the potatoes. "Why have you watched Kenji have sex a lot?"
"Because we used to share women."
My whole head damned near exploded. "Oh my God. Really?"
"Yeah." He started on a new potato. His knife worked steady and precise. "I don't believe my brother would care if you knew. Since this is his past."
"So, like. . .you and him together? With a woman?"
"Many women." He corrected it casually, like he was correcting a recipe measurement.
"Really?" I leaned against the counter. My journalist brain was now fully engaged.
"Yes."
"Wow. And the women survived both of you in one night?"
He laughed again, and I was starting to really like that sound. "Yeah. Somehow they survived."
"That's crazy interesting." My mind was racing—trying to picture it and failing. Hiro was huge, muscular, intimidating. Kenji was the same. Both of them together with one woman?
DAMN!!
Heat bloomed in my chest, and I shook my head quickly.
Nope. Not going there. Not going to even try to picture it. I’m going to be good.
I cleared my throat and grabbed a clean bowl to change the subject in my own mind. "So how long ago was that? Like, many years ago when y'all were young?"
"A month ago, actually."
The bowl nearly slipped from my hands.
"A month ago?" My voice came out higher than intended. "So, this is, like, a thing you do. Period."
"We did," he corrected. "Past tense. I think."
"You don't know for sure?"
"Well, yesterday was the first time he told me that he would never share you."
Oh.
Something warm and possessive curled in my chest. I knew Kenji was serious about me—he'd said it, shown it, proven it. But hearing it from Hiro, hearing that Kenji had drawn this line.
It hit different.
Hiro continued chopping, but his voice took on a thoughtful tone. "It shocks me that he doesn't want to share. Usually there's never been a woman that he's met, or I've met, where we wouldn't share her. But I understand too."
“Why do you understand?”
He paused, and his knife stilled on the cutting board. "I understand because. . .I had just recently met someone that I was absolutely planning on not sharing with Kenji."
His voice had changed—gone quiet, heavy with grief.
Something happened to her?
Hiro started chopping again, but this time the movements were hard. Intense. The knife slammed against the board with more force than necessary.
I wanted to know more about her, about what happened, about the rising pain I could see etched into every line of his body.
But I didn't.
Some wounds were too fresh to poke at.
An upbeat reggae song came on—something with a lighter beat, something that shifted the air in the kitchen.
I started swaying slightly to the music, and after a moment, Hiro's shoulders loosened.
The aggressive chopping softened.
Time passed.
We all found our rhythm.
We both laughed, and the sound mixed with the reggae music in a way that made the kitchen feel warm.
I moved around, giving the guard further directions for the banana bread—greasing the pan, checking the oven temperature. Once Hiro finished with the potatoes, I showed him how to start on the hollandaise sauce as I cooked them.
"Gentle heat," I demonstrated over a double boiler. "You're creating an emulsion, so if it gets too hot, it'll break. Slow and steady."
When "Is This Love" by Bob Marley came on, Hiro started singing loudly, and I grinned and joined in.
And the fun continued.
We moved around the kitchen like we'd done this a hundred times—me teaching, him learning, the guard putting the banana bread batter into the oven, all of us swaying to reggae music that seemed to ease any tension in the air.
We chatted in between cooking. I was surprised by how much Hiro knew about reggae. He named artists I'd forgotten about, mentioned albums I hadn't heard in years.
Then in one moment, there were several beeps from one of my guard's watches. He checked it. Worry streaked across his face, and then he looked at me. “The Roar is calling.”
"Oh shit." I froze.
Hiro looked up from the pot. "What’s wrong?"
"I'm well past my curfew. . .like. . .probably hours. . .Reo wanted me back with Kenji. All types of time has passed."
"I've got it." Hiro waved the guard away, lifted his own watch, and pressed a button. "Reo. This is Hiro. I'm in the kitchen with the Tiger. Don't worry. You go back to sleep. I've got her and I'll make sure she safely heads back to Kenji."
A pause, then Reo's groggy voice came. "Okay. Thanks, Hiro."
Another pause hit and then beeps sounded again.
I quirked my brows.
Reo’s voice rose from the watch. "By the way, what are you two doing in the kitchen?"
Hiro grinned. "We're cooking."
"What are you cooking?” The grogginess from Reo’s voice lifted. “Is it macaroni and cheese?"
I bit back a chuckle.
Hiro spoke, "We're making Eggs Benedict with potatoes and banana bread."
There was a longer pause this time.
