Page 5 of Kotori

She kneels on the grass to help my youngest daughter with some discovery—probably an insect or interesting stone that captures six-year-old imagination.

The gesture puts her at child level, revealing automatic maternal instincts, but what draws my attention is the graceful line of her neck as she leans forward, pale skin that would mark beautifully under my hands.

I imagine those blonde waves wrapped around my fist while I teach her exactly what belonging to this family means. The thought sends heat through my blood, makes me shift in my seat as my body responds to possibilities that will become reality soon enough.

When she stood this morning in my study, close enough to catch her scent, I wanted to pin her against the wall and show her what real authority feels like. The way her pulse jumped when I held her hand too long told me she felt the same dangerous attraction.

American women think they understand desire until they meet a man who takes what he wants without asking permission.

She rises from the grass, brushing dirt from her skirt, and the simple movement draws my attention to the sway of her hips, the way fabric clings to her thighs.

Everything about her body calls to the predator in me—soft where I'm hard, vulnerable where I'm armored, foreign where I'm rooted in tradition.

I want to strip away her independence piece by piece until all that remains is a woman who knows exactly who she belongs to.

I want to hear her voice break when she says my name, watch her blue eyes shimmer with need when I touch her the way no regular boy ever has.

The surveillance feed shows her helping Aya arrange colorful leaves in patterns while Kohana shares observations from her book. Paige responds to both girls with equal attention, maternal instincts engaging naturally despite professional boundaries.

Kohana looks up from her book to share some observation, and Paige listens with the focused attention that makes teenagers feel heard, understood, valued.

But I'm watching the way late sunlight illuminates her profile, imagining how those expressive blue eyes will look when she's underneath me, learning to surrender everything she thought she'd never give up.

Even Mizuki glances their way between brush strokes, pretending disinterest while obviously monitoring the dynamic between the new teacher and younger sisters. My eldest daughter inherited protective instincts from me, but she also inherited the ability to recognize when someone belongs here.

And Paige Williams belongs here . In my home, in my bed, carrying my children, beautiful and willing and completely mine.

The setting sun paints traditional gardens in shades of gold and crimson, ancient beauty enhanced by seasonal change.

Maple leaves falling onto ground that will soon be covered in snow, stone paths winding between courtyards designed by masters centuries dead, traditional architecture rising in graceful tiers toward mountain forests that surround us completely.

Home. Legacy. Prison.

All matters of perspective.

The formal dining room embodies everything about my heritage. And my precious family is at the center.

My daughters kneel in perfect seiza position, wearing formal kimono instead of their usual modern clothing.

Mizuki in deep purple silk that complements her serious nature, Kohana in soft white with cherry blossom patterns, Aya in bright pink that matches her personality.

Traditional dress for a traditional occasion—establishing hierarchy through ceremony.

Paige enters with Hayashi, and I watch her reaction to the formality. Surprise, then careful observation as she takes in the traditional elements, the positioning of cushions, the way my daughters sit with practiced stillness.

She's dressed appropriately in a conservative blouse, dark skirt, and minimal jewelry. Respectful but still distinctly foreign, blonde hair and blue eyes marking her as outsider despite cultural sensitivity.

"Paige-san," I say, not rising from my position at the head of the table. Let her come to me.

She approaches with appropriate caution, uncertain about protocols she doesn't understand. Good. Uncertainty makes people eager to please, grateful for guidance.

"Please," I gesture to the cushion beside me, close enough that our knees will almost touch when she kneels. "You honor our family with your presence."

She hesitates before settling onto the cushion with awkwardness. She tries to copy my daughters' formal posture but lacks the years of training required for natural grace. Still, the attempt shows cultural respect.

This close, I catch her scent again—light perfume, unfamiliar soap, clean skin warmed by afternoon sunlight.

The cushion beside me puts her close enough that our knees almost touch when she shifts position.

Close enough that I can see the pulse at her throat, watch her chest rise and fall with each breath, notice the way she unconsciously leans slightly away from my proximity while her body betrays her with subtle tells of attraction.

I watch her body's reactions with a predator's focus. Something ancient recognizes ownership before her conscious mind can process it. The animal part of her that knows she's been marked as prey. The primal female that senses a male who won't be denied.

Americans think they've evolved beyond such instincts. Their women play at independence while their bodies still respond to dominance. The flush spreading across her chest isn't cultural confusion. It's recognition. It's surrender waiting to happen.

I inhale deeply, catching the subtle change in her scent when I move closer.

