Page 175 of Dragon 7

Sighing, I lowered my view and stared at the dark tattooed dragon curling over his chest. “I keep waiting to feel bad about killing her. It hasn’t come.”

“You may feel bad one day. Remorse does not always arrive when the blood is warm. Sometimes the body is too busy surviving.”

“What if it hits me later?”

His gaze sharpened. “Then, you let it hurt without deciding that the pain must destroy you.”

The birds continued singing outside.

Somewhere far below us, a horn sounded in the street. Life moved through Tokyo as though no one had died. As though my soul had not changed.

Kenji’s palm slid down my back in one slow pass. “You will remember strange things. Most of the time it isn’t even important things. You may forget her face, but remember the sound of her dying. You may forget what you said, yet clearly remember the smell of the room. You may wake from a dream with your heart racing and not know why.”

My throat tightened.

He felt it through the bond.

His arm closed more firmly around me. “You may become angry when you are actually afraid. You may feel nothing when you believe you should be grieving. You may laugh at the wrong moment. You may want me to touch you. You may not want anyone near you. None of those things make you cruel.”

For several heartbeats, the only sound between us was our breathing. Then, the bond trembled, and Kenji spoke, "I feared I would never be able to touch you again."

Those words sank deep into me, sending ripples low in my belly.

"During the war." His bottom lip quivered. "Every time I set someone on fire. Every time I got closer to Akiro and my father. Every time a bullet came close to ending me. . .I kept thinking. . .If I die here, I won’t ever feel her in my arms again. . ."

My throat tightened.

"Last night. . .I stopped fighting for the empire. Stopped fighting for revenge. I even stopped fighting for my brother." His thumb pressed harder against my mouth. "I fought to get back to you."

"Kenji. . ."

"Even now. . .I’m not sure that this is just a cruel dream. Is the war truly over? Are you really right here?”

I met his gaze. “I’m here, baby. And I’m not going anywhere.”

His hand tightened in my braids. "Say it again."

"I'm here."

Then his mouth crashed onto mine, and he kissed me like some part of him was still trapped on that island in the middle of the war, with bullets tearing through the air and death reaching for everything he loved.

I felt the battle inside him.

The dreadful violence still sharpening his blood.

The ragged desperation still clawing through his chest.

The savage relief of a man who had spent hours believing that every breath might be his last—and that even if he survived, he might return to find me gone.

All of it burned through our bond at once.

Fear disguised as hunger.

Grief disguised as possession.

Love so ferocious it had forgotten how to be gentle.

His hand fisted in my braids and pulled me closer, as though the space between our bodies was another enemy he needed to destroy. His mouth moved over mine with the same ruthless purpose he had carried into war. He kissed me like he was searching for wounds. Like he needed to taste my breath and feel my pulse and verify, again and again, that I was warm.