Page 18 of Emperor of Wrath

With Kenzo, it clearly isn’t about the necklace. It’s about whatever sentimental value he attached to it. That’s why he hunted me and why I’m so terrified that I’m being given to him now.

I pull on the e-cigarette again, exhaling white vapor as my jaw grinds. I could tell Kir about all of this. I mean he wouldn’t be pleased that I drugged and stole from a Yakuza lieutenant, especially after he’d officially taken Freya and I in and we’d agreed to stop with the petty larceny. But still, I could tell him what’s going on and why I’m so scared of what Kenzo might do to me.

But ultimately, what is that going to achieve?

Best case scenario, Kir talks to Kenzo and warns him not to harm me. Kenzo swears to be a good boy, and once we’re married, skins me alive and buries me in a shallow grave anyway.

My brows knit. Or…not.

I’m pretty sure that would end whatever truce our nuptials are supposed to usher in. So maybe he won’t kill me.

Maybe he’ll just lock me in the basement and keep me barely alive so he can torture me for years.

I take another drag, thinking.

Ultimately, I know I’m not going to say shit to Kir. Because one of the reasons I respect him is that he takes care of things. He simply gets shit done, without bitching and moaning. Honestly, I think one of the reasons he likes me is that he knows I’m the same.

So no, I won’t be a baby and go crying to Kir that my new husband might be mean to me because I stole from him five years ago.

Which puts me squarely back at square one.

Dammit.

I turn, and my gaze lands on a sporty-looking black and smoke-gray street motorcycle parked near the curb with a blood-red hannya mask painted on the gas tank and the kanji for “Mori-kai” written beneath it.

I smile coldly, reach into my clutch, and pull out my little switchblade.

I have no idea why Kenzo is here, but it doesn’t matter. That fucker might think he’s caught me, but he’s going to learn that I come with claws. And he will rue the day he ever thought it was a good idea to get into a cage with me.

The air hisses out of the tires in angry gusts as I stab them, smiling smugly.

Take that, fucker.

A mere taste of what’s to come. I slip the knife away and take another drag on my e-cigarette.

“That’s a disgusting habit.”

Kenzo.

Turning, I lock eyes with him as I take another long, deliberate drag and then exhale the vapor directly in his face.

“Okay,” I deadpan.

Kenzo’s lips curl slightly at the corners. “It’s going to stop when we?—”

“Please don’t even finish that sentence.”

Kenzo’s changed out of the tuxedo he was in earlier. Now he’s in black slacks with a fitted black dress shirt, open at the collar, the sleeves rolled up his rippling, veined, tattooed forearms. He folds this arms over his broad chest as he leans against one of the stone pylons that separate the hospital parking lot from the sidewalk.

“Not saying it doesn’t make it any less true. And just so we’re clear, when you’re my wife…” He emphasizes the words in that infuriatingly attractive accent. The blend of that tone and those specific words are…not playing nicely together.

Kenzo points at the e-cig. “When you’re my wife, that’s done.”

I glare at him. “Are you just here to fucking gloat?”

His brow furrows. “About what?”

“Trapping me.”

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