Chapter 35 Obsessed with the Dragon
Chapter thirty-five
Obsessed with the Dragon
Nyomi
Hiro and I stepped inside.
The door clicked shut behind us with a soft, final sound that made my shoulders tense.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and slid my thumb to activate the camera app. It just made sense to document everything.
Before I could move further in, Hiro gestured around the space. "Let me explain the layout so you understand what we're dealing with."
I nodded, grateful for the orientation.
"Three bedrooms." He pointed down a hallway to our right. "Each with its own ensuite bathroom. Yuki's is first, then Mami's, then Hina's at the end. They always choose the same order."
“Why?”
“In this world, everything is about hierarchy.”
“And Yuki tends to be in charge?”
“Correct.”
"Okay."
"This is the shared living room." He swept his hand toward the open space in front of us. "And through there—" he nodded toward an archway to our left, "—is a side dining room where they take their meals together."
"They don't eat with Kenji?"
"Not unless it’s a holiday. Back in Tokyo, my brother is typically never in his mansion. He’s usually in one of his club offices or in a hotel suite somewhere."
He left the rest of the explanation hanging in the air.
But I understood.
If Kenji was in a hotel suite, he was having sex with some woman. Or women. The Scales ate together because Kenji wasn't available to eat with them—wasn't interested in the domestic intimacy of shared meals.
They were close to him.
But not close enough.
I smirked. "Got it."
"Assess the living room first, before the bedrooms. You never know." Hiro stepped back, giving me space.
I lifted my phone and started documenting.
A faint sound echoed down the hallway—soft, almost nothing, like a footstep catching itself before it made noise.
What was that?
I froze, pulse tightening.
Hiro turned his head slightly. “Stay here.”
I nodded.
Hiro moved toward the hallway with that predatory glide that made no sound at all. I held my breath, listening hard, the suite suddenly feeling too large, too quiet, too full of shadows that didn’t belong to us.
A door clicked somewhere deeper inside the suite—the soft, unmistakable sound of metal settling into a frame.
What the fuck?
My heart slammed once, hard.
Hiro disappeared around the corner.
Seconds stretched.
Then another few.
Then another.
The silence grew teeth.
Finally, Hiro reappeared, expression composed but eyes sharper than before. “There’s nothing.”
My voice came out low. “That was odd.”
“Yes.” He scanned the walls again. “The twins made sure the suite was clear before we arrived, but. . .”
I stepped closer. “But what?”
“This mansion has tons of servant passageways. Hidden halls. Secret entrances and exits meant for staff to move through the building unseen. So they don’t bother us.”
A cold thread slid down my spine. “So. . .someone could be in here without us knowing?”
Hiro’s gaze locked on mine. “Don’t worry. I will know if someone decides to sneak in here while we are here too.”
He said it with confidence.
But not certainty.
And that tiny difference made every hair on my arms lift.
He gestured to the room. “Check the space.”
A cold shiver ran up my spine.
I swallowed and looked around.
The shared living room spread before me, and my breath caught.
The walls were painted in deep, layered twilight—bruised purples bleeding into midnight blues, touched with veins of molten gold that caught the moonlight streaming through all of the tall windows.
The effect was breathtaking, like standing inside the sky just before dawn breaks or just after dusk swallows the sun.
A large couch in deep forest-green velvet dominated the center. A matching armchair angled toward the windows. The coffee table had curved edges and delicate legs carved from dark wood.
But it was the paintings that stopped me cold.
Wow.
Massive oil paintings, again. . .museum-quality. Each one was easily six feet tall and hung in ornate frames carved from dark wood and edged in hammered gold. They lined the walls like windows into another world.
With my phone raised, I moved closer to the first one.
The painting showed a massive dragon mid-flight against a star-scattered sky. Scales painted in layers of black obsidian and fused with burnished gold. The wings were stretched wide and veined in gold.
The dragon's eyes—molten, burning, alive—stared down at something below with pure hunger.
The brushwork was masterful. I could see individual scales, the texture of those leathery wings, the way smoke curled from the dragon's nostrils.
The background showed a burning city, towers collapsing, armies scattering like ants.
Korin. It has to be.
I moved to the next painting, my pulse picking up.
This one showed a dark brown-skinned woman standing in a burning city square.
She wore tattered white linen, her dark brown skin glowed against the flames.
