Warcross (Warcross #1)(68)

“My security detail is used to being careful. After your warning, we did a full sweep of my home. They’ll be watchful.”

“That’s not what I mean. Hideo, you almost died tonight. You realize that, don’t you?”

“I’m well protected here. There are eight bodyguards on my premises alone.” He nods toward the rest of the house. “It sounds like you’re edging closer and closer to finishing this, at any rate.”

“I don’t understand how you can be so calm about this,” I say, my frustration rising. No wonder Kenn sounded so exasperated. “You need to get out of Tokyo. It isn’t safe for you here. Every moment you stay puts you in danger.”

Hideo casts a serious look my way. “I’m not going to be chased out of my city by a vague threat,” he replies. For the first time since I’ve known him, a note of anger creeps into his voice. “This isn’t the first time someone has targeted me, and it won’t be the last.”

I’m about to raise my voice, but then I sneeze. The cool air in the house is seeping straight into my soaked clothes, and I realize that my teeth are chattering.

Hideo tightens his lips. “We’ll continue this after you warm up. Come with me.”

We reach a spacious bedroom, its glass walls leading out into a serene Zen garden adorned with golden dangling lights. A large bathroom suite branches off from one side of the room.

“Take your time,” Hideo says, nodding toward the suite. “When you’re ready, we’ll talk further. Would you like tea?”

A nice cup of tea after your assassination attempt. Sure. I nod, too cold to argue. “I’d love some.”

Hideo closes the bedroom door and leaves me alone. I let out a long, slow breath. So far, I’m not doing a very good job of convincing him of the real danger he’s in. I sigh and strip off my hoodie, jeans, and undergarments, laying all the clothes out carefully along the bathtub to dry. My reflection in the mirror catches my eye; my makeup from the tournament earlier now looks smeared and smoky, dampened by the rain, and my hair hangs in wet strands of color. No wonder Hideo isn’t listening to my advice—I look half crazy. My gaze wanders from myself to the rest of the bathroom. The shower is enormous, with a rain showerhead installed right into the ceiling. I turn the faucet and let the hot water steam for a bit, then step inside.

The shower washes away some of my jumbled thoughts, and by the time I step out, I feel a little calmer about being here. I towel myself off and weave my wet hair into two messy side braids, then step out of the bathroom.

A set of clean clothes has already been laid out for me. A creamy white sweater. A pair of loose pajama pants. I pull the sweater on; it smells just like Hideo, and is so large on me that it hangs down almost to my knees. The collar slides sideways, baring one of my shoulders. I don’t even try to wear the pajama pants. They’re far too long.

I walk over to the bedroom door, open it, and emerge halfway out into the hallway to tell him I need something shorter.

But he’s already here, holding a teacup in one hand and ready to knock on the door with his other. “Emi—” he starts to say when he sees me. We both freeze.

Hideo blinks. His eyes dart to the loose, white sweater I’m wearing, then quickly away. “I wanted to ask if you had a tea preference,” he says.

My shoulder and legs suddenly feel very exposed, and the flush on my cheeks now turns to magma-level red. I start to stumble some words out.

“Sorry, I—I was going to ask if you, um, had smaller pants.” Another bad line. “I mean—not that you have small pants that would fit me”—digging a deeper hole for myself—“I mean, the pajama pants keep falling off—” I’m a very good digger. I wince, then shake my head and stop talking, letting my hands wheel in circles as if they can convey my meaning.

Hideo laughs a little. Unless my imagination is messing with me, a slight flush colors his cheeks, too.

I snap out of my reverie, then slam the door shut right in his face.

There’s a pause, followed by Hideo’s familiar voice. “Sorry about that,” he says. “I’ll find something better for you.” Then his footsteps echo down the hall.

I walk over to the bed, bury my face in the sheets, and let out a groan.

Moments later, Hideo opens the door a crack and waves a pair of shorts blindly at me. I take them. They’re still baggy on me, but at least they stay on.

I venture out into the hall and into the living room, where Hideo is reading by a crackling fireplace. His dog lies at his feet, snoring softly. The windows here lead out to the garden, and the bead-like patter of rain can be heard against the glass. The walls are lined with portraits and with shelves of books—pristine early editions—neatly organized and artfully arranged. Then there are shelves displaying vintage video games and consoles, as well as prototypes of what look like the earliest versions of the NeuroLink glasses. Some of them are as large as bricks, but each one gets progressively smaller and lighter, until I finally see the first edition of the official glasses propped up at the end of the shelves.

Hideo looks up from his book when he hears me approach, then notices me studying his shelves. “My mother took good care of my early NeuroLink prototypes,” he says. “She and my father made sure to save them.”

His neuroscientist mother and computer repair shop father. “Mint condition,” I reply, admiring the prototypes.