Nobu looked away, staring into the bleeding red core of the charcoal. How could he possibly explain it to her? How could he tell her that the money meant absolutely nothing, and that trapping the only woman he had ever loved in a contractual marriage was tearing his soul to shreds? He was terrified she would never look at him with anything other than hatred, and the weight of that reality was crushing him.
"Winning a war doesn't mean you walk away without casualties," he said roughly, the admission scraped raw from his chest. He finally forced his eyes back to hers. "I didn't want to trap you, Sari. But the mill… the people who rely on it… I didn't have a choice."
"There's always a choice," she shot back, the old betrayal flaring hot and bright. "Just like there was a choice in the locker room when you sold me out for fifty dollars."
The blow landed perfectly. Nobu flinched, the color draining from his face, leaving his coppery skin looking pale and ashen in the firelight. He didn't defend himself. He couldn't.
"I carry that," he whispered, his voice incredibly thick. "I carry it every day."
Sari looked at him, at the genuine, naked agony in his eyes, and the anger she had relied on for eight years suddenly felt heavy and exhausting. She didn't want to fight anymore tonight. She was too tired, and the room was too quiet.
She broke his gaze, looking down at her empty bowl. "The meal was excellent. Please thank Chiyo for me in the morning."
Nobu nodded slowly, accepting the retreat. He set his own bowl aside. The temporary ceasefire of the dinner was over, and the heavy, undeniable reality of the night closed in around them like a vice.
"The master suite," Nobu said, the words heavy as lead. He didn't move, but his massive frame seemed to tense, bracing for the impact. "We still have a mandate to satisfy."
Sari closed her eyes for a brief second, the warm, savory comfort of the nabe vanishing entirely. The rose petals. The champagne. The contract.
She opened her eyes and stood up from the tatami mat, the soft cotton of her pants falling elegantly around her ankles. She looked down at the man kneeling by the fire, the Iron Prince reduced to a quiet, haunted heir in his mother's house.
"Then let's satisfy it," she said quietly.
The heavy painted door slid open with a soft clack.
The silence inside the master suite was a physical thing, thick and heavy as the velvet drapes drawn across the glass doors. Sari stood at the foot of the absurdly large bed. Twelve hours had passed since their arrival. The ice in the silver champagne bucket had melted entirely into room-temperature water, and the scattered red rose petals had begun to wilt into the antique quilt, shifting the room from a pristine corporate setup into something far more intimate and real.
Nobu was across the room, his back to her as he poured two fingers of amber whiskey into a crystal tumbler. The muscles of his shoulders shifted under the slate-gray cotton of his samue. The traditional loungewear hung perfectly on his massive frame, a stark reminder of the raw, physical power beneath the soft fabric.
"You don't have to drink that on my account," Sari said, her voice quieter than she intended.
He didn't turn immediately. "I'm not." The liquid swirled, catching the low light from the bedside lamp before he took a slow, neat swallow. "It's on mine."
It wasn't defiance. It was liquid courage. The Iron Prince was terrified.
Sari crossed her arms over her soft plum blouse, her fingers grazing the damp ends of her long braid. "So. The pact."
Nobu finally turned, the stormy blue of his eyes cutting through the dimness. He set the heavy crystal glass down on the console with a definitive click. "No."
He walked slowly toward the center of the room, his bare feet silent on the cypress floor. "Not the pact, Sari. Not the board. Not the merger." He stopped a few feet away from her, his gaze unwavering and incredibly heavy. "We are in my mother's house. The world outside this mountain doesn't exist right now. You are my wife, and I am here for you."
He reached for the tie at the waist of his samue. The movement was steady, deliberate, and completely devoid of the clinical, detached arrogance he used in the boardroom. The dark cotton parted, and he shrugged it off his broad shoulders, letting the top fall to the floor.
The boy she'd known was gone. In his place was a man carved from granite and sinew. The definition of his abdomen was stark, his arms corded with the strength of relentless physical labor and marked by the faint, silvery scars of the forge. A dusting of dark hair trailed from his navel down into the waistband of his loose cotton pants. He was beautiful in an almost offensive way, a breathtaking reality that stole the air directly from her lungs.
Sari's breath caught, her hands falling to her sides.
"I assume you're on contraception," he asked quietly, the deep rumble of his voice breaking the silence.
"I am." Her eyes flicked to the nightstand where a small, unopened box sat. "I see you came prepared."
"Five of them," he said, nodding toward the box. The vulnerability in his eyes deepened. "I didn't know if you'd let me touch you. If you'd only allow this once, as a formality."
