Turning back around and walking forward, I didn’t even give that ruckus any more thought.
Let Reo handle them. Not my monkeys. Not my circus.
Then I made it to the Dragon, and what I assumed to be his inner circle. I stopped four feet in front of Kenji.
Not three.
Not two.
Four.
It was intentional and calculated.
If he wanted to touch me. . .if he wanted to close that space between us. . .he would have to leave the desk, step forward, and cross the line.
And maybe that was petty. Or maybe it was power. Because the way he was looking at me made my heart pound so hard I could feel it in my earlobes. His gaze was pure fire—unfiltered, unapologetic.
He hadn’t stopped staring at me since I walked in, and it was getting harder to keep my own expression neutral, like I didn’t want to be dragged across that desk and kissed in front of his entire goddamn empire.
But still, I held the line.
I wasn’t going to be the one to close the distance.
Not here.
Not in this room.
Because this wasn’t just any room—it was a war room. A sacred space for strategy and blood. And even more than that, it washiswar room. A place where every movement was watched, every gesture decoded. A place where power didn’t just speak—it breathed, observed, and remembered.
And I wasn’t just navigating criminal territory now.
I was in Japan.
This wasalsoa cultural space.
And I had to remember that.
This wasn’t New York.
Japan was about respect.
About boundaries.
About privacy and posturing.
Therefore, if he wanted me, he’d have to step forward. And judging by the look in his eyes, it was only a matter of time.
Mmmm.
Today, the Dragon wore a long-sleeve black shirt—designer, of course—that clung to the carved planes of his chest and arms. The fabric hugged the layers of his sculpted body, and his black slacks sat low on his hips, casual and dangerous.
But it was his bare feet that threw me.
Why is this man so damn perfect?
Every toe had been arranged by a sculptor with a God complex. His nails buffed, neat. Not a speck of rough skin in sight. Nails painted black.
Oh, my man definitely gets weekly pedicures. Alright. I guess. . .I have a little foot fetish too. . .
