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)
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.