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)
Aww.
My old recorder sat there, exactly where Kenji said it would be, surrounded by my new recorder and everything else a writer could need.
Intrigued, I grabbed the old recorder and pressed play to hear the last message.
My own voice filled the office, slightly tinny through the old speaker. "March tenth. I'm in Castle in the Sky, the third brothel that I've visited. However, unlike the others this one is elegant and—"
Zo's voice cut in. "Soapland."
A smile broke across my face before I could stop it.
On the recorder, my voice held annoyance. "Come again?"
Zo cleared his throat. "It's not technically a brothel. It's a soapland. Big cultural difference."
I leaned back in my chair, listening to myself fumble through the correction, and then, noise disrupts and Zo jumps on.
"This is Zo. That's Z-O, not short for anything, just Zo. Like Cher, but taller and way whiter."
A laugh escaped me.
"We are currently in a Japanese soapland, which is not—repeat, not—a brothel. Though things do get very. . .sudsy."
I could picture his face perfectly—that ridiculous, self-satisfied grin he got whenever he thought he was being clever.
"Soaplands are unique to Japan. Originally, they were bathhouses. Now? They're the lovechild of a spa, a massage parlor, and the kind of sexual fantasy you don't tell your therapist about."
Past-me's exasperated voice: "Wow."
"In a soapland, you pay for the massage. The emotional trauma that follows? Free of charge."
"Give me my damn recorder back."
"This has been Zo. Cultural ambassador. Fashion designer and occasional flirt. Out."
The recording clicked off.
I sat there in the sudden silence, still smiling, but something heavy settled in my chest.
That was old me.
That version of Nyomi—standing in a soapland with her best friend, recording notes for a book, laughing at Zo's ridiculous commentary—had no idea what was about to happen.
She didn't know that minutes later, she'd walk into the Dragon's office.
She didn't know her heart would stop at the sight of him.
She didn't know that within weeks, she'd be in his bed, marked by his teeth, claimed in ways she'd never imagined.
She didn't know about the bombs, the war, the test with the Fangs.
She didn't know that yakuza soldiers would be protecting her grandmother in Charleston, or that she'd fall so completely in love with a man that was brutally dangerous.
That Nyomi thought she was there to write a book about Japan's sex industry. She thought she'd get her interviews, gather her research, and go home. She thought her biggest challenge would be convincing editors that the story mattered.
She had no idea her entire life was about to detonate.
Wow. Life is insane.
I pressed my hand to my chest, feeling the ache there—not painful, but profound.
How do you mourn a version of yourself that still exists in a recording?
How do you say goodbye to the woman you were before everything changed?
I looked around the office—at the shelves filled with books I couldn't have afforded, at the desk positioned to catch perfect light, at the ocean stretching endlessly beyond the windows.
That woman on the recorder would never have believed this future was real.
She would think it was fiction.
Fantasy.
Some impossible romance novel plot.
But it wasn't.
It was my life now.
I set the recorder down gently, like it was something precious and fragile.
Because it was.
It was evidence of the before.
And I—sitting here in designer clothes, with guards outside my door and a dragon in my bed—I was the after.
I looked down at my notebook.
The work remained the same, even if everything else had changed.
I would still write Hiroko's story.
I would still explore Japan's sex industry.
But now I'd write it as someone who understood what it meant to be claimed, to be possessed, to surrender to something bigger and more dangerous than herself.
Now I'd write it as the Tiger.
The Dragon’s Heart.
And maybe that made me the right person to tell these stories after all.
My phone buzzed again.
It looked like one of those Scam Likely numbers.
I ignored the call and checked the time.
8:15 AM.
Oh shit. I’ve got fifteen minutes or the Dragon’s Roar is going to roar at me.
I quickly closed the book, pocketed my pen, and rose from my desk.
I’ll grab my tea and write more notes upstairs. With this spy on the island, it would be smart to stay close to Kenji and do as Reo wants.
I held my items with me and left the office.
Being that I still hadn't checked my natural hair stylist's messages, I pulled out my phone as I walked.
The guards fell into formation around me—one slightly ahead, two flanking.
More people were down on this level of the massive house. As we moved through the hallway, I noticed the shift in my status immediately.
A young woman in a crisp uniform was polishing a console table. She looked up as we passed, and her eyes widened slightly. She straightened and bowed her head. "Good morning."
I blinked. "Good morning."
She gave me a warm smile, and then returned to her work.