My breasts bounced with each step.
One guy’s cigarfellfrom his mouth and landed on the marble with a soft hiss.
I swayed my hips.
A few feet away, a man stood with his headset still clinging to his ears. His eyes were glassy and open. . .but barely. He swayed where he stood, blinking in slow, heavy drags like each second was a wave trying to pull him under. But when he caught me walking by. . .it was like someone had shot expresso into his veins. He sat up in his seat and damn near began to drool.
Another was seated on a crate of ammo, elbows resting on his knees, head down like it weighed too much to hold up. His lids fluttered, fighting gravity, and I could see the tension in his jaw as he tried—desperately—to stay awake. And the same response came, he saw me and suddenly came awake.
Not a single man in this room looked like they’d slept, yet when they got their gazes on me, they appeared fully rested.
Alright. Mission accomplished. I am definitely making an entrance.
I put my view back on the massive 3D display of Tokyo.
Another man spotted me and his hand trembled as he knocked over a tiny fox head he’d just placed on a rooftop. It clinked down and rolled into the miniature version of Shinjuku.
I didn’t falter.
I kept walking.
Every step I took sent echoes through that marble chamber—cutting across war talk, slicing through smoke, and disrupting everyone’s focus.
The hush that followed me wasn’t just awe.
It was uncertainty.
Maybe even craving.
Not one of those men had ever seen a woman in this room, especially not a Black woman. And damned sure not like this, sexy outfit, heels high, head held high.
I loved this feeling of erotic power over them.
It was chemical.
Utterly primal.
I could feel the shift ripple through the space—the way one man’s pulse jumped so hard he knocked over a stack of blueprints. Another dropped a clip of bullets.
These weren’t gangsters now.
They were horny boys in the presence of their Queen.
Now I get Kenji’s rule of no women and children in the war room. Especially for the female side of that rule.
Before I walked in, his men might have been planning the next phase of war, but now. . . they were memorizing the bounce of my breasts. I didn’t need to say a word.
I didn’t need a seat at the table.
I was the reason they couldn’t focus on the fucking table anymore.
But beneath all that illusion, I was thinking about something else.
Something softer.
Something scarier.
Looking sexy was fine, and making them turn heads was cool too, but how do I really make a difference during this war? Howdo I care for men who kill for a living? Who smoke through pain, gamble with death, and barely sleep between bomb strikes?
