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)
She adjusted the collar at my throat before leaving. “Every inch you show is a decision. Not his gift. Not your mistake. It is the bold declaration of a queen.”
“Got it.”
She stepped back, tilted her head, and looked me over like a sculptor deciding if her masterpiece needed just one more stroke. “Men like him. . .they don’t kneel easily.”
“Correct.”
“You must give him a reason to. But never beg for it and never ask. Make him earn the right to serve you.”
I swallowed. “Got it.”
But Hiroko wasn’t finished.
Her gaze pinned me like a blade. “And when he finally lowers himself, do not flinch. Do not shrink. Do not smile. That moment isn’t about his power softening. It’s about yours being recognized. Remember that.”
My heart thudded.
She came closer, placed her manicured hand over the red slit in my cape, just above the gartered thigh.
“And this,” she said softly. “This moment tonight is not just sex. This is strategy. A man on his knees doesn’t just want to fuck you. He wants forgiveness. He wants to crawl inside the heat and the hurt and ask to be let in.”
She met my eyes again. “And you—my darling Tiger—will decide if he’s worthy of the yes. Remember. You never have to give your body to him. . .you can simply walk away.”
I had widened my eyes.
Then she had turned, as if she hadn’t just deprogrammed all my internalized misogyny in a single breath.
As if she hadn’t untangled decades of warnings, sermons, side-eyes, and lessons passed down from my mother and every other well-meaning woman who’d survived long enough to teach me how to shrink.
Be small.
Be polite.
Be desirable.
Be strong, not weak.
But don’t ask.
Don’t take.
Don’t argue too much.
Don’t be loud.
Don’t be seen wanting.
I’d sat in pews with my knees clenched and my dress pulled down too far, trying to be holy enough to earn love.
I’d swallowed my moans. I’d smiled when I wanted to scream. I’d whispered apologies when I should’ve roared.
I’d gone to church so many times in my life but today—wrapped in leather and satin, collared and bare underneath—this was the first time I’d heard the true gospel.
And it didn’t come from a pulpit.
It came from a Japanese dominatrix in pearls.
And it wasn’t about sacrifice.
It was about the raw holy power of women who no longer beg to be seen but dare to be worshipped.
And all I could think was. . .
Damn. I’m never going back to old Nyomi again. This is me now. . .this is who I am. . .
So as I stood there now, in the room lit with danger and red shadows, leg exposed, desire glistening between my thighs—I didn’t just feel beautiful.
I felt royal and armed.
And. . .I had to admit that I adored having a Fairy Dominatrix Godmother.
Every woman deserved one.
Hiroko hadn’t given me a pumpkin carriage or glass slippers. She’d given me thigh straps, an open-slit bodysuit, and the exact words and action to make a man kneel for me.
This wasn’t Cinderella’s ballroom story.
No enchanted mice.
No chandelier twirls.
No clock ticking away my magic.
No countdown.
No curfew.
Only worship.
It was a dungeon retelling.
Yet, my breath still caught because I had never seen myself like this.
Some of my old programming was still in my mind too, struggling to be revived, whispering. . .are you really ready to be worshipped.
I did my best to ignore it.
My heart pounded against my chest.
And then. . .the door began to open.
Oh shit. Time to begin.
Chapter forty-two
Face the Queen
Nyomi
The door opened.
And just like that, the air changed.
My breath hitched.
Kenji stepped inside and the temperature of the room dropped and spiked all at once.
Every candle, every red light, every velvet shadow bent around him like he’d been summoned—not invited.
Like this space recognized him as something it was built to contain but never fully control.
The door shut behind him and he remained there, taking me and the space in.
The first thing I noted was his silence.
The second was his size.
At the dinner table, it had been easier to forget. Between dishes, slow glances, and playful banter, I could tuck away the truth of him—how big he really was, how much danger pulsed beneath all that stillness.
But now, standing in the center of this sacred room, half-dressed in sex and power, I felt it.
The Dragon.
Six-foot-two.
Framed in muscle that moved in a threatening rhythm beneath that black designer suit.
His shoulders were too broad for the shadows to cover. His chest strained the fabric. The line of his jaw was hard enough to cut, and his hair—black, too pretty for someone so merciless—framed a face carved by gods who clearly preferred sinners.
There was ink peeking above his collar, reminding me of his connection to the Yakuza and that he ruled Japan’s criminal underworld.
My thighs clenched.
My breath stuttered.
Still. . .I didn’t move.
Oh shit. What am I doing? Am I crazy?
But then our eyes met. . .his alpha expression broke.