Page 16 of Kotori

Paige

The soft knock comes at exactly four in the morning. I wake disoriented, sheets tangled around my legs, the taste of sake and expensive food lingering on my tongue.

"Williams-san." Hayashi's voice carries through the door, controlled despite the ungodly hour. "It is time to prepare."

I stumble to the door in my pajamas, blinking against the soft hallway lighting. Hayashi stands waiting with two younger women I haven't met, all three dressed in crisp uniforms despite the early hour.

"Prepare for what?" I ask, though my stomach already knows the answer.

"Your morning appointment with Matsumoto-sama." Her tone reveals nothing. "The bath has been drawn. We will assist with traditional dress."

Before I can object, they're ushering me toward the bathroom where steam rises from the deep soaking tub.

The water is perfectly heated, scented with something floral and clean.

I want to ask questions—what kind of traditional dress, what exactly is happening, why does this feel like preparation for execution—but something in Hayashi's expression stops me. She's not my ally. She's his.

"Please, Williams-san." One of the younger women gestures toward the tub. "Time is limited."

I slip into the hot water while they work around me.

Preparing towels, arranging bottles of oil and lotion, laying out undergarments I've never seen before.

Everything coordinated with military precision.

The bath should be relaxing, but I can't shake the feeling that I'm being prepared like a sacrifice being readied for the altar.

When I emerge from the tub, they wrap me in the softest towel I've ever felt and begin the process of drying and oiling my skin with movements that speak of long practice. Not roughly, but thoroughly. Completely.

The undergarments are unlike anything I've worn—a white cotton wrap that binds around my chest, silk shorts that feel like nothing against my skin. Then comes the first layer of the yukata, pure white cotton that whispers against my oiled skin.

"Traditional dress requires many layers," Hayashi explains as they add a second yukata in pale blue, then a third in bright sapphire. "Each piece has meaning, purpose."

The obi comes next—a wide silk sash that requires all three women to tie properly.

They wrap it around my waist multiple times, pulling it tight enough that my breathing becomes deliberate.

The bow they create at my back is elaborate, requiring adjustments and re-tying until it meets their standards.

"Cannot breathe wrong," one of the younger women murmurs as she adjusts my posture. "Must sit, walk, move with intention."

They slide my feet into white tabi socks, then traditional wooden geta sandals that click against the floor with each step. The sound is delicate, feminine, impossible to move silently in.

When they finally position me in front of the full-length mirror, I barely recognize myself.

The kimono transforms my body into something elegant and restrained.

The multiple layers hide my curves while making me more feminine, more delicate.

My blonde hair has been swept up, leaving my neck completely exposed.

I look like I belong in a museum. Or a master's private collection.

"Beautiful," Hayashi says with satisfaction. "Matsumoto-sama will be pleased."

The way she says it makes clear that pleasing him is the only consideration that matters.

"What exactly am I supposed to do?" I ask, trying to adjust the restrictive obi.

"Walk. Listen. Learn." Hayashi's tone suggests these instructions are complete. "He waits in the eastern garden. Follow the stone path."

They escort me to a side door I've never used before, one that opens directly onto the gardens.

Dawn is just breaking, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold, and mist clings to the carefully manicured landscape like something from a fairy tale.

The stone path winds between ancient trees and perfectly trimmed shrubs, past small bridges over babbling streams and stone lanterns that cast soft shadows in the growing light.

Everything is precise, beautiful, designed by masters over centuries. And completely isolated.

I hear him before I see him—the whisper of bowstring releasing, the solid thunk of arrow meeting a target. Following the sound, I round a corner to find a small clearing where Kaito practices archery in the growing dawn light.

He's dressed in traditional kyudo gear—a white gi and dark hakama, but the top is pushed off his left shoulder and arm, leaving him half-exposed for the draw. Sweat gleams on his skin despite the cool morning air, and I can see the full scope of his tattoos for the first time. I stop breathing.

The black dragon coils across his shoulder blade and down his back, breathing stylized clouds that move as his muscles shift with each draw.

Cherry blossoms fall like blood drops around the creature, and beneath it, koi fish swim upstream across his chest in gold and red.

Wind bars flow down his exposed arm between chrysanthemums, the ink work so detailed it looks alive in the early light.

He draws the bow with what I can only imagine is perfect form.

His breathing is controlled, meditative, each release followed by the solid impact of an arrow finding its mark in the distant target.

There's something hypnotic about watching him—the controlled power, the way ancient ink moves across sweat-slicked skin, the perfect balance between restraint and deadly accuracy.

When he lowers the bow, only then does he acknowledge my presence.

"You're punctual," he says, not turning around immediately. Sweat drips down his spine, following the curve of the dragon's tail. "Good."

When he finally faces me, his dark eyes catalog every detail of my appearance—the way the yukata restricts my movement, how the elaborate hair arrangement exposes my neck.

"Perfect," he murmurs, and the word sounds like ownership. "Walk with me."

It's not a request. He sets the bow aside but doesn't bother adjusting his clothing.

The white gi hangs loose around his waist, leaving his torso exposed as we begin walking.

I try not to stare at the way morning light catches the sweat on his skin, the intricate details of ink that shift and move with each step.

The path he chooses leads deeper into the gardens, past areas I've glimpsed from windows. Here, the estate reveals its true scope—acres of carefully maintained landscape that speak of wealth and planning.

"This garden was designed by my great-great-grandfather," he says as we walk slowly, my restricted movement in the kimono setting our pace. "Every stone placed with intention, every tree planted for a purpose that would take decades to fulfill."

