Hiroko got to Nyomi's right and squared her own shoulders, matching Nyomi's posture and standing beside her the way a general stood beside a soldier about to take their first command.
Hiroko had spent decades in rooms like this—had wielded fire wands, floggers, single-tail whips. Had dominated politicians, surgeons, men who controlled billions and crumbled at her feet. And now Hiroko was giving my Tiger a taste of that same power. Hiroko held three fingers up. "Before you touch him. Three things."
Nyomi nodded.
"One. Your instinct will be to pull away the second the flame meets skin. Don't fight that instinct. It's correct. The first stroke should be quick." She snapped her fingers. "Like that.You're introducing his body to the fire. Letting his nervous system understand what's happening. Think of it as a handshake between his skin and the flame."
Nyomi's grip on the wand steadied. “Okay. A handshake.”
"Yes. Now number two." Hiroko stepped close to the slab and ran her hand an inch above my forearm without touching me. "Feel the heat before you make contact. Hover. The air between the flame and the skin is your safety net. You should feel warmth radiating down before you ever touch. If the heat feels aggressive from an inch away, the wand has too much fuel. Dip again with less alcohol."
"How do I know what aggressive feels like versus normal?"
Hiroko held her own palm near the flame. "Put your free hand here. An inch above where you're about to stroke."
Nyomi held her left hand above my forearm. Close enough to feel the heat from the wand in her right. “Alright. I see what you’re saying.”
"That warmth you feel right now—that's the preview. That's what his skin will feel a half-second before the flame arrives. If that warmth feels like opening an oven door, pull back. If it feels like standing near a fireplace. . ." Hiroko smiled. "Then go for it."
"Fireplace. Got it."
"Three." Hiroko leaned closer to Nyomi. "He's going to make sounds."
I doubt it.
"Men in subspace lose control of their vocal cords before they lose control of anything else. He will groan. He will grunt. He might even whimper." Hiroko glanced at me. The corner of her mouth twitched. "The Dragon will deny the whimpering later, but it will happen."
I frowned.
Dragons don’t whimper.
As if Nyomi heard me, she bit her lip to keep from laughing.
"Do not let his sounds distract you," Hiroko continued. "The sounds are good. They're feedback. A groan means the heat registered. A gasp means it was intense. Silence. . ." Her expression sharpened. ". . .silence is what you watch for. If he goes quiet and his body locks up, you stop and check him. Silence during fire play means the nervous system is overwhelmed."
"Groans good. Silence bad."
"Exactly." Hiroko stepped back and crossed her arms. "One more thing. This is not a rule. This is advice."
Nyomi waited.
"Forget that you're holding fire."
Nyomi raised an eyebrow.
"I'm serious. You've already felt it on your own arm. You know what it does. You know what it doesn't do. So stop thinking about the fire." Hiroko tapped her own collarbone. "Think about his skin. You're not burning him—you're painting him. The wand is a brush. The flame is your medium. His body is the canvas."
Nyomi smiled. “I like that.”
“Good.” She swept her hand over my torso. "Every artist has to stop being afraid of the paint before they can make anything beautiful."
Nyomi looked down at me. At my chest. My stomach. My arms stretched above my head in the restraints.
I watched her jaw set. Watched her shoulders square. Watched her shift her weight forward onto the balls of her feet—the posture of a woman about to move.
"Start with the forearm." Hiroko pointed. "Inside of the arm. Big muscle. Quick stroke. And Nyomi—"
My Tiger looked at her.
