Chapter 41 Soul Food for Soldiers #2
The picture showed my grandma's dining room—the same one I'd eaten a thousand meals in growing up. The oak table with the lace runner. The China cabinet in the background with her "good plates" that only came out for special occasions.
And seated around that table were six yakuza soldiers.
Six.
Tattooed, massive, muscular men in rolled-up shirtsleeves. Their suit jackets were draped over the backs of chairs.
In front of them were plates piled high with soul food. Collard greens. Mac and cheese. Fried chicken. Cornbread. Sweet potato pie waiting on the sideboard.
And they were SMILING.
Not polite, restrained smiles. Not the stone-faced expressions I'd grown used to seeing on Kenji's men.
These were real smiles.
Genuine.
One of them was actually in mid-laugh with his head thrown back and a chicken drumstick in his hand.
I snorted.
I know Grandma must have said something crazy to have you laughing like that. Had life been different for her back in the day, she might have been a comedienne.
Another man was giving the camera a thumbs up while holding a forkful of mac and cheese like it was a trophy.
Another photo came through.
Grandma stood at the head of the table, one hand on her hip, the other holding up a serving spoon like a scepter. She was beaming. Wearing her favorite apron—the one that said, "Grandma's Kitchen: Enter Hungry, Leave Happy."
She looked like the proudest woman in South Carolina.
The next photo showed her standing with all of them in her living room.
Who took this picture?
I zoomed in on the faces of the men.
They looked happy. Not just polite-guest happy. Soul-deep, home-cooked-meal happy.
Another text came through.
Grandma: They got SECONDS, baby. Every single one of them. That big one in the corner? That’s Kyoya. He had THREE plates! I had to make more cornbread because it looked like one was about to cry if he didn’t get another piece.
I pressed my hand to my mouth, still laughing.
Grandma: They're definitely raised right. They cleaned up the whole kitchen, washed the dishes, took out the trash, and even did a walk around the house to make sure nobody was around to bother me. Asked if they could do that every day.
Well. . .they are there to protect you, so I’m glad they did a check of the perimeter and got you to agree to daily ones. Smart.
Grandma: And I sent them home with plates! Wrapped up real nice in the good Tupperware. Told them to bring it back when they're done.
I could picture it perfectly. Grandma standing at the door, handing over carefully wrapped containers to trained killers, telling them to eat it while it's hot and bring back her containers or else.
Another photo came through.
This one made my heart squeeze so hard I had to sit down on the edge of the bed.
It was Grandma in her living room, standing next to her old record player—the one that still worked, the one she refused to replace with "any of that digital nonsense."
And she was dancing.
With one of the yakuza.
Oh Grandma. . .
My heart warmed.
The man had his hand carefully placed on her waist, and he was doing his absolute best to follow her lead. His face was concentrated but smiling—the expression of someone learning something new and loving every second of it.
Behind them, the other men were watching. Some were clapping.
One had his phone out, clearly recording.
Another was attempting the same moves on his own, his footwork not quite right but his effort undeniable.
Grandma: Taught them how to do the Stroll and the Hand Jive this afternoon!
Played Smokey Robinson and Marvin Gaye. That sweet boy Taka—the one with the scar on his chin—he picked it up FAST. Got some natural rhythm in him somewhere.
He’s definitely Black. Maybe a great-great grandmother.
I told him that you two will have to meet.
The others need work but they're trying bless their hearts.
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, not even realizing I'd started crying until I felt the wetness on my cheeks.
Grandma: They didn't know who Marvin Gaye was, baby. Can you BELIEVE that? I had to educate them. Put on "Let's Get It On" and watched their eyes get big. Then "What's Going On" and now they want me to make them a list of songs to listen to. I told them I'd write it all down tomorrow.
I laughed again, imagining hardened yakuza soldiers sitting in a Charleston living room getting a musical education from a seventy-two-year-old Black woman who believed good food and good music could fix anything.
She wasn't wrong.
Another text came.
Grandma: When Smokey came on singing "Cruisin'" that big quiet one—I think his name is Daichi—he closed his eyes and just LISTENED. Really listened. When it was over he bowed to me and said "beautiful." I about near cried.
My chest ached.
