Page 51 of Tsumiko and the Enslaved Fox
How long had it been? How long did he have? Whether because of the Huddlebud nectar, the potency of his mistress’s soul, or his son’s presence, he’d succumbed wholly and lost all sense of time.
Easing onto his back, Argent sought out the guardian of his slumber. Moonlight poured through the window, adding its luster to Gingko’s unruly hair. An ear twitched his way, and Argent asked, “How long?”
“Another eighteen hours. Want to trade places so you can stretch?”
Argent glared.
The idiot boy’s eyebrows arched. “That’s what she and I do when she needs a break.”
“Unlikely.”
“Deny it all you want, you still held my hand.”
Argent scowled as hazy dreams came back to him, vague snatches of old memories, from a time when he’d cradled a distraught toddler to his chest and sung of foxes and freedom.
Gingko asked, “Need anything?”
“Food.”
“Figures. I’ll bring a tray. And Sansa if she’s still awake. She’ll want to check your bandages, and if we’re lucky, feed you more of that golden goop that turns you all compliant and cuddly.”
Argent growled, “Go.”
By some miracle, the brat went.
Turning his attention to his mistress, Argent sighed over their state of entanglement. Her foot hooked around his calf. Her head tucked against his shoulder. Her excess of power tickling his innermost parts, filling his body to overflowing. If she kept nurturing his need for her, how could he be expected to break free?
She would be his ruin.
Argent traced the curve of her cheek with his knuckles, his touch softer than moonlight, and whispered, “I will hate you most of all.”
. . .
Tsumiko moved to the chair, feet tucked up as she blew across the mug of milk tea Gingko had brought. Rich as cream and sweet with honey, the midnight treat momentarily distracted her from Michael’s earnest attempt to prepare her for a month with the Uppington Smythes.
“Why does it feel like you’re trying to warn me?” she asked.
“Ah,” Michael said awkwardly. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Tsumiko, you have a trusting nature.”
She peered at him over the rim of her drink. “Is that what you think?”
He cleared his throat. “You accepted us quite readily.”
“Are you saying my trust is misplaced?”
“Not at all. But not everyone is … us.”
Did he really think her so gullible? Tsumiko chose a quiet answer. “I know that, and I’m grateful.”
Gingko snickered, and Michael shuffled his feet.
“Tsk. Time is short.” Argent didn’t look up from the meal he was consuming with quiet economy. “Give her the basics. I will elaborate as needed along the way.”
Drawing himself up, Michael explained, “Lord Percival and Lady Eimi made an annual trip to his family home. They blended and borrowed traditions—visiting the graves of his ancestors, hunting with the hounds, celebrating Christmas in the English way, then returning home in order to observe New Year’s customs in the Japanese manner.”
Tsumiko simply nodded.
“Percival and Eimi were unable to have children of their own, so his estate passed to his younger brother Cedric, who has in turn named his grandson Stewart as heir. I believe there was some hope early on that Stewart would also inherit this place … and Argent.”
