Page 124 of Kotori
"Ore no mono da," he growls, fingers working my clit with brutal precision. "Zettai ni ore no mono da." You're mine. Absolutely mine. "Say it."
"Yours," I gasp, barely able to form words as he drives me toward the edge. "Always yours!"
My orgasm hits like lightning, ripping through me so violently I nearly black out. I scream his name into the September night, clenching around him with spasms that drag his own release from him in a broken roar.
He comes buried deep inside me, his seed flooding my womb while he curses in Japanese against my throat. "Kuso, kimochi yokatta—"Fuck, that felt good.His body shudders with the force of his climax.
We don't separate afterward. Can't. I cling to him, naked and shaking, while he holds me against cold stone.
"If something happens." I start.
"When I come back," he corrects, voice hard with determination. "And I will come back. This family is mine, and no one takes what belongs to me." But his hands are too gentle as he helps me back into my clothes, movements careful like he's memorizing the feel of silk sliding over my skin. When he straightens his tie and checks his weapons, I see something in his eyes that terrifies me.
Not doubt. Grim certainty.
"Protect them," he says simply. "Be the mother they need."
"Kaito." His name stops him at the garden's edge. "I can't lose you. Not when I've finally found who I'm supposed to be."
He turns, and for just a moment, moonlight catches his face. Not the controlled oyabun, but the man who loves his daughters and chose to love me back. "You won't lose me," he says with absolute conviction. "I have too much to live for."
Then he's gone, swallowed by shadows and duty, leaving me alone with the taste of what might be our last kiss burning on my lips.
I stand in September's warm air for a long moment before walking back toward the house where three girls sleep peacefully, trusting that the adults in their lives will keep them safe.
Whatever happens tonight, I'll be ready.
36
Kaito
Thedrivetotheabandoned factory passes in controlled silence. Takeshi drives while I check weapons in the back seat. Beretta M9 chambered and ready, backup .38 at my ankle, the katana my grandfather carried resting across my knees. The kevlar vest beneath my jacket is warm against my ribs, familiar weight that's saved my life more times than I can count.
"Final positions?" I ask.
"Nagumo and Watanabe have the access roads covered. They can't interfere with formal combat, but they'll bear witness and ensure no one escapes." Takeshi's eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. "You sure about this, Aniki? This feels wrong."
I test the katana's edge against my thumb, steel parting skin like silk. Blood wells immediately. Perfect sharpness, perfect balance. Tonight, sixteen generations of Matsumoto honor will be written in enemy blood.
"Hiroshi's desperate. Desperate men make mistakes." I think of moonlight on naked skin, of promises whispered againstancient stone, of three daughters sleeping peacefully while their father prepares for war. "But he chose the terms. Traditional combat at neutral ground. I have to honor that."
"What if he doesn't?"
The question hangs between us like smoke. Because Takeshi's right. This feels wrong. Hiroshi's been planning for months, choosing every detail. A man doesn't call for formal combat unless he's certain he can win.
"Then we remind him why the Matsumoto name commands fear."
The factory appears ahead. Broken windows and rusted steel, the kind of place where yakuza business gets settled permanently. Perfect for what comes next.
"Remember," I tell Takeshi as we park, "this is formal combat. You bear witness only. Unless he breaks the terms first."
"Hai, Aniki. But if he tries anything?"
"Then you do what's necessary." I step out into the night air, feeling the weight of history on my shoulders. "But let me face him first."
The factory floor stretches before me in moonlight, broken machinery and empty production lines creating shadows that speak of Japan's industrial past. I walk through the debris field, each step bringing me closer to the man who destroyed my family.
Hiroshi waits in the center of the cleared space, dressed in formal black hakama and haori. Traditional garments that look strange against rusted steel and broken concrete. The katana at his side gleams in moonlight, expensive steel that probably hasn't tasted blood in decades.
