Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 115388 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115388 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
“That’s fair. I’ll inform the owner.”
“Does the owner know the Dragon will be attending?”
“Absolutely not. I figured I should keep that part secret so I just said it’s someone I’m dating.”
“Good job. Let’s keep it that way.”
“I thought you would say that.”
“Please, make sure the owner is there when I arrive.”
“She will be and she will cooperate. I promise,” I hesitated. “Reo, again I’m not trying to make your job harder. I just really want this to mean something.”
Another pause.
This one softer.
“I understand,” he said, voice lower now, silkier somehow. “And. . .this could be fun.”
I blinked. “You think so?”
“In all my years working with Kenji, only one person has ever planned something like this for him. Yet, no woman he’s dated has even attempted it—especially not without informing him or me first.”
“He usually runs the show?”
“Always. He doesn’t like deviations from his plans. Especially not romantic ones.”
I grinned. “I gathered that much.”
“You’re brave.”
I raised a brow. “Is that admiration or a warning?”
“Both,” he said without missing a beat. “The Dragon will either be thrilled. . .or go completely unhinged.”
“Well, I think I can live with both.”
He went quiet again, and when he spoke next, there was something darker beneath the smoothness—respect, maybe. Or intrigue. “Please send the location one hour before.”
“I will.”
“Have a good day, Ms. Palmer.”
“You too . . .Mr. Roar.”
And for the first time in the entire conversation, Reo chuckled before hanging up.
Chapter twenty-one
To Tame a Beast
Nyomi
By nightfall, the nerves had officially set in. I’d spent the whole day prepping the surprise—and now I was standing inside a Tokyo BDSM club that looked like it had been built for emperors and sins no one confessed out loud.
The Iron Blossom was tucked deep in Shinjuku, past the neon chaos and pachinko madness, behind a thick wall of wisteria vines and an unmarked black door.
It was one of the most exclusive BDSM clubs in all of Japan, not just because of the clientele—politicians, pop stars, and surgeons —but because of who owned it.
Ms. Hiroko Watanabe.
A former geisha turned dominatrix turned real estate mogul, apparently, she had ruled Tokyo’s underground kink scene for over thirty years.
Her clients called her The Widow. Not because she’d lost a husband, but because she had a reputation for tying powerful men into delicate little knots—mentally and physically—and then watching them unravel with a gentle smile.
Zo met Ms. Hiroko Watanabe at a Kyoto fashion gala ten years ago, back when he was still freelancing as a stylist for daring couture houses and avant-garde magazine shoots.
Rumor had it that she’d fired her entire glam team fifteen minutes before walking the red carpet, refusing to be dressed by “soulless fabric technicians.”
Zo had been called in last-minute as a backup and with nothing but a silk ribbon, a vintage obi belt, and a kimono jacket from his own suitcase, he turned her into the main event. She’d purred his name for the rest of the night and called him her “little king of aesthetic warfare.”
Since then, he’d styled her for everything from Tokyo Film Festival appearances to underground kink galas hosted in abandoned shrines.
She always paid in cash, Chanel, or secrets.
Sometimes all three.
When Zo introduced us yesterday and I told her my idea, she didn’t flinch. She simply folded her arms, arched a brow, and said, “you are becoming the goddess you were meant to be. So many women forget that part of themselves. Women weren’t put on this Earth to bend to any man’s needs. We are here to dominate.”
She then slid her hand from under her vintage silver-streaked chignon and held it out to me. A rare emerald ring sparkled on her finger. "And in this place, my dear, you'll learn how to do just that."
I shook her hand.
Excitement surged through me.
I was stepping into a world that was the antithesis of my own existence yet I felt more at home than I ever had before.
She watched me. “Who do you want to dominate?”
“I must keep that a secret.”
“Then, he’s powerful and famous.”
“He is.”
She tilted her head, studying me. “Let me tell you a secret most women never hear; The stronger the man, the deeper his ache to surrender.”
I blinked. “You think so?”
She smiled. “I know so. Alpha men spend every moment of every day making decisions, commanding people, and orchestrating worlds. They wear their dominance like armor. But armor is heavy. Power is lonely. In the quiet moments—in the dark—they long for relief. They want to be told what to do. To be undone. Most die never getting that relief.”
“Why?”
“Because true surrender requires immense trust and many men of this sort see it as weakness.”
My throat tightened at her words.
Kenji flashed in my mind—his sharp suits, his iron control, the brutal violence in his gaze.
She continued. “However, surrender is the bravest act a man like that can offer. And if he offers it to you, even for a moment, you must honor it like the sacred thing it is.”