We cross a small wooden bridge over a stream where koi fish flash gold and red beneath the surface. Cherry trees line the path ahead, their early blossoms catching the dawn light.

"He understood that true beauty requires patience. Sacrifice. The willingness to plant trees you'll never see mature, to begin projects your great-grandchildren will complete." His voice carries the weight of someone who's lived with such responsibility. "Western minds struggle with this concept."

The criticism stings, but I'm distracted by the way he moves beside me—still half-dressed, completely comfortable in his skin, while I'm wrapped in layers like a present he's yet to unwrap.

Morning light catches the sweat on his skin, highlighting every curve of muscle beneath the intricate tattoos.

"It's beautiful," I admit, not entirely sure if I mean the garden or him.

"Beauty requires maintenance," he says, his hand briefly touching the small of my back as we navigate a narrow section of the path. "Constant attention. The removal of elements that don't belong."

Something in his tone makes me glance at him sharply, but his expression reveals nothing.

This close, I can see the fine details of his tattoos—the individual scales on the koi, the delicate petals of cherry blossoms, the way wind bars flow like water down his arm. The artistry is incredible, but there's something dangerous about it too. Like warnings written in ink across his skin.

"Tell me about your family," he says as we pause beside an ancient stone lantern. "Your traditions."

"We don't really have traditions," I admit, watching a dragonfly hover above the water. "My parents divorced when I was twelve. I spent holidays shuttling between houses, trying to make everyone happy."

"No stability. No continuity." He studies my face with unsettling intensity. "How exhausting."

The simple observation hits where I'm vulnerable. It was exhausting—always being the mediator, always responsible for keeping peace between people who couldn't stand each other.

A memory surfaces—Christmas when I was fourteen, standing in my father's driveway with an overnight bag, waiting in the freezing cold because my mother dropped me off early and Dad wasn't home yet.

I called her to come back, but she was already "too far" to turn around.

My tears felt hot against my cold cheeks as I swore someday I'd find a place where I belonged.

"Is that why you ran to Japan?" he asks, moving closer as we walk beneath the shadow of a maple tree. "Seeking the stability you never had?"

"I didn't run."

"Of course not." His tone suggests he doesn't believe me. "You made a careful decision to abandon your entire life and flee to the other side of the world."

When he puts it like that, it sounds exactly like running.

We follow the winding path in silence for a moment, the rhythmic click of my geta sandals against stone the only sound between us. Around us, the garden wakes. Birds call from ancient trees, koi splash in the pond, bamboo rustles in the morning breeze.

"This place," I say softly, watching sunlight filter through leaves above us. "Your family has lived here for..."

"Four hundred years." Pride enters his voice. "Sixteen generations of Matsumoto men have walked these paths, made decisions that affected hundreds of lives, preserved what matters most."

"That's incredible."

"It's my responsibility." He steps closer, near enough that I can see the silver threading through his black hair. "Do you understand what that means, Paige-san?"

"I think so."

"Are you sure?" His voice drops to something intimate and commanding. "Every choice I make affects not just me, but my daughters, my clan, the legacy of sixteen generations. When I decide to keep something precious, it becomes part of that legacy forever."

The way he says "keep something precious" makes my mouth go dry.

His dark eyes hold mine with uncomfortable intensity. "You think I don't see it—your search for something permanent, something unbreakable. The way you flinch when people leave rooms, how you overcommit to avoid rejection. These aren't traits of someone secure in their place."

A chill runs through me. How could he know these things about me—things I barely acknowledge to myself?

"Your daughters," I start, desperate to redirect this conversation away from dangerous territory. "Yesterday, when I suggested—"

"When you tried to convince my eldest daughter to abandon her family duty for Western selfishness." His tone remains controlled, but something cold enters his dark eyes. "Yes. Let's discuss that."

The temperature around us seems to drop ten degrees despite the morning sunlight.

"I wasn't trying to convince her of anything. I just wanted her to know she had options."

"Options." He spits out the word like it's bitter.

"Mizuki-chan has been groomed since birth to inherit certain responsibilities.

She understands her place in our family structure, accepts her role in preserving what we've built.

Until you filled her head with American dreams about abandoning duty for personal happiness. "

A bird calls sharply from a nearby tree, drawing his attention momentarily. His gaze follows the sound, then returns to me with renewed intensity, as if the brief distraction only sharpened his focus.

Something hot and defensive flares in my chest. "Then why did you hire an American at all?" The words burst out before I can stop them. "If everything about my culture is so selfish and destructive, why bring me here? Why not hire a Japanese tutor who'd reinforce whatever you want them to think?"

His expression goes perfectly still. Dangerous still.

"Excuse me?"

"You've done nothing but criticize how I think, how I was raised, what I believe in since the moment I got here.

" My voice rises despite the warning bells in my head.

We've stopped walking completely now, facing each other on the stone path with cherry blossoms falling around us.

"American this, Western that, like everything about me is wrong. So why—"

"Stop."

The single word cuts through my anger like a blade. He doesn't raise his voice, doesn't move, but something in his tone makes my blood go cold.

"You will kneel."

"What?"

"Kneel. Here. Now." His voice drops to something quietly lethal.

A part of my mind rebels—screams at me to stand up, to walk away, to maintain whatever shred of dignity I have left.

But my body has already decided. My legs shake as I lower myself onto the cold stone path, the multiple layers of my yukata pooling around me as I sink down with my hands pressed against my thighs.

The position puts me at his feet, looking up at him while he stands over me like a lord passing judgment. And God help me, the fact that my body obeyed him without conscious thought sends heat flooding between my legs.

"Better," he murmurs, and I hate how the approval makes me hot. "Now you're ready to learn."