Then a beep, and Reo’s voice sounded. "Perhaps I should come down there to make sure everything is in order."
Hiro laughed and looked at me.
I shook my head. “Tell him that he’s getting a bento box.”
“His second bento box?”
“Just tell him and stop counting what people get. For God’s sakes, the Claws are getting their own cocktail party.”
“Fine.” Hiro rolled his eyes and pressed his watch. "She'll be making you a bento box."
I gave him a thumbs up.
Reo sounded highly pleased and almost smug. "Thank you very much. I can’t wait."
We continued cooking.
More reggae songs played.
The kitchen filled with the smells of banana bread baking, potatoes crisping in butter, hollandaise sauce coming together under Hiro's careful whisking.
I wanted to ask him things. Why he'd been sleeping in the kitchen instead of his bedroom. Why he looked so tired. Why the sake. What was haunting him so badly that he couldn't find peace even in sleep.
And of course, I wanted to know more about this woman that he’d decided not to share with Kenji.
But we were having fun.
He was smiling—really smiling—in a way that looked like it hadn't happened in a long time.
We were swaying to the reggae music, singing along.
And even my guards were bopping their heads.
And. . .I began to feel like this was all medicine.
Not just for him, but for me too.
And I knew, instinctively, that this was enough. Whatever demons Hiro was fighting, this moment of normalcy—of cooking, music, and laughter—was what he needed.
So, I didn't push.
I just taught him how to poach an egg, how to toast an English muffin to the perfect golden brown, how to plate food so it looked as good as it tasted.
When everything was done, I made his plate first—generous portions, everything arranged beautifully.
Then I helped assemble the bento boxes for the guards and Roar. I drew little symbols on each one—a tiny dragon holding a gun for Kenji's guards, a small tiger gripping a deadly pen for mine.
I put in thick slices of warm banana bread with small containers of caramel sauce and whipped cream I’d quickly made earlier.
Reo's bento box got extra care—I drew a tiny book on it with cherry blossoms, acknowledging the Roar's intelligence.
Then Kenji's plate.
The biggest.
The best.
Extra potatoes.
Perfect eggs.
Hollandaise drizzled just right.
And finally, my plate.
I covered both with tops.
"Hey." Hiro gestured to the guards. "Take this stuff up for her. The Tiger should not have to hold anything."
They moved immediately, gathering the bento boxes. One of them produced a food cart from somewhere on the side, and they loaded everything onto it—Kenji's plate with a cover, my plate too, and all the bento boxes arranged carefully.
Before they could wheel it away, I turned to Hiro.
He was sitting now, his plate in front of him, looking at it like it was something precious. He’d even shoved the sake bottle further away as if he were done drinking for the day.
Good. I hope he’ll be able to go back to sleep after he eats.
"Hey," I walked over to him. "Thanks for helping me out.”
“I had more fun than you will ever understand.”
“I’m glad.” I smiled. “However. . .you gotta give me a hug now.”
He blinked.
“We're family."
He looked up. Surprise flickered across his face. “A hug?”
"Yeah. We cooked together. So we're bonafide family now. You gotta give me a hug."
For a moment, he looked happy and sad at the same time. Next, he stood up—this tall, dangerous man rising from his chair—and then fast he pulled me into his big arms.
Wow!
Warmth encased me.
He held me really, really hard.
Even crazier, the hug lasted longer than I expected. Long enough that I felt his muscular chest hitch. Long enough that I heard a sniffle he tried to hide.
My own eyes watered, and I didn't know why.
Maybe because he needed this so badly.
Maybe because I needed it too—this connection, this family I was building in the most unlikely place.
"Thank you," he whispered against my hair, and his voice was rough with emotion. "Thank you for understanding about earlier and. . .thank you for. . .cooking with me."
“For sure. . .” I squeezed him once more, then pulled back, and smiled. "Anytime. . .brother."
He stared at me and remained silent as if unable to speak.
Once he let me go, he sat back down in front of his plate, but he didn’t pick up his fork.
“See you later, Hiro.”
“You definitely will. . .sister.”
I laughed and left him there in the kitchen, reggae music still playing softly, a man who'd been drowning in darkness finally coming up for air.
Alright. Now I’m finally heading back to the room.
My guards wheeled the food cart away.
Four beeps sounded on the scarred guarded wrist.
He widened his eyes. “We must hurry. The Dragon’s awake.”
Oh shit. I hope Kenji isn’t tripping about my being gone.