Page 33 of Black Widow's Kiss

Though, what would it say about Kuroi if it were true?

No, I won’t believe it. Yuki didn’t know what she was talking about. I just needed to focus on what I was here for.

“How do I get Kuroi to not kill me?” I asked bluntly.

Yuki took more sips allowing the silence to draw out. I was starting to believe that she was done speaking when she volunteered.

“Kuroi has always responded to a firm hand.”

“A firm hand?”

“Kuroi must know his place.”

“His place?”

“Mi no hodo wo shiru. Do you know what that means?”

“How the fuck would I know that?”

“It means, to know your place is to know yourself. Kuroi doesn’t yet know his place in this world. Perhaps with a strong hand, like yours, he will.”

What the fuck did that mean? A strong hand like mine? If she was referring to what I thought she was, that might have been one of the most fucked up things I’ve ever heard.

If it wasn’t for the look in Kuroi’s eyes when I had my hands around his neck, I would have dismissed the idea.Had he enjoyed it as I gripped him tighter? Could she be right? Was that what Kuroi was looking for?

It wouldn’t be the craziest idea given that his love taps required stitches. But what exactly did “a firm hand” mean?

To know your place is to know yourself. Leave it to the Japanese to have phrase for that. At the same time, that was lifein a family like mine. We only functioned as an efficient unit when everyone knew and accepted their role within it.

Had I been so thrown by Kuroi being a man that I had neglected my duty as the head of our new family? Had I failed to lay down the ground rules that would tell him who he was to me? Had it been because I didn’t know?

It hadn’t been my choice to marry Kuroi. I had never pictured myself with a husband. But now I had one and he was the hottest fuckin’ thing on the planet. So, what Kuroi was to me, was mine. He was mine.

If someone thought they could have him, or even look at him funny, I would take their head off. Touch him and I would break their hand off. He was under my protection from now until the day I died. And if anyone failed to recognize that, including Kuroi, then they would have a rude awakening.

Yuki said nothing else for the rest of our time together. When she was done with her tea, she simply stood, bowed and walked away. I was the one who remained unsure of what to do next.

I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to run home, grab my hot husband and fuck him raw. We weren’t there yet, though. We might never be. But where we were was at the end of my rope. Tonight, something was going to break.

Chapter 7

Kuroi

Well, that didn’t work. I had thought that I could be the perfect wife, the perfect Japanese woman. I thought I could be my sister. And all I keep doing is cleaning my husband’s blood off the floor.

Oh well. I guess some girls weren’t meant for married life. I guess that means I’ll die alone. Who would have seen that coming? I would imagine, everybody.I hate it when people are right about me!

So, what went wrong? So many things, but let’s start from the beginning. When he arrived home for the first time finding me here, he looked at me funny and I stabbed him. Reasonable.

Next, after slaving in front of the mirror preparing myself, I had dinner waiting for him when he got home, and he laughed at me. In that case, he was just asking to die, wasn’t he? If there is a moth and a flame, what can I do about it?

At the same time, I can’t help but think that I bare some responsible for what’s happened, somehow. That sounds preposterous considering the effort I’ve made. Truly, above and beyond. But still, everyone else I’ve felt something for has died. At some point a girl has to ask, ‘Is it me?’

As impossible as it seems, maybe it is. Certainly I’ve never done anything wrong. If anything extracurricular ever happened with a lover, it was a moth to a flame, just like Dante. Yet, I can’t help but think I might have played a role somehow.

No matter, what has passed has passed. Water under the bridge. All I need to worry about now is what I will make for my husband tonight. He never said what he thought about the casserole. Maybe it was too Midwest Americana for him. Dante was Italian. Perhaps I’ll prepare spaghetti tonight.

Rummaging through my trunk which remained where it was left in the living room, I found the perfect dress. Very 1950s, Italian countryside. It would require the perfect makeup to pull off. The eyebrows over the white face had to scream portabella.

---