Page 11 of Kotori
Rage builds in my chest, cold and controlled. Hiroshi dares to question my parenting, to suggest that my daughters lack proper guidance because I've refused his matchmaking attempts. The old bastard views Paige as competition for his plans to control my personal life through strategic marriage.
"Anything else?"
"Inquiries about Miss Williams-san's qualifications, her family background, whether she represents appropriate influence for impressionable young ladies." Takeshi's tone hardens. "He seemed particularly concerned about 'foreign corruption' of traditional Japanese values."
Of course Hiroshi would investigate her.
The same pattern as always—questioning my judgment, undermining my authority, pushing his agenda for remarriage to a "suitable" Japanese woman who would provide traditional maternal guidance.
He'd been this way since I took over from my father, but after my wife's death it became unbearable.
He hasn't learned that my personal choices aren't subject to his approval.
"Surveillance on his activities?"
"Increased as of this morning. Phone communications monitored, meeting locations tracked, associates documented." Takeshi pulls up files on his tablet. "He's been meeting with other senior kobun."
Good. Let the old fool build his coalition of disapproval while we record every scheme, every attempt to control my household through traditional pressure. When the time comes for confrontation, I'll be prepared.
"Continue monitoring. Full intelligence package." I close the financial reports, business suddenly secondary to family protection. "And Takeshi? If he approaches my daughters with questions about their 'need for proper maternal guidance,' I want to know immediately."
"Hai, Aniki."
Hiroshi's interference threatens more than my authority. It threatens her. The American woman who's becoming essential to my daughters' happiness, who's learning to kneel at my feet and say my name with breathless submission.
Anyone who threatens what's mine discovers the cost of that mistake—even former wakagashira who forget their place.
"The acquisition?"
"Owners are waiting in the main conference room. Traditional tea service prepared, all documentation ready for signature." Takeshi's expression shifts back to business efficiency. "They're grateful for the opportunity to preserve their family legacy under our patronage."
The workshop represents generations of traditional craftsmanship, techniques passed down from father to son since the Edo period. Recent financial difficulties created an opportunity for acquisition through negotiation rather than intimidation.
"Preparation details?"
"Tanaka-san and his wife, late seventies, no children interested in continuing family business.
Sons work for corporate firms in Tokyo, view traditional crafts as outdated.
" His tone holds subtle disgust for children who abandon ancestral heritage.
"They want assurance that family techniques will be preserved, honored, maintained. "
Legitimate desires that align with our cultural preservation mission. Traditional arts deserve protection from commercial exploitation, maintenance by families who understand their historical significance.
The main conference room overlooks gardens where cherry trees prepare for spring blooming, traditional setting that honors the ceremony these negotiations require. Tanaka-san and his wife kneel at the low table with documents spread between tea service and seasonal sweets.
"Matsumoto-sama honors our humble workshop with your interest," the old man says, bowing deeply despite his arthritis.
"The honor is mine, Tanaka-san. Your family's artistry represents irreplaceable cultural treasure."
The negotiations with Tanaka conclude swiftly—his relief at our protection tangible in every bow, every grateful murmur.
The old craftsman signs over his legacy with trembling hands, accepting the generous terms that will preserve eight generations of tradition under my clan's protection.
Sake is poured, cups exchanged with proper ceremony, the ritual of acquisition completed with mutual satisfaction.
I leave Takeshi to finalize the details, my mind already shifting back to more pressing concerns.
By nightfall, I'm alone in my study again, the low light casting shadows across surveillance feeds that capture her every movement. The business of the day falls away as I immerse myself in studying her—Paige, the American, the woman who's rapidly becoming my most valuable acquisition.
The footage is intoxicating. Her careful movements through my home, the way she's already adapting to our rhythms, the subtle changes in her posture when addressing household staff.
She's learning faster than I anticipated, her body language shifting toward traditional deference without conscious awareness.
I focus on the moments she believes herself unwatched.
The way her fingers trace her neck where I touched her yesterday, lingering over her pulse point as if recreating the pressure of my hand.
The private frown when she practices proper bowing forms in her room, determined to master even this small submission.
She wants to succeed here. Wants to belong. Wants my approval more than she's willing to admit to herself.
I watch her brushing her hair before bed, the rhythmic strokes revealing the tension she carries in her shoulders, the way she studies her reflection with uncertainty.
She doesn't yet understand what's happening to her—how each small compliance, each traditional custom she adopts, binds her more tightly to me.
The surveillance feed shows her rising, moving to her door to check the lock I warned her to use.
"For your protection," I'd told her, the lie tasting sweet on my tongue.
The truth—that I don't trust myself near her bedroom, that the lock is to protect her from my darkest impulses—remains unspoken between us.
Even I don't know what I'd do if I found her door unlocked, an invitation I'd interpret as consent.
She tests the handle, double-checking the barrier between us, unaware that even this small act of self-preservation feeds my hunger. Her cautious obedience only makes me want to break through every defense she constructs.
Beautiful, willing transformation.