Page 32 of The Dragon 2
I stared at the card.
Imperial Lotus Suite–58th Floor.
My name wasn’t even on it, but somehow it felt like it was engraved all over the damned thing.
I ran my fingers across the gold foil.
When a man gave you a suite—indefinitely—when he had a driver posted outside just in case you wanted to be swept off somewhere?
When he sent a chef before you’d even had time to brush your teeth?
It could mean devotion.
Or it could mean control.
And I knew better than to confuse the two.
My stomach twisted with a mix of heat and warning.
My father used to control my mother with lavish trips and gifts. A new watch after an argument. A Paris trip after a cruel silence. Diamonds in velvet boxes when she'd caught him cheating the first time.
He’d smother her with luxury until she couldn’t tell the difference between beingadoredand beingowned.I watched her shrink for years—draped in silk and blinking through martini lunches, smiling like her teeth were glass. By night, shewould laugh at parties with champagne on her lips and grief in her eyes. I learned early; diamonds didn’t dull the sound of a woman disappearing.
I spent years promising myself I’d never trade safety for sparkle. Granted, even the strongest woman wanted to be spoiled.
I would never let a man dress my cage in gold.
Even if that man had a cock like poetry.
Even if he made my body bloom.
Even if his darkness made mine feel seen.
Kenji was dangerous. I’d known that from the moment he looked at me like he was already planning which part of me to ruin first.
But this?
The suite.
The key.
The driver.
It all made me nervous and I wasn’t sure if it was good or bad. If I stepped into that suite too fast, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to leave him.I didn’t want to be one of those womenwho lost the plot to the man’s true story of manipulation.
I don’t think Kenji is trying to control me, but. . .I’ll just chill for now when it comes to taking him up on that suite.
I set the card down.
Not yet, Dragon. You don’t get all of me that easy. Not until I know what it means when you call me yours.
If he wanted my submission, he’d have to survive my resistance first.
I’d watched too many women who looked like me give and give until they had nothing left but exhaustion and a man still asking for more. Black women were taught to be ride-or-die before we ever learned to rest.
Taught to pour honey on wounds.
Taught to fold into softness even when the world stayed sharp around us, always cutting.
