Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 161615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 539(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 161615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 539(@300wpm)
Beautiful.
Brutal.
Below the falling petals and taking up the center of his back, was a massive wave—the Great Wave, like Hokusai's famous print—rendered in stunning detail with shades of deep blue and white foam.
The wave crashed and curled with terrifying power.
But within the water. . .
I took a few steps his way to look closer.
There are faces in the water. Dozens of them. Some peaceful. Some screaming. All drowning and being pulled under by the relentless current.
And at the bottom, near his lower back where the wave seemed to crash against his skin, koi fish swam desperately upstream through the violent water.
Black and gray.
Scales rendered in painstaking detail.
Their mouths open as if gasping for air.
Some were half-submerged and struggling.
Others leaped toward the blossoms above, fighting against impossible currents, trying to reach something beautiful that was already being torn apart.
The entire piece flowed together like a tragic story told in ink. Cherry blossoms—beauty and life—being destroyed. The great wave—overwhelming force, drowning everything in its path. The koi fish—fighting, struggling upward, even as everything falls apart around them.
This wasn't just art.
This was pain made visible.
Trauma made permanent.
And somehow, even possibly drunk, even passed out at a kitchen table reeking of sake, Hiro was one of the most striking men I'd ever seen. His face—what I could see of it beneath the dark hair—had the kind of sharp, elegant bone structure that belonged in photographs.
High cheekbones.
A strong jaw.
Lips that were full and soft even in unconsciousness.
The defined muscles of his arms pillowed his head, and I could see the strength in them—the kind of power that came from endless training, from being one of Kenji's most trusted Claws.
I stepped closer.
This didn’t seem like peaceful sleep.
His breathing was uneven, catching every few seconds like even unconsciousness wouldn't let him rest. His muscular shoulders rose and fell in stuttering rhythms, and I could see the tension even now—in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands were curled into loose fists, in the rigid line of his spine.
This was a man barely holding on.
The tattoos suddenly made even more sense. The blossoms being torn apart. The people drowning in the wave. The koi still fighting even though everything was falling apart.
My writer brain started jotting invisible interview questions.
What happened? Are the tattoos about your marking yourself with struggles you couldn't escape? Is the sake the only thing keeping you from drowning too?
My chest tightened.
Why wasn't he in his bedroom?
Why was he down here, passed out at the kitchen table like sleep was something he had to steal between swallows of alcohol?
I thought about the way he'd smiled in the war room and made all those jokes against Kenji’s Maybe-Baby Mama.
I thought about the lollipop in his mouth then and wondered. . .was that a small sign of him trying to cope with trauma.
Sugar to make the pain go down better.
Regardless. . .this was a man barely holding on.
I clutched my phone and notebook to my chest and moved carefully toward the counter where the kettle waited. I'd have to pass close to him and be very quiet, so I didn’t wake him.
I took a step.
Then another.
Almost past him now.
I would make my tea quickly and slip out quietly.
Let him sleep.
Let him—
Movement came from Hiro.
FAST!
One second, I was walking forward.
The next, everything exploded into chaos.
He moved. A blur of motion. His body uncoiled from the chair. His hand locked around my wrist, and then he spun me towards him.
My notebook jolted loose, pages scattering.
My phone slipped and clattered to the floor.
"Ah—!"
The world spun.
He yanked me sideways with brutal force, my feet left the ground for a split second before he slammed me back-first against the counter.
“Ahh!” The impact knocked the air from my lungs. Pain exploded across my spine as the counter edge dug into my back. My head snapped back, and my vision blurred for a second.
Cold steel kissed my throat, belonging to the knife in his hand.
What?! A knife! Oh my God!!
I screamed—a sharp, terrified sound that cut through the kitchen.
Behind me, the guards erupted into motion. Chairs scraped. Weapons cleared holsters. Boots thundered across the floor.
"STAY BACK!" one of them roared.
Another yelled, "Hiro-san! Yamero!"
Another guard shouted in rapid Japanese, words I didn't understand but the command in his voice was universal: Stand down.
But. . .Hiro’s eyes were still closed. . .and. . .a light snore left him.
What the fuck?! Is he still sleeping as he tries to kill me?!
Chapter twelve
The Depths of the Ocean
Nyomi
Hiro began to slowly open his eyes, but I could tell it was difficult for him. The scent of alcohol reached me. He kept his body pressed against mine, pinning me to the counter.
One hand gripped my wrist in a bruising hold.
The other held the blade steady at my throat—not cutting, but there, a hairsbreadth from my pulse.
His chest was against mine. I could feel the heat of his bare skin through my shirt, feel every defined muscle, every rapid breath.