Her long black hair whipped in wind that shouldn't exist. But it was her hands that drew my eye—raised, palms forward, shooting twin arcs of silvery-blue ice toward the distant dragon circling above.
Sol.
The artist had captured the exact moment the ice left her hands, frozen in time—I could see the crystalline structure, the way frost bloomed in the air, the power radiating from her fingertips.
And the dragon—that same golden-black beast—wasn't attacking.
He was watching her.
Hovering.
His massive form backlit by flames, but his eyes locked on her with that same hunger and even wonder.
My throat tightened.
I moved to the third painting, larger than the others.
This one showed the interior of a cave—no, a hoard. Mountains of treasure rose in glittering dunes. Gold coins spilled like rivers. Jeweled crowns lay scattered among ruby-studded goblets and diamond-encrusted chalices. Ancient weapons with ornate hilts jutted from piles of pearls.
And in the center, the same massive dragon lay coiled protectively around the sleeping Black woman.
She rested against his scales, one hand tucked under her cheek, the other on his massive foreleg. The dragon's wing curved over her like a living blanket, sheltering her from the world.
His eyes were closed, but even in sleep, he looked possessive.
Protective.
Oh my God.
The detail was staggering. I could see individual coins in the treasure, each one painted with care. The texture of scales—how they overlapped, how light caught the ridges. The soft rise and fall of the woman's chest. The way her dark skin glowed warm against the gold surrounding her.
It should have looked monstrous—a beast holding a woman captive.
Instead, it looked. . .breathtakingly sacred.
I swallowed hard and moved to the final painting, knowing that I was probably going to get spoiled since I hadn’t read the rest of the book yet.
Oh my.
This one showed a massive bed draped in furs and silk the color of cream. And on that bed, three figures were intertwined in an intimate embrace.
The same woman—Sol—from the other paintings lay at the center, naked, her dark skin luminous against white sheets. Her black hair spilled across pillows like ink.
On one side, a man with long black hair and golden eyes held her, his face buried in her neck, one arm possessively wrapped around her waist. His body curved into hers with desperate tenderness.
On the other side, another man—identical to the first, mirror-perfect except for the way he looked at her.
This one seemed way more intense. He had his hand tangled in her hair, lips pressed against her temple.
His eyes were open, golden and burning, watching her like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing.
Twin dragons.
Both impossibly beautiful.
Both golden-eyed, black-haired, and muscular.
Both wrapped around her like she was the axis their world turned on.
The painting was tasteful but unmistakably sensual. The way their bodies curved together. The intimacy in every touch. The absolute devotion in their golden gazes as they held her between them.
This wasn't just sex.
This was worship.
Damn. I need to get back to the book. I’m ready for this scene.
I stepped back and snapped pictures. Then, a thought came to me.
My brain scrambled to connect the pieces.
The dragon. The woman with ice powers. The hoard. The twins. The gold and black color scheme repeated in every painting.
And then the twilight walls. The gold veining. The carefully chosen color palette for all of the furniture.
My eyes swept the room again, seeing details I'd missed before.
The coffee table held an art book, but beneath it were other books.
I crouched down and snapped more pictures.
Multiple copies of the same book. Different editions. Some in Japanese, some in English, one that looked ancient and leather-bound.
When the Dragon Swallowed the Moon.
I reached out and slid one of the copies from the stack, my fingers brushing the worn spine. Touching it felt invasive in a way looking didn’t—as if I’d crossed a boundary they never expected anyone to cross. The book was warm, like someone had held it recently.
I straightened slowly. “Who decorated this room?”
“They did. Granted, this looks exactly like their living room in Tokyo.”
The side table nearby held hand-painted bookmarks depicting three dragons. There were also small figurines of dragons carved from obsidian and gold and one in ivory.
Next to those were candle holders shaped like dragon claws.
Even the plants on the windowsill—I looked closer—night-blooming jasmine and moonflowers. Their white petals glowed in the dim light.
Every single detail drives back to the story.
I sighed. "This is from When the Dragon Swallowed the Moon."
"It is."
“Who painted them?”
“Mami.”
“Damn. She’s super talented.”
“She is.”
“So the Scales love the book too.”
"No."
I blinked. “No?”
"Yuki hates fantasy. Says it's childish escapism. She only reads medical journals and historical biographies."
I blinked again.