Page 44 of Kotori

Paige

By evening, I'm fracturing.

I stand outside the training grounds with my heart hammering against my ribs and self-loathing burning in my throat.

This is insane. I'm a grown woman, a professional, someone who used to make her own decisions and control her own life. I shouldn't be standing here, desperate for the attention of the man who kidnapped me and turned me into this pathetic, needy creature.

But I can't walk away. The need is too strong, the shame too familiar now to fight. He's broken something inside me that I'm not sure can be fixed.

And the worst part? I'm not sure I want it fixed anymore.

At exactly eight o'clock, I follow the directions to the training grounds at the back of the compound. Traditional dojo space where generations of Matsumoto men have practiced their deadly arts.

I slide open the door and my breath stops.

Kaito and Takeshi face each other in the center of the wooden floor, both wearing simple white gi and hakama, both holding bokken with the casual expertise of men who've been training since childhood.

But it's Kaito who commands my attention—the way the loose fabric moves with his body, how sweat gleams on his exposed forearms, the controlled power in every movement as they spar.

This is him stripped down to essentials. Not the businessman in expensive suits, not the father in casual clothes, but the warrior underneath all those civilized layers.

They don't acknowledge my presence immediately, too focused on their deadly dance.

Wood strikes wood with sharp cracks that echo off traditional walls.

Takeshi lunges forward with impressive speed, but Kaito flows around the attack like water, countering with a strike that would have split his second-in-command's skull if the blade were real steel.

"Again," Kaito commands, not even breathing hard.

They reset, bow formally, and begin another round. This time I can see the difference in their skill levels—Takeshi is good, very good, but Kaito moves like violence made art. Every technique perfect, every response anticipating his opponent's next three moves.

When the bout ends with Takeshi on his back and Kaito's bokken at his throat, I realize I'm squeezing my thighs together unconsciously, aroused by the casual display of dominance.

"Aniki," Takeshi pants, accepting Kaito's hand up. "Your form is flawless tonight."

"Focused mind produces focused technique," Kaito replies, finally turning those dark eyes toward me. "Ah, Paige-san. Thank you for joining us."

Us. Like this was planned. Like my humiliation requires an audience.

"Strip," he commands casually, as if asking me to remove my shoes.

My face burns crimson. "Here? In front of—"

"Did I ask for discussion?" His voice carries quiet authority that makes my knees weak. "Remove your clothes and kneel where I can see you while we train."

Takeshi's presence makes this a thousand times worse. His carefully neutral expression tells me he's been briefed on what to expect, but that doesn't make exposing myself in front of my employer's lieutenant any less mortifying.

With shaking hands, I begin unbuttoning my blouse. The cotton drops to the hardwood, revealing my body in the lamplight. My skirt follows, then my underwear, until I'm completely naked and trembling in the doorway.

"Beautiful," Kaito murmurs, appreciation clear in his voice. "Now kneel there, kotori. Watch us train while you wait for my attention."

I sink to my knees on the hardwood floor, hyperaware of how exposed I am. But Takeshi doesn't even glance in my direction—his eyes remain fixed on his oyabun with the rigid discipline of someone who knows exactly how lethal it would be to show interest in what belongs to Kaito.

They resume sparring while I kneel in humiliated silence.

Each crack of wood against wood makes me flinch, but it's the sight of Kaito in motion that has me panting with need.

The way his hakama shifts with each movement, how sweat dampens his gi until it clings to his chest and arms, revealing hints of the black ink that decorates his skin beneath—the shadow of dragons and koi that seem to move as his muscles work.

The controlled violence speaks of exactly what those hands could do to me.

Twenty minutes pass. Thirty. My thighs begin to ache from maintaining position, but I don't dare move. Takeshi never once looks my way—his focus absolute, his respect for Kaito's claim so complete that my naked body might as well be invisible.

"Enough for tonight," Kaito finally says, setting his bokken in the rack with ceremonial precision. "Takeshi, you may go."

"Hai, Aniki." Takeshi bows deeply, his eyes never straying from his master's face as he collects his gear. Not even a sideways glance as he passes my kneeling form. "Thank you for the lesson."