These men—these dangerous, deadly, loyal men—were sitting in my grandmother's living room, eating her food, learning her dances, listening to her music.
And they were loving it.
Grandma: I told them next week I'm making gumbo. You should have seen their faces light up. They don't know what gumbo is! But they trust me now. As they should!!
I typed back with trembling fingers.
Me: Grandma, I love you so much. Thank you for taking care of them and showing me this.
Grandma: Taking care of THEM? Baby, they're taking care of ME. Fixed my fence, painted my porch, went, got me some groceries, and now they're learning how to two-step. I'm having the time of my life. Shirley over there next door is jealous.
The last photo came through.
It was a group shot—all the men standing together in Grandma's front yard with the newly painted porch in the background.
Grandma was in the center, absolutely tiny compared to them, but somehow still commanding the entire frame.
Every single one of them was smiling.
One was holding up a Tupperware container like a prize.
Another had his arm carefully—respectfully—around Grandma's shoulders.
And in the corner of the frame, I could see the edge of Mrs. Shirley's curtains pulled back.
Grandma: Aren't they handsome? I told them that my granddaughter is single and pretty. I know you met someone there, but until he puts a ring on your finger, you’ve got options.
I let out a long breath and smirked. “Not with the Dragon, Grandma.”
Grandma: Grandma's got to go to bed. Dancing wore me out. These old hips ain't what they used to be. Love you.
Me: Love you more, Grandma. Goodnight.
I set the phone down and pressed my hand to my chest.
Thanks, Kenji for making sure my grandmother was protected, and. . .giving her an awesome time too.
A smile tugged at my lips.
Let’s hope my grandmother doesn’t take away your soldiers and adopt them.
I got into bed. . .still smiling and feeling that comforting warmth. The silk sheets were cool against my skin, and I let myself sink into them, imagining they were Kenji's hands sliding over me.
My body was still wound tight from the night's events, and beneath the fear, there was a hunger for Kenji.
I thought about touching myself.
Just to take the edge off.
Just to release some of this tension coiled in my core.
My hand drifted down my stomach, fingers tracing the waistband of my pajama shorts. I could picture Kenji watching me do this—those dark eyes burning as I pleasured myself for him.
No.
I pulled my hand away.
I wanted Kenji here when I came. Wanted to feel him, not just imagine him.
I’ll wait for the real thing.
Before I pulled up the blankets over me, I caught sight of the fantasy book.
When the Dragon Swallowed the Moon.
I reached for it without thinking, my fingers tracing the embossed title.
The last time I'd read this book, everything had been different.
I remembered where I'd left off.
Sol—the Lowly girl with ice in her veins—had just discovered that Korin, the terrifying dragon who'd been burning cities to ash, could take human form.
He'd followed her through the streets of her ruined kingdom, smelling of jasmine, stormwater, and flame.
She'd tried to fight him, tried to run, but he'd caught her anyway.
And then he'd taken her.
Carried her across the sky in his massive claws, over mountains, forests, and an endless silver ocean, all the way to his lair—a hollowed-out mountain filled with treasure beyond imagination.
Gold coins heaped like sand dunes. Rubies the size of apples.
Skeletal kings still seated on their thrones, crowns glittering on rotted skulls.
Sol had woken up naked on a bed of furs, surrounded by wealth, and with a sleeping dragon curled around her like a possessive god.
And when she'd tried to escape, he'd caught her again.
He'd told her the truth—that she wasn't human at all. That she'd been born from an egg, found by the Lowly parents who raised her. That her ice magic wasn't just power; it was proof of what she really was.
A dragon.
His mate.
He'd shown her that his fire couldn't burn her. That her ice couldn't truly hurt him. In fact, it only brought him pleasure.
He'd tasted her with that massive tongue, claimed her with heat and want, and she'd been helpless to deny the desire that bloomed in response.
And just when she'd begun to accept the impossible truth of her existence, Korin had revealed one final secret.
He had a twin brother.
Another dragon king.
And he was taking her to meet him.
Two dragon twins sharing a single mate?
The possessiveness, the heat, the inevitable collision of all that power?
Maybe, I’ll read a little until Kenji returns.
I opened the book.