"The girls tell me their first English lesson exceeded expectations," I say, watching her response. Pleasure at the compliment, maternal satisfaction at their approval. When she smiles, it's like sunlight, making me want to discover what other expressions I can draw from those soft lips.

"They're remarkably intelligent and gifted," she responds. "Especially considering they're learning a second language so young. You should be very proud."

"I am." My tone allows warmth to enter for the first time, and I note how her posture relaxes slightly at the approval. She wants to please, wants to belong, wants validation she doesn't realize she's seeking. "They are my greatest treasure."

Aya beams at the praise while Kohana blushes quietly. Mizuki maintains composure but I catch the pleased tilt of her chin. My daughters crave approval, recognition, acknowledgment of their worth. Simple human needs that serve larger purposes.

When I gesture for her to pour sake, her hesitation reveals awareness that this isn't simply about beverage service. Cultural hierarchy being established through ceremony, submission disguised as hospitality.

"I... I'm not sure I know the proper way."

"Mizuki-chan will guide you."

She follows my daughter's instruction with careful attention, and when her fingers brush mine as she hands me the cup, I let the contact linger. Her breath catches at the touch—barely audible, but I catch it. Her body knows what her mind hasn't accepted yet.

That she's already mine.

I maintain eye contact while sipping the sake, watching color rise in her cheeks, the way she holds herself when uncertain but trying to project confidence. The combination of strength and vulnerability makes my pulse quicken with anticipation of everything I'll teach her about surrender.

Rash independence meeting ancient authority. She has no idea how beautiful she'll be when she stops fighting what we both want.

Hayashi begins serving dinner. Traditional kaiseki courses presented in ancient ceramic bowls, each dish a small work of art. The foreign woman watches carefully, probably trying to memorize proper etiquette she doesn't want to violate.

"In our family," I tell her, "dinner is sacred time. No outside concerns, no business discussion. Only gratitude for what we share together."

She nods understanding while observing how my daughters handle chopsticks, the respectful silence maintained between servings. Learning, adapting, trying to fit herself into patterns established long before her arrival.

I sip the sake while maintaining eye contact, watching the way she holds herself when uncertain but trying to project confidence. Beautiful combination of strength and vulnerability.

"Tell us about America," I say, setting down the cup. "My daughters are curious about Western customs besides what they see on television."

"Paige-sensei," Aya says, chopsticks pausing over her rice. "Do American children really eat candy for breakfast? I heard they have sugar cereal!"

Paige laughs, a genuine sound that makes even Mizuki's lips twitch. "Some cereals do have a lot of sugar, but we don't usually eat candy for breakfast. Though I suppose sugary cereal isn't that different."

"Can we try American cereal, Otou-san?" Aya turns to me with pleading eyes. "Just for," she pauses. "Cultural education?"

"We'll see," I tell her, and she beams.

"What drew you to Japan specifically?" I ask.

"The history, the traditions. Everything here feels deeper than what I'm used to. Like there are layers of meaning I'm just beginning to understand."

Perceptive answer. She recognizes cultural depth while acknowledging her position as outsider seeking understanding. Perfect foundation for education in our ways, our values, our expectations.

As the meal concludes, my daughters express gratitude with formal bows before Hayashi escorts them to evening studies. Aya skips slightly despite the formal setting, Kohana clutches a book, and Mizuki moves with the dignity of someone already practicing to be family heir.

Paige begins to rise with them, probably assuming dinner has ended.

"Stay," I tell her quietly. "Tell me about your teaching philosophy."

She settles back onto the cushion, relaxing slightly at the professional topic.

"I believe in meeting students where they are," she begins. "Understanding their individual strengths and adapting methods accordingly."

"Wise approach. Children respond better to guidance that respects their nature rather than forcing conformity." I observe her reaction to agreement rather than challenge. "I heard you handled Mizuki's testing well today."

"She's protective of her sisters. I respect that."

"As you should. Family loyalty is paramount in our culture." I lean back slightly, still maintaining proximity. "My daughters haven't had consistent educational guidance since their last tutor left rather abruptly."

Her brow furrows with concern. "What happened?"

"She couldn't adapt to our family's specific needs." I watch as she recognizes that this position requires more than standard teaching skills. "I trust you'll prove more flexible."

The word hangs between us, loaded with implications beyond educational methods.

I leave her kneeling in the formal dining room, processing the reality that she's no longer just a teacher hired for temporary service.

She's a woman being claimed by a man who always gets what he wants.

And what I want is her: completely, permanently, willingly.

She'll fight at first.

That's what makes it beautiful.