When the door slides closed behind him, the silence feels heavy with promise and threat.

"Did you enjoy the demonstration, kotori?" Kaito asks, moving closer with predatory grace.

"Yes," I breathe, not trusting my voice for more.

"What did you learn from watching?"

The question catches me off guard. "That you're stronger than anyone. That you always win."

"And how does that make you feel?"

"Safe," I admit, then immediately flush at the honesty. "And aroused."

His smile is absolutely devastating. "Good. Because now you understand what you're surrendering to. Not just a man, but a weapon. Not just dominance, but the certainty that I can protect what belongs to me through whatever force becomes necessary."

He kneels in front of me, close enough that I can smell sweat and exertion and the masculine scent that makes my mouth water.

The gi hangs open slightly at his throat, giving me glimpses of black ink disappearing beneath the fabric—traditional designs that mark him as dangerous, as someone who belongs to a world most people never see.

"Do you know what you are, kotori?" he asks, his voice dropping to something intimate and commanding.

"Yours," I whisper, the word torn from somewhere deep and broken.

"Yes. But more specifically?" His hand cups my face with devastating gentleness. "What exactly are you to me?"

I know what he wants me to say. Know what truth he's been pushing me toward for weeks. The words taste like ash and honey on my tongue.

"Your woman," I breathe, shame and arousal warring in my chest. "Your property."

"Louder. Say 'I am Matsumoto-sama's woman, and I belong to him completely.'"

"I am Matsumoto-sama's slut," I say, my voice stronger now, carrying the weight of absolute surrender. "And I belong to you completely."

His smile is pure satisfaction. "Good girl. And how does that make you feel?"

The question catches me off guard. How does it feel to admit what I am? To voice the truth I've been fighting for two days? "Free," I admit, surprised by the honesty. "It feels like I can stop fighting myself."

"Exactly." He reaches down to trace my lower lip with his thumb. "All that shame, all that self-hatred—it comes from denying what you really are. Accept it, and the pain stops."

His thumb slips between my lips, and I suck it eagerly, desperately, showing him exactly how much I've missed serving him. When he withdraws it, I whimper at the loss.

"You want relief, kotori?"

"Please," I gasp. "I can't take any more. I've been good, I've waited, I've accepted what I am."

"You have." His fingers slide between my thighs, and I cry out at the first touch, two days of denied need exploding through my nervous system.

"Show me how much you've missed my hands on you.

" His fingers work me with ruthless efficiency, not gentle or romantic but claiming—taking what he owns without regard for anything but his satisfaction at watching me fall apart.

"Look at you," he snarls, his dark eyes drinking in my desperation. "Dripping like a bitch in heat, begging for it. This is what you really are, kotori. Not a teacher, not an independent woman. Just a set of holes for me to fill."

"Please," I sob, beyond shame or pride. "Please let me come. Please, I need it so badly—"

"You need what I give you, when I give it to you." His movements slow to a torturous crawl, and I whimper in frustration. "Say what you are."

"Yours," I gasp, tears starting to blur my vision.

"Say it properly. Tell me 'I am your slut and I surrender completely.'"

"I am your slut," I cry, the words torn from my throat by desperate need, "and I surrender completely! Watashi wa Kaito-sama no mono desu!" I belong to Kaito-sama.

His smile is pure predator satisfaction. "Good girl. Now come for me like the desperate whore you are."

The permission combined with his fingers finding exactly the right spot sends me over the edge. I convulse around his hand, my body clenching as pleasure tears through me with frightening intensity, washing away the last remnants of who I used to be.

But even as the aftershocks fade, I can see he's not done with me. His dark eyes hold promises of more to come, more ways to claim and mark and own every part of me.

"Stand," he commands, rising to his feet with fluid grace.

I obey on trembling legs, and he guides me toward the wall, pressing my palms against the wooden surface before positioning himself behind me.

"Spread your legs," he orders, and I comply immediately, my thighs parting to give him access to everything he owns.

The sound of fabric rustling behind me makes me tense with anticipation. I hear him removing the gi, cotton hitting the floor, and when I glance back over my shoulder, my breath catches.