Chapter 14 #2
"Three thousand, six hundred." His voice was low and rough at the edges. "I felt every one, waiting for you. Imagining how sexy you would be when you walked to me."
“And did I disappoint?”
“Fuck no. I almost tore off that gown.”
“Maybe you should have.”
A dark groan left him, and I decided to push him even further.
I leaned back and scanned the breathtaking 4D Tokyo. “I think it would be quite nice to be fucked here.”
His whole body went taut. I watched it happen—the stillness, the jaw clench, the way his hand flexed at his side like he was physically stopping himself from reaching for me. "Careful, Tora. I converted my war room into a restaurant for you. Don't make me convert it into a bedroom."
“I don’t want to be careful.”
He sneered. “I have a big night planned for us. Patience.”
I smirked. “As if you have patience.”
“I am the Dragon. Patience is how I always win.”
I chuckled.
Then he stepped back—reluctantly, I could tell from the way his hands lingered on mine—and guided me toward the table. "Come. Sit with me."
And that told me that whatever he had planned, it would be even bigger than this moment because I knew my man, and he was a horny bastard that never missed an opportunity to fuck me.
He’s pacing himself? Oh shit. What sort of freaky stuff are we going to be doing tonight?
Kenji pulled out the silk cushion for me, arranging it with care, then helped me lower onto it. The phoenix gown pooled around me in rivers of red and gold, spreading across the floor like I'd brought my own sunset.
Once I was settled, Kenji didn't go to the other side of the table.
He sat right beside me.
Our knees touched.
Our shoulders brushed.
Warmth bloomed in my chest as he took my hand, laced his fingers through mine, and rested our joined hands on his thigh. The tuxedo fabric was smooth beneath my palm.
His thigh, solid.
Warm.
Then, coming from my left, the music rose.
I turned.
A woman sat in a corner I hadn't noticed—older, pretty, her fingers moved across a dark wood instrument with taut strings. She wore ivory picks on three fingertips, and they caught the candlelight each time she plucked.
She played another note.
Then another.
A melody began to build that was slow and haunting.
I watched the woman's fingers move. “What is that instrument called?”
“It's a koto. It has thirteen strings. Each one tuned by hand. Those small bridges beneath the strings—she moves them between songs to change the scale. No two performances are ever exactly the same."
I smiled.
The sound filled the space between the 4D buildings like water finding cracks.
The music was unlike anything I'd heard before. Each note was clear and singular—a bright, crystalline ping that hung in the air longer than it should have.
But the resonance beneath it was deeper, richer. A hum that vibrated through the wooden body of the instrument and spread outward like ripples in still water.
Pluck.
Shimmer.
Fade.
Pluck.
Shimmer.
Fade.
The melody didn't rush. It breathed. Notes rose and fell.
"The body is made from paulownia wood." Kenji’s thumb stroked the back of my hand in time with the music. "It's the lightest timber in Japan. The only wood that's traditionally used."
"Why?"
"Because it's the only tree that survives fire."
I turned to him. “Really?”
“Yes.” His eyes found mine. "It can burn to the ground and grow back from the root."
My breath caught.
A phoenix tree.
He'd filled his war room with candles, dressed me in a gown of flames, hung fire diamonds from my throat, and now he was playing me music from an instrument carved from a tree that couldn't be destroyed by fire.
Everything today is about rising from the flames.
Kenji watched me make the connection. A quiet satisfaction settled into the corner of his mouth.
Or maybe I was imagining things.
Still, the koto sang on. Its notes drifted through 4D Tokyo, bouncing off the skyscrapers and floating over the candlelit Sumida River.
I put my attention back onto her and leaned into Kenji's shoulder, letting the music hold me.
Next, movement sounded from my right.
Another woman approached—younger, dressed in a simple white chef's coat. She carried a tray with small dishes, each one a work of art. She knelt beside our table and began to arrange things.
"This is Chef Mariko." Kenji pointed to her. "She'll prepare each piece in front of us tonight. Omakase. We just. . .receive."
Chef Mariko bowed her head slightly in acknowledgment, then laid out her tools. Knives that caught candlelight. Small dishes of soy and wasabi. A block of fish so fresh it gleamed.
