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)
The scent filled the room. Rich and herbal with a faint spice that clung to the back of my throat.
I offered it to Nyomi who was watching us with a wicked smirk.
She shook her head and headed to the closet.
I took another hit and then blew out smoke. "Why are you here?"
Hiro's smile widened. "Because I'm saying goodbye to my Tiger too."
Nyomi’s laughter echoed from the closet. She thought he was joking.
But I knew better.
I looked at my brother sprawled across the bed like he'd been invited, and I knew with absolute certainty that he was one hundred percent serious.
Hiro had come in here to say goodbye to Nyomi. To my woman. And he didn't give a single fuck that it was inappropriate or that I might have a problem with it.
The worst part?
I didn't even mind.
I gestured to the knife on the bed. "What's that for?"
Hiro raised his eyebrows. "Did you forget already?"
"Forget what?"
"Your mother's ways.” He sat up. " Reo and me assumed you were going to do this."
"Do what?"
"Get the Tiger's blood."
“What?” Nyomi walked out of the closet, now in a robe. Her hair was still damp and hung in thick braids down her back. She looked between us with confusion written across her face. "What would we need my blood for?"
Hiro grabbed the joint from me. “To protect our guns.”
Oh.
The memory hit me fast.
I was a kid again. Maybe six or seven years old. Standing in my father's study while my mother stood beside him.
The Fox had a gun in his hand, and he was checking the barrel.
Once done, my mother held out her hand.
Palm up.
Finger extended.
Then, the Fox took a small blade and pricked her fingertip.
Blood welled up, bright red against her pale skin. My mother didn't flinch. She just pressed her finger to the top of his gun and smeared her blood across the metal.
"For protection," she'd said. "And power."
The Fox had smiled at her. Not warmly. But with the kind of satisfaction a man gets when something he owns performs exactly as expected.
And then he'd gone to war.
The irony wasn't lost on me even as a child. My father spent years downplaying my mother, insulting her lineage and treating her like she was beneath him.
But he would never go to war without her blood on his guns.
Never.
I looked at Hiro. He'd been standing next to me that day in the study. Younger than me. Quieter. I'd assumed he didn't remember.
But clearly, he did.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.
I looked at it. "Enter."
The door opened and three servants filed in carrying large and black ceramic vases. Each one was filled with fresh white roses. The blooms were full and open. The petals were bright against the dark stems.
I tensed.
The first servant placed a vase on the side table near the window. The second moved toward the dresser. The third headed for the nightstand next to the bed.
White petals.
My vision tunneled.
The dream crashed into me without warning—black water at my waist, chrysanthemums breaking the surface, white petals pressing into my skin, dissolving into my tattoos, stems punching between my ribs, roots threading around my heart.
White swallowing black.
White replacing me.
White blooming from the splits in my skin.
My chest seized. My throat closed. The room smelled sweet and wrong. "Get these flowers out of here!"
The servants stared at me and froze.
"Now!" My hands were shaking. I fisted them at my sides.
The servants looked at each other. Confusion crossed their faces.
Seconds later, they moved fast. All three grabbed the vases and rushed toward the door. Water sloshed over the rims. A few white petals scattered across the floor as they hurried out.
I stared at the fallen petals, and my skin crawled.
Nyomi stepped forward and her hand touched my arm.
I flinched before I could stop myself.
"Kenji? What's—"
"I'm fine."
My heart slammed so hard I could feel the pulse in my teeth. My body remembered what my mind was trying to cage—the feeling of roots fusing with my organs, of chrysanthemums feeding from my blood, of my own heartbeat changing rhythm to match something that was killing me.
They were roses. Not chrysanthemums. Calm down.
Meanwhile, I knew that Nyomi didn't believe me. I could see it happening behind her eyes—that thing she did where she took apart everything in front of her and reassembled it into the truth. Her gaze moved from my fisted hands to my jaw to the scattered petals on the floor and back to my face, and I could practically hear the pieces clicking into place.
"Stop reading me, Tora."
She blinked.
I cleared my throat. "I'm fine."
She didn't push. But she didn't stop reading me either. I could feel it. She just went quiet with it—took the whole operation underground where I couldn't tell her to stop.
I sighed.
Hiro put out the joint in an ash tray that he must have brought in here with him. “Are you okay, brother?”