The blunt honesty of it stole her breath. "A formality," she repeated, her throat suddenly dry.
Nobu reached down, untying the waist of his pants. He stepped out of them, leaving the slate-gray fabric in a pool on the floor. He stood before her in only black boxer-briefs, the evidence of his arousal a clear, daunting outline against the dark fabric.
"It's not a formality to me, Sari," he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "This is our beginning."
"Your turn," he said, his voice gravelly.
Her fingers felt numb. She reached for the hem of her plum blouse, her movements clumsy. The soft cotton whispered over her skin as she pulled it over her head, snagging briefly on her long braid before she let it fall. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her flowing yoga pants, pushing them down her legs, leaving her in just a pair of simple white lace panties. The air was cool on her skin, raising goosebumps. She refused to cover herself, meeting his stare with a defiance she didn't fully feel.
Nobu's gaze was a physical touch, scorching a path from the hollow of her throat, over the small, firm swell of her breasts, down the flat plane of her stomach to the lace barely concealing her. His breathing changed, a slight, audible catch that was gone as soon as she registered it.
"You're beautiful," he said, the words stripped of pretty sentiment. They were a simple, stark fact.
"Don't," she whispered, the word cracking.
"Don't what? State the obvious?" He took a step forward, then another, closing the distance until she could feel the heat radiating from his body. The scent of him—clean soap, whiskey, and something uniquely, fundamentally male—wrapped around her. "This is the part where we're supposed to be gentle. Tender. But you don't want my tenderness, do you, Sari?"
"I don't want anything from you."
"Liar." The word was soft, almost a sigh. His hand came up, not to touch her, but to hover beside her cheek. "You want to hate me. You want this to be hateful. It would be easier."
Her heart was a frantic bird against her ribs. She couldn't look away from his eyes. The ice blue had darkened, stormy with a conflict she recognized all too well—resentment, obligation, and beneath it, a terrible, undeniable current of the past.
His hovering hand finally made contact, his knuckles brushing her cheekbone. The touch was so light, yet it sent a jolt through her entire system. A spark in dry tinder. She shuddered.
"Cold?" he murmured, his thumb stroking a slow arc just below her eye.
She shook her head, a tiny, helpless movement. His other hand rose to mirror the first, cradling her face. His palms were rough, calloused, a brutal contrast to the feather-light way he held her.
"Once," he whispered, his breath warm against her lips. "For the contract."
Then his mouth was on hers.
It wasn't a kiss of love, or even of passion. It was a claim. A firm, deliberate sealing of their fate. His lips were warm, insistent, moving against hers with a controlled pressure that demanded a response. Sari stood frozen for a heartbeat, her mind screaming in protest. But her body… her body remembered.
A low, broken sound escaped her throat, and her lips parted. Not in invitation, but in surrender to a deeper, older truth. The moment they opened, the kiss changed. Nobu's control shattered. A groan vibrated from his chest into hers, and his mouth slanted over hers, deepening the kiss with a sudden, desperate hunger.
His tongue swept inside, tasting her, exploring with a familiarity that stole the last of her resolve. It was the same. After eight years, the feel of him, the taste of him—whiskey and mint and Nobu—was the same. A dam broke inside her, flooding her with sensory memory. Her hands, which had been fisted at her sides, flew up of their own volition, tangling in the thick, dark hair at the nape of his neck. She pulled him closer, kissing him back with a fury that matched his own.
It was fast. It was furious. It was nothing like a formality.
The kiss became devouring. He walked her backward until her calves hit the bed, and they tumbled onto the quilt in a tangle of limbs. The weight of him on top of her was an anchor, pinning her to the present, to the shocking reality of his heat and hardness. He broke the kiss to trail his mouth along her jaw, down the column of her throat, his teeth scraping lightly, making her gasp.
"Nobu," she breathed, the name a plea and a curse.
"You feel that?" he growled against her skin, his hips pressing down, letting her feel the rigid length of him straining against his underwear and her lace. "That's not for a contract. That's for you. It's always been for you."
His mouth found her breast, and he took the peak deep, sucking hard through the lace of her bra. The fabric was a maddening barrier, the wet heat of his mouth and the abrasive texture combining to send sharp, electric shocks straight to her core. She arched off the bed, a wordless cry tearing from her lips. Her fingers clawed at his back, feeling the powerful muscles flex under her touch.
He made quick, rough work of her bra, the clasp giving way under his impatient hands. When his mouth closed over her bare nipple, slick and hot, the sensation was so intense her vision blurred.