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)
Reo fell into step beside me, and despite the bruises blooming beneath his shirt, his stride was steady. Measured. The kind of walk that told anyone watching he had nothing to prove and nothing to fear.
I opened the door.
The Fangs were waiting.
Kaoru and Yoichi straightened immediately, eyes snapping to my face, reading my expression.
Rin materialized from wherever he'd been standing—silent, white suit pristine against the dark wood of the corridor.
Satoshi was last, pushing off the wall with a controlled exhale. His gaze went over Reo once, before settling back on me.
You see, Satoshi? I didn’t hurt your friend.
We moved as a unit down the corridor without footsteps falling into rhythm against the polished floors. The mansion felt different now—quieter, heavier, as if the walls themselves understood what waited outside.
Like in my bedroom, I could smell the greasy sweetness of burning flesh before we reached the doors.
My jaw tightened.
We passed through the main hall.
Satoshi moved ahead to open the main doors.
Light spilled in—gray and wrong through smoke.
I stepped through, and heat hit me in the face.
Yesterday, this island had been paradise. Cool ocean breezes. White sand beaches where my men's children built sandcastles while their wives lounged in the shade. Laughter echoed across the water.
The war had probably felt distant, held at bay by the beauty of this place, and for a few precious days, we'd all been able to breathe.
Now the island was a battlefield.
The air was thick with smoke, heavy and gray, pressing down on everything like a burial shroud.
Even though it was morning, the sky was dark, choked with ash.
I coughed and covered my mouth with my hand. The smoke burned my throat, my lungs, coated the inside of my mouth with the taste of death.
Since my argument with my Tiger, the pyre had grown.
My men had been feeding it all morning, adding wood and fuel, keeping the flames hungry. Bodies near the bottom had burned down to bone and char, but at the top of the pile, newer additions were still recognizable.
Still human.
The fire crackled and popped, consuming flesh.
Ash drifted through the air. Some settled on my shoulders, my hair, the sleeves of my shirt. I watched a flake land on my hand and thought of Tora at the window this morning, thinking it was snow.
At least she didn’t vomit. She just gagged.
The thought surfaced unbidden, and I held onto it. Most people—even men who had spent years in this life—would have emptied their stomachs at the sight of over a hundred bodies burning.
At the smell.
At the understanding of what that ash really was.
But my Tiger had stood at that window, breathed it in, and kept her spine straight for longer than most.
She'd been horrified.
Shaken.
Angry enough to demand things from me that no one else would dare ask for.
But she hadn't broken down and sobbed like some weak individual.
Continuing to walk, I turned my hand over and watched ash settle into the creases of my palm.
Reo is right. She's stronger than I give her credit for.
A few weeks ago, Nyomi had been a woman with a normal life. A woman who had probably never seen a man burn to death, never smelled burning flesh, never had to reckon with the kind of violence that ran through my veins like blood.
Now she was in my kitchen, preparing for a party honoring killers, holding morale together with her bare hands while the sky rained human remains.
That wasn't survival.
That was adaptation.
The kind that couldn't be taught.
The kind that either lived inside a person or didn't.
And that was what my Roar wanted for her.
I glanced his way.
Keeping my pace, Reo's jaw was set, and his stride even. To anyone else, he looked untouchable. But I saw the way his left hand stayed loose at his side instead of swinging naturally—protecting the ribs I'd damaged.
The whiskey should have slowed him.
The pain should have shown on his face.
But Reo moved as if neither existed.
I smiled and faced forward.
Movement near the pyre caught my attention. The Lion stood barely five feet from the flames.
If only he could just slip and fall into the flames, my day would be much smoother.
Only the Lion would stand so close to this sort of death.
Everyone else had retreated—my men and even his people kept a respectful distance of at least ten feet.
The families on the island had fled entirely.
But Kazimir stood close enough to touch the fire, close enough that the heat must have been searing, and he stared into the blaze like he was watching the most captivatingly beautiful vision in the world.
Sick bastard.
He was massive and tall. Built like a bear, with shoulders broad enough to block out the sun. Today he wore black boots, black pants, a black long-sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms thick with muscle and tattoos. And I realized that this wasn't the Kazimir I was used to seeing—the one in tailored suits and silk ties, the one who looked like he belonged in a boardroom negotiating hostile takeovers.