Then, she left.
Two more people arrived. They must have been Chef Mariko’s assistants. They placed small wooden boards before us and bowed.
Kenji leaned close, and his breath was warm against my ear. "Have you ever had an omakase experience before?"
I shook my head. "I've heard of it, but no."
"Good.”
Grinning, I looked at him. “What does it mean?”
“Omakase means 'I leave it up to you.’ Therefore, you trust the chef completely. She chooses everything—the fish, the order, the pacing. You just. . . receive."
"That sounds like fun."
Chef Mariko returned with two pieces of fish, pale pink and glistening. They were draped over small mounds of rice.
She placed it before me and said a word in Japanese.
I blinked.
"Tai," Kenji translated. "Sea bream. She wants you to eat it with your fingers, not chopsticks. Let the warmth of your hand release the oils."
“Okay.” I sat up.
"Trust." He reached for his. "That's what omakase is. Surrendering control to someone who knows what you need better than you do."
Interesting.
I picked up the piece with my fingers. The rice was warm. The fish was cool. The contrast made me shiver.
I placed it in my mouth.
Oh.
The flavor was delicate. Clean. Like the ocean had been distilled into a single perfect bite. The rice melted on my tongue, seasoned with vinegar so subtle I almost missed it.
"Good?" Kenji asked.
I could only groan and nod, still savoring.
The chef smiled.
Meanwhile, the Dragon watched my mouth with an intensity that made heat bloom low in my belly, and then he tried his.
A satisfied groan left him too.
I chuckled.
Chef Mariko left.
"This tradition started in Edo period Tokyo." He wiped his hands on a napkin. "Sushi vendors would prepare whatever was freshest that day. The customer had to trust them. Had to believe they would be given exactly what they needed."
Before I could ask any questions, Chef Mariko returned and placed two other pieces before us—darker flesh this time, almost ruby-colored. She spoke, and Kenji translated.
"Maguro. Lean tuna."
“It looks delicious.”
“It is.” He picked it up with his fingers and instead of feeding himself, he brought it to my lips.
Eager to try it, I opened my mouth.
He placed the sushi on my tongue, and his fingertips brushed my lower lip.
The touch was brief.
Electric.
Still, my whole body tightened.
Mmmm.
The tuna was firmer than the sea bream. Meatier. A whisper of iron beneath the clean ocean taste.
"Omakase is about patience," Kenji’s eyes darkened as he watched me chew. "Each piece builds on the last. Light to rich. Delicate to bold. The chef takes you on a journey, and you have to trust them to know the destination."
I swallowed. "And if you don't like where they take you?"
"Then you chose the wrong chef." His smile was slow and dangerous. "But when you choose right. . .the surrender is worth it."
“Hmmm. I like that.”
“I figured the author side of you would.”
I chuckled.
Each piece after that was a small masterpiece—colors and textures arranged with the precision of a painter, flavors that bloomed across my tongue in waves. Chef Mariko explained them in soft Japanese, and Kenji translated, his voice low and close to my ear.
Otoro. Fatty tuna. The most prized cut.
Uni. Sea urchin. Creamy, oceanic, like tasting the sea itself.
Chef Mariko returned with two pieces of kinmedai—golden eye snapper. She rested it on sculpted rice. The flesh was pale, almost translucent, with a thin layer of silver skin still intact.
Next, she didn't place them before us. Instead, she reached for a small torch at her station. The click was sharp. A blue flame hissed to life—narrow, focused, and controlled.
She angled the torch over the first piece.
The flame kissed the skin.
A sizzle cut through the koto music. The silver skin blistered and curled, turning from pale to amber to a deep, crackling gold. Fat rose to the surface in tiny beads that popped and wept down the sides of the fish.
The smell hit me next.
Butter.
Smoke.
The sea.
Oh this is going to be delicious.
Chef Mariko moved the flame in slow, intentional passes.
Sensually lingering.
Lovingly scorching.
Coaxing the oils from beneath the skin and letting them bloom.
The flesh beneath the crackling surface softened. I could see it happening—the proteins surrendering to the heat, going from firm to yielding in seconds.
This is amazing.
