Page 87 of The Dragon 2
That symbol.
That dragon.
That moon.
It was too precise.
Too intimate.
That was the cover ofWhen the Dragon Swallowed the Moon.
The book I gave to Nyomi.
Was this a coincidence?
Or was it intentional?
A whispered warning cloaked as a gift.
A message that said:I see her. I see what she means to you. I know where your fire truly burns.
For the first time that evening, I felt my weakness exposed.
I should kill him. Right. Now. Just in case.
In my mind, death unraveled.
I saw my hand shoot out faster than a breath—grabbing Jean-Pierre by the throat, twisting hard enough to snap bone, muscle, and marrow in a single brutal wrench.
I could picture the elegant bastard’s limp body flying over the balcony rail—cartwheeling like a broken marionette toward the polished marble below.
I heard the screams, gasps and champagne shattering.
And my men—my Roar, Fangs, and Claws—would strike without a command.
Reo would take the upper level, knives drawn, slicing through flesh without spilling a single drop on his cuffs.
Hiro?
He would enjoy it. He’d crack skulls against the columned walls, lick blood from his knuckles, and dare anyone to keep breathing.
I could already see Giorgio reaching for his sidearm, Louis barking in French, Rafael cursing under his breath.
Yet still we would kill them all, just to keep Nyomi safe.
Just to erase whatever crack in my armor Jean-Pierre thought he’d found.
My fingers twitched—once.
The man placed the table between the Butcher and me.
The other man set down the box with the dragon and moon, and then he lifted the lid.
Inside, wrapped in blood-red silk, was a blade older than the Butcher’s empire.
Atanto.
Seventeenth century. Edo period craftsmanship. Its hilt wrapped in rayskin and cord, elegant and worn, the blade slightly curved, flawless.
