Page 121 of Emperor of Lust

Her expression flickers but she doesn’t answer, just gives a quick shake of her head. I keep my voice low, fighting to stay still. “Please,” I ask again. “Who are you?”

Nothing. Not a word. Just the same, warning look.

“I’m Hana,” I say, forcing myself to speak slowly, keeping my tone calm. “What’s your name?”

She just stares at me, her eyes flicking to the side like she’s trying to tell me something in a language I don’t understand. I don’t know whether to scream or cry, but I force myself to breathe, to hold onto whatever shred of control I have left.

“Where are we?” I ask, louder now. I repeat it in Japanese, then in what little French I know. My voice echoes hollowly in the vast emptiness around us. She just stares back at me, silent.

I whirl my gaze around, panicking as I try to see into the darkness. The burnt smell hits me harder, and suddenly, I know where I am.

This is the office building I bought to house the Mori Holdings and Mori-kai empire in Tokyo, before it was burned to ash.

That’s where I am, balanced somewhere in the charred metal framework of the roof, teetering over the drop to the burned-out basement warehouse far below.

Helplessness, rage and dark fury surge in me as I struggle against the ropes, feeling them bite deeper with every movement as I try to remember how I even got here?—

Then I flinch as it all comes rushing back.

Miyamoto.

It all floods back into my mind like acid, shocking me all over again and making me sick as my heart wrenches.

It was the suddenness of it all. The phone call from him, telling me exactly what to do. To leave the apartment, dressed as if going out. Not to tell Damian a word of this conversation. To snub him. To be cold, distant and mean to him.

…or Miyamoto would trigger a bomb inside our apartment.

When I left, the motherfucker picked me up himself. He looked me in the eye and told me it would be “more realistic” if I sucked his cock.

I told him I’d bite it off if he tried, and mercifully, I think he might have believed me, because he didn’t force it. But he did drive me around for hours.

Smacked me a few times, fucked up my hair, and disheveled my dress before dropping me off again.

Then came the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I had to walk into that apartment I shared with Damian and make the man I love think I’d been out cheating on him. The club business card with the number to one of Miyamoto’swaka gashira. The empty condom wrapper.

Looking Damian right in the eye and stabbing him in the heart as my own bled out, knowing if I didn’t do all these things, Miyamoto would kill him.

That motherfucker made me hurt the person I love the most in this world.

Later, I remember him coming to get me and leading me back out to his car. That’s the last thing I recall before it all goes black.

My eyes close as my heart wrenches painfully.

Miyamoto was clear: no notes, no warnings left for Damian. His men combed over the whole apartment to make sure.

But they didn’t notice the origami cranes bound together. The Miles Davis song on repeat.

I only hope to God that Damian does, and understands their significance.

I shudder, forcing back the sob that threatens to rip from my throat. I look around, my pulse jackhammering as I try not to think about the ropes, or the see-saw, or the dark abyss below. With a snarl, I snap my head to the girl tied up next to me.

“Who are you!?” I bellow.

Her eyes plead with me, but she doesn’t say a goddamn thing, and it’sinfuriating.

“Why?!” I scream at her. “Why won’t you fucking talk to me?!”

“She can’t, Hana.”

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