Page 64 of Emperor of Wrath

My eyes drag slowly over Kenzo’s broad, muscled, lean back. The irezumi style Yakuza ink that spreads across his skin ripples as his corded muscles clench.

Down, girl.

Kenzo says a last few words in Japanese, nodding stiffly before he ends the call and slips the phone into his pocket. He keeps his back to me as he sighs heavily, and for the first time, it hits me that he’s more than just this smug, steely-eyed Yakuza prince.

The man…cares. A lot. At least, about his own family. In this moment, you can almost see the weight of his future empire pressing down on his shoulders, and his back almost bowing under the heaviness of it.

I flinch slightly as he suddenly turns. His eyes stab across the penthouse right into mine. His chiseled jaw ripples a little, and when he rolls his neck, his pectorals flex.

Fuck me, the man is shredded.

Hard, lean muscle curves down his ribs and bands across his abdomen. The clearly defined eight-pack of his abs clenches as he starts to walk toward me, the ink on his chest and arms rippling with each step.

My eyes drop to the sinfully defined v-lines that cut down his hips into the waist of his dress pants, like warning signs on a dark road.

Caution. Turn back. Danger ahead. Step the fuck away, Annika.

“Let me take a look at that.”

His low, growling voice yanks my eyes from his body to his face. Then I glance down, following his gaze to the blood seeping through my wedding dress over my thigh.

I checked it out in the bathroom when we first got here. It’s not a bad cut at all. From the tear in the satin itself, I’m guessing it was a piece of church pew, or maybe the van, that blew past me.

Well, not quite past me.

“I’m fine,” I shrug, picking up my glass and draining it. “It’s nothing. I already bandaged it up in the bathroom when we got here.”

His dark brows furrow. “I’m only going to ask this once,” he growls, moving closer to me.

He plucks the bottle of vodka from the table, looking right at me as he brings it to his lips and takes a long, drawn-out gulp. Then a second one. When he sets it back on the table, he rubs his jaw with one hand.

“Okay: who’s trying to kill you?”

I frown. “Who says anyone’s trying to kill me? You’re the up-and-coming?—”

“I am well aware of all the people who want me dead. I’m even somewhat aware of the people who might want Kir dead. And that wasn’t any of them.”

I roll my eyes. “What are you, Sherlock Holmes? How the fuck could you possibly know that?”

“Because I’ve taught myself to be observant,” he growls. “And mindful of my surroundings. Unlike some people.”

I flip him off. “If you feel compelled to talk about how great you are, there’s a mirror in the bathroom that might be a better conversationalist.”

“Funny,” he mutters. “The shooter the other day was aiming at you.”

Do you think it was him behind it? The shooter, I mean.

I flinch as the face of he-who-shall-not-be-named emerges from the blackness in my mind.

But no. It can’t have been him.

He wouldn’t hide in the shadows when he tried to kill me.

“Today’s the second time in as many weeks that someone’s tried to kill me or my family, and I generally like to limit that to once a month. I want answers. Now.”

His abs clench as he reaches for the bottle again, towering over me, and brings it to his lips. I just glare at him.

“I don’t have answers, because I have no more fucking idea who might be behind today than you do.”

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