She killed the flame. The sizzle faded. Steam curled off the fish in thin ribbons that caught the candlelight and disappeared. She placed the piece before me with both hands. The skin was still crackling with residual heat.
“Thank you.” I picked it up with my fingers. The warmth spread through my fingertips immediately. The skin crackled against my thumb—crisp as glass.
I placed it in my mouth.
The skin shattered first. A murmur of crunch that dissolved into oil—rich, buttery, tasting of salt and sea. Then the flesh beneath gave way. Soft. Warm. The torch had unlocked lush flavor hidden inside the fish, something the raw version would have kept secret.
A moan left me that I did not authorize.
Kenji's eyes darkened.
Chef Mariko smiled, bowed, and prepared even more delights right in front of us.
We ate slowly.
Savored.
Let the koto music wash over us while candlelight danced and Tokyo glowed at our feet.
I was mid-chew when I felt it—this heat on my neck.
I glanced at Kenji.
He wasn't eating. His sushi sat untouched on the board. His eyes were fixed on my throat. Specifically on one of the spots where his teeth had left two crescent-shaped bruises.
He wasn't even trying to hide it.
The bite tingled under his gaze. Not a small tingle either. A deep, spreading warmth that pulsed outward from the mark and rolled down my neck, across my collarbone, and lower. My nipples tightened against the bodice of the gown.
From just his eyes.
Just him looking at what he'd done to me.
I swallowed my food. "What are you looking at?"
"I'm searching for another place on that beautiful brown skin to bite."
My breath caught. The marks on my neck throbbed in response—all of them, at once— like they'd heard him and agreed.
I recovered and straightened my spine. "You won't be biting me anymore, Dragon."
His eyes lifted to mine. Slow. Dark. The corner of his mouth curved. "And who is going to stop me, Tiger?"
A laugh burst out of me before I could help it.
Because the honest answer—the one my body was screaming while my mouth played tough—was nobody.
Not a single soul on this island.
And definitely not me.
He knew it too. I could see it in the way he finally picked up his sushi. Calm. Satisfied. Like a man who'd already won an argument his opponent didn't know was over.
And then Kenji fed me a piece of yellowtail from his own chopsticks, watching my mouth close around it with an intensity that made my skin heat and hum.
I returned the favor with a slice of sweet shrimp, and the way his lips brushed my fingertips felt more intimate than some kisses I'd had from other men.
And in between the sensual flirting, he told me which fish came from which waters. Which ones were rare. Which ones his mother or even Hiro had loved.
And somewhere between the golden eye snapper and the sweet shrimp, I realized my jaw had unclenched. My shoulders had dropped. The knot I'd been carrying behind my sternum since the pyre—the one made of ash, anger, and fear—had loosened.
Not gone.
But loosened.
Like Kenji had been untying it all night, one knot at a time, with raw fish and candlelight and the patience of a man who knew that some things couldn't be healed with words.
And then it hit me.
Omakase. . .I leave it up to you.
This wasn't just dinner. This was a lesson mixed in raw fish and candlelight. Kenji hadn't chosen omakase by accident. He never did anything by accident.
Surrendering control to someone who knows what you need better than you do.
His own words. Said casually over sea bream like he was just explaining a tradition.
But he wasn't.
He was telling me how he loved.
Trust the chef. Trust him. . .
My body stilled.
After this morning, I'd been braced for an intense and difficult conversation.
For the weight of all the things we still needed to discuss.
But Kenji had given me this instead.
Candlelight, a 4D Tokyo, raw fish, and the simple pleasure of learning his world, one bite at a time.
And then. . .the sushi slowed. Chef Mariko began cleaning her tools. The koto player's melody shifted into a slower pace.
And then I heard footsteps.
Multiple sets of them.
Who’s coming?
I turned toward the entrance of the war room.
Three figures emerged from the shadows near the doorway. Two men and one woman, dressed in traditional Japanese clothing—the men in dark hakama and fitted tops, the woman in a flowing kimono that shifted colors as she moved.
The men carried swords. Real swords, from the look of them. The blades caught candlelight and threw it back in sharp silver flashes.
The woman carried nothing.
She simply glided forward in graceful movements.
"Kenji?" I looked at him. "What’s this?"