I rolled my eyes at Reo’s cockiness and clear fascination with my Tiger.
You want to be closer to her to study her. You’re intrigued.
I turned away, heat low in my chest at the thought of my Tiger choosing to learn our tongue—choosing to step deeper into my world. Possessiveness nipped at the edges of that warmth. Of course Reo would volunteer himself and. . .he would in fact be the best.
“By the way,” Reo called up again. “What time is this dinner for the Claws happening? Is it tonight?”
I ignored him and kept climbing. I had a Tiger to find and a few answers to collect about why she’d left my war room early.
A minute later, the corridor softened. I neared our master suite. Our door stood ajar, perfumed steam curled into the hall.
Several of my staff zipped up the stairs, rushed past me, and entered the room.
What’s going on?
A housemaid hurried by with a silver tray piled with cut jasmine and rose petals.
Another followed carrying thick pink candles and a glass jar of bath salts.
I stopped as two more hurried along. One held black silk robes folded over her arm and a stack of snowy towels balanced in the other.
The next had an ice bucket and two crystal flutes.
As fast as they went in, they came right back out.
Each bowed my way and rushed along.
Stunned, I turned toward the door.
From inside came the melody of running water and a scent that uncoiled every knot in me—vanilla, jasmine, and lavender.
Mmmm. My Tiger is naked and glistening somewhere in all that steam. And. . .she’s been busy.
Chapter thirty
The Mystery in the Water
Kenji
I stepped into our bedroom and the tightness in my chest followed me.
Afternoon light slid through the curved glass and the sheer silk tamed it.
The sea beyond threw silver at the horizon.
The cherry blossom tree in the black stone planter held its pink.
The bed—low, wide, impossible—waited with black sheets and a spill of deep red. I took pride in the fact that my Tiger had finally slept there and now those sheets would smell like her—ripe plum and black amber.
Heat climbed my throat.
The wordminesat heavy behind my teeth.
Two housemaids were finishing a spread at the lacquered table—tea steaming, little sweets arranged in militant rows, napkins folded into paper cranes, lotus blooms, and fans.
They bowed when they noticed me and then kept their eyes down. Soon, they headed out in a rustle of slippers.
The bathroom door stood ajar, letting a veil of steam slip into the room, warm and perfumed, blurring the edges of the furniture like a dream half-remembered.
