Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 101427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
My stomach flipped.
My blood surged.
“Are you ready, Nyomi?”
“Yes.”
“Then, it is time.”
Fuck. Am I going to pull this off?
Chapter twenty-two
The Journey
Nyomi
In no time I was out of the bedroom and downstairs. Once I made it to the main level, I followed Hiroko’s instruction and took my time getting there.
My heels clicked against the polished floors of Kenji's mansion like tiny gunshots.
The sound echoed through the otherwise silent hallway.
Heads turned.
Servants paused.
A tattooed guard at the corner of the hall saw me and then quickly adjusted his stance—shoulders back, gaze right to the floor.
I moved on past two guards in mid-conversation. When I got close, they fell silent. One nodded at me. The other hit his shoulder and spoke hushed sentences in Japanese.
A young maid froze mid-step, her eyes widening before she quickly bowed and stepped aside.
I could feel her gaze tickling my skin, sliding over the sway of my hips, maybe confused by my stilettos since no one else wore shoes in Kenji’s house.
Alright. I’ve got it so far.
On the outside, I was a queen.
My back didn’t bend. My chin didn’t waver. My lips, painted in that deep, dangerous plum, parted just enough to look unbothered.
Unreachable.
My eyes didn’t dart. My heels didn’t hesitate. I walked as if I had carved the marble myself and told it where to lie.
Like the walls had been built to echo my footsteps.
Like the silence had been curated to showcase my entrance.
Like every head that turned was obeying some invisible command I’d given just by existing.
Even the air seemed to slow for me.
But it was all performance.
A perfectly constructed illusion draped over tension. I wore confidence like armor and power like perfume, hoping neither would crack beneath the pressure of what I was about to walk into.
Because I hoped to God that queens weren’t born.
I prayed that they were crafted.
And during this war, I would be studying the skills and hopefully passing the tests.
But on the inside?
I was a knot.
My stomach twisted into tight and tangled wires. My breathing was too shallow.
Still my heels were clicking, my hips swaying, and my breasts bouncing.
I didn’t know if I was pulling this off or just pretending, and maybe that was the whole point.
Pretend long enough, and the crown becomes yours.
I reached the long corridor.
It looked different in daylight.
Last night, it had been a tunnel carved through shadow. Now, afternoon light spilled through the arched windows, washing the stone floors in warmth and gold.
This wasn’t just a hallway.
It was a map of Kenji’s mind.
I passed the first closed door, his office. Next, I went by my writing room.
I still can’t believe that with everything going on. . .he thought of me and made sure I had a space to write.
It was a carved-out position in the center of his kingdom for my voice. My work. My dreams. It was mine. But now I saw more than just his affection. I saw his strategy too. Because on this corridor, there were only three doors—his office, my writing room, and the war room.
That was it.
He had placed me between the two halves of his world—between his power and his violence. Between the mind of the Dragon and the blood of the battlefield.
He’d made sure I was in the middle of everything.
Not locked away.
Not at the edge of his life.
But very fucking close.
It was a clear statement to me that I was his, and it was so sexy and disturbingly possessive all at the same time.
And I loved it.
The thought made my nipples harden against the lace of my bra. Just enough to remind me that I wasn’t simply loved—I was owned, adored, and permanently marked.
And still, I walked on.
A few steps ahead, the war room came into view.
Two guards stood in front of the door. Same ones from last night. I recognized the tall one with a scar across his eyebrow.
But it was the other one, the shorter man with a subtle mole near his jaw, who gave me pause.
He looked at me again, and I slowed my steps.
Hmmm.
It was that same unsettling glance from the night before—quick, but off in a way that stuck with me. I hadn’t thought much of it then, but now with the war happening. . .my mind was in stealth mode.
Last night, I remembered that this guard’s gaze had lingered not on my body, but on the direction I was walking.
Tracking.
Assessing.
I’d felt it at the time—an instinctual chill—but brushed it off. Too much was happening last night for me to think too deeply about it.
But this afternoon. . .I had the time.
What’s up with this guy?
Instantly, my journalist brain kicked in.
I’d learned to read body language early. It was vital in interviews—when people’s mouths lied, but their shoulders didn’t.
When someone swore they were innocent, but their left eye twitched just before they smiled. When another’s mouth said, "I’m fine," but their knees pointed toward the exit.