Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 154368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 772(@200wpm)___ 617(@250wpm)___ 515(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 772(@200wpm)___ 617(@250wpm)___ 515(@300wpm)
“Oh fuck!”
The oxtail wasn't braising anymore.
It was burning.
"Move back!" Chef Bunzō's voice cut through the chaos. He lunged past me toward the stove, reaching for the knob to kill the flame.
The kitchen staff had frozen in place—the woman with the ginger had her knife suspended mid-air, the young chef with the glaze was already moving toward the fire extinguisher on the wall.
I stumbled backward, disoriented, my body still half-trapped in the memory of the pyre.
Chef Bunzō twisted the knob hard.
The flame died.
The music went quiet.
But smoke still poured from the ruined pot, and the acrid smell of burnt meat and caramelized sugar filling the kitchen.
“Damn it.” I reached out without thinking—some instinct to help, to grab the pot, to fix what I'd broken.
My fingers touched the cast iron handle.
White-hot pain hit me.
“Shit!” I yanked my hand back with a sharp cry.
The burn was instant.
Searing.
A bright red line was already forming across two of my fingertips where they'd made contact with the superheated metal.
"Ice!" Chef Bunzō barked at the nearest staff member—the older woman with the laugh lines. "Get ice, now. Cold water first, then ice."
She was already moving, grabbing a clean towel and running it under the tap.
“Fuck.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I got lost for a minute.”
“No. No. That’s fine.” Chef Bunzō turned to me. "Are you okay? Is everything alright?"
For some dumbass reason, I couldn't answer.
My hands were shaking.
In fact, my whole body was shaking.
And it shouldn’t have been that way.
I’d seen the damn pyre hours ago. I’d made peace with what I saw and the violence of this new world that I’d stepped into.
I was stronger than this.
Get it together. Right fucking now.
The woman gave the cloth to the Chef and then he pressed the cold, wet towel against my burned fingers. “Should I call the island’s doctor?”
“No.” I hissed at the contact. “I’m. . .fine.”
"Is there anything I can get you?" Chef Bunzō asked, still holding my hand with the towel. "Anything at all?"
I opened my mouth to say something, but the words wouldn't come. Because apparently, I wasn't fine. I was falling apart in the middle of his beautiful kitchen, surrounded by ruined food and worried faces.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
And then a deep voice sounded from the doorway. "Everyone leave."
I looked up.
Hiro stood at the threshold, broad frame blocking the light from the hallway. No shirt—just dark pants and bare feet, like he'd been in the middle of something when he sensed trouble with me.
His eyes swept the scene—the smoking pot, the scattered staff, Chef Bunzō holding the wet towel pressed to my burned fingers.
Then his gaze locked on mine.
And in them, I saw recognition.
Understanding.
The bone-deep knowledge of someone who had walked through his own fires and come out scarred.
"Did you fucking hear me?” Hiro put his gaze on the chef. “Everyone out."
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried absolute authority.
Chef Bunzō left me with the towel and nodded. "Keep the ice on those fingers."
The staff moved quickly, until one by one, they filed out through the side door, casting worried glances over their shoulders.
Fuck. That was embarrassing.
Within seconds, the kitchen was empty.
Just me and Hiro. And the haze of smoke still hanging in the air near the ruined oxtail in its blackened pot. Hiro looked back at me. “How are you?”
"I'm fine."
“Hmmm.” He just stood there in the doorway, still filling it completely—all broad shoulders and sculpted muscle, his bare chest covered in ink that told stories I was only beginning to understand.
He looked like he'd just rolled out of bed from having sex. Hair wild and tousled, yet somehow still stylish in that effortless way.
Dark pants hung low on his hips.
Bare feet on the kitchen tile.
And those eyes were sharp, assessing, and seeing straight through my bullshit. "You're not fine. And we both know it."
I shivered.
“So, let’s talk.”
Chapter eight
Where Fire Cannot Follow
Nyomi
Hiro crossed the kitchen.
Barefoot.
Bare-chested.
All that ink and muscle on display as he moved toward me.
I should have told him to stop.
Should have waved him off and pretended I was okay.
But my skin was still too hot. Flushed. Burning from the inside out. The phantom smoke had crawled into my lungs and stayed there. The ghost of flames still licked behind my eyes every time I blinked.
And I couldn't look away from him.
Couldn't find the words.
Could barely breathe as he closed the distance between us.
Then he was there.
Right in front of me.
He wrapped those big arms around me and pulled me close to him. Soon his chest was warm against my cheek. And the scent of him. . .
He doesn’t smell like sake this time.
The last time I'd been this close to Hiro, alcohol had clung to his skin. In fact, he'd been drowning in it. Sleeping in the kitchen because he couldn't face his own bed.
But this morning he smelled like ocean air and wet stone.