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)
A broken part of me—twisted and long-restrained—wanted it.
Wanted her splayed on this table, thighs spread, with Hiroko watching.
Wanted the ritual of it.
The humiliation of it.
The crown stripped from my head by the woman I chose to kneel for.
And Nyomi saw it in my eyes as she smiled like she hadn’t just detonated hunger inside me and shattered my control.
I sat there—flushed, hard, and trembling.
Tora. . .
She had said that to me.
The Dragon.
I was orchestrating a war under all of Japan’s eyes. At this very moment, my men were putting my plans in motion. Bombs would detonate by my command. The Fox’s empire would bend. Blood would flow, and the shadows would shift. I was dismantling it all bone by bone.
And yet. . .this woman—this Tiger—sat beside me with her thighs crossed and her gaze soft, and she had more sway over my body, my mind, my fucking soul, than any weapon I’d ever held.
She wasn’t kneeling.
She wasn’t afraid.
She was smiling.
Watching.
Mastering me with silence.
And I. . .wanted her to tighten her grip and make me ache.
The war outside was mine.
But the war inside?
She may have already won it.
Alright. You win this round too. But that will be it.
Nyomi quirked her brows. “Are you ready for us to begin?”
I cleared my throat and damn near groaned out my next words. "Yes. Now we may begin, Tora."
She smiled—fuck me, she smiled—and tilted her head just enough to let the curls brush over her shoulder. "Why thank you, Dragon."
My body thrummed at her saying Dragon. I couldn’t explain how I knew it, but I was certain that she said it differently tonight. The way she spoke that one word. . .not like she was impressed, but like she already owned me.
Did Hiroko teach her how to say my name that way? Or was she always doing this?
I shook my head but couldn’t get out of the daze.
“So. . .” Nyomi rested one hand close to the first heart-shaped tray. "My grandmother used to say that before our people could read or write, we told stories through food. Tonight. . .I thought I would tell you my story."
"I’m honored."
“Great. I’m so glad to. . .share this part of me with you.” She gestured to all the trays. “So. . .I’m calling this first course, Four Bites of Home.”
And. . .it was embarrassing to say but. . .I nodded like a good little Dragon.
"This one—" she pointed to the tiny stacks of golden bread nestled inside the cast iron spoon and drenched in amber liquid. "This is my family’s secret cornbread recipe. I’ve drizzled something called. . .hot honey on it.”
I studied it. “Hot honey. Is this different from regular honey?"
“Yes.” She grinned. “My grandmother said that it’s hot honey because it sneaks up on you like good trouble.”
“You grandmother has an awesome way with words.”
“She does. She almost didn’t give me the cornbread recipe today.”
“Really?”
“I’ve wanted it for years, but she said that she would only give it to me when I met someone important enough to make it for.” Nyomi shook her head. “Therefore, on the phone today she drilled me about you for a good thirty minutes and. . .after several answers. . .she finally gave it to me.”
“So, your grandmother approves of the Dragon?”
“I wouldn’t say that just yet.” Nyomi raised one finger. “I would say she approves of my cooking for you tonight.”
“I can’t wait to meet her.”
She widened her eyes in shock. “Well. . .that would be a crazy trip indeed, but anyway. I have to give you a fair warning. Hot honey is sweet at first—just like honey. But then the spice comes in slow, catches you at the back of your throat, and lingers.”
I picked up my fork, reached for the cast iron spoon, and broke off a piece of the cornbread.
The crust cracked gently under the tines.
Steam rose from the soft center—fluffy, warm, yellow as sunshine.
Nyomi spoke. “This recipe was passed down from my great-great-great-grandmother. She made it in a wood-burning stove in Charleston before anyone knew what convection even meant.”
Hot honey dripped over the broken piece and clung to it.
This is going to be so good.
“The honey is my twist,” she continued. “Cayenne, red pepper, brown sugar, a dash of apple cider vinegar with some Black girl gold.”
I lifted the fork. “Black girl gold?”
“It’s not an ingredient. It’s a vibe.”
I brought the bite to my mouth and took a careful first taste.
Mmmm.
The crust broke first—crisp and buttery. Then the inside melted—warm, soft, and rich. The honey hit next. First the sweet. Then the kick—slow and seductive. That cayenne honey crawled along the back of my tongue, curled heat along the edges, and settled into a low flame in my chest.
Crunchy.
Spicy.
Sticky.
Tangy from the vinegar.
A loud groan left me.
One bite, and I was already undone.
My eyes fluttered halfway closed. “Fuck. . .Tora. . .”