Page 18 of Kotori
"Stand," he commands without preamble.
I rise to my feet, surprised by the sudden directive.
He circles me slowly, eyes assessing every inch of my posture with predatory focus. "Your bearing betrays you," he says, stopping behind me where I can't see his face. "Every movement announces you as foreign, vulnerable, unprepared."
His hand settles at the small of my back, the touch light but commanding. "Spine straight." His other hand moves to my shoulder, adjusting my posture with firm pressure. "Chin level." His fingers brush my jaw, tilting my head to the correct position.
Each touch is ostensibly professional, instructional, yet the heat of his palm against my back burns through my blouse. I remain perfectly still, afraid to breathe, hyperaware of his proximity and the subtle scent of his cologne.
"When you move through this house," he continues, voice near my ear, "you represent this family. Your carriage should reflect that honor."
His hand slides from my back to my waist, positioning me as one might adjust a mannequin. The casual ownership in the gesture makes my pulse quicken. I should object, should maintain professional boundaries, but instead I allow him to arrange me like a doll, responding to each subtle pressure with immediate compliance.
"Better," he murmurs, stepping around to examine his work. "Now walk to that screen and back. With purpose."
But before he can begin the lesson, the study door slides open. Takeshi stands in the doorway, face impassive but posture urgent.
"Forgive the interruption, Matsumoto-sama." He bows deeply. "There is a situation requiring your immediate attention."
Kaito's expression doesn't change. "Very well." He turns to me. "We will continue tomorrow night. You are dismissed."
The abrupt end to our meeting leaves me off-balance. I rise, bow as I've been instructed, and exit the study with the uncomfortable feeling that I've been granted a temporary reprieve rather than an actual escape.
In the hallway, I hear rapid Japanese behind the closed door—Takeshi's voice urgent, Kaito's responses clipped and cold. Though I can't understand the words, the tone needs no translation. Something serious has happened.
I make my way back toward my room, but the sound of Kaito's voice stops me.
Gone is the controlled, measured tone he's used with me. In its place is something I've never heard before—deep, guttural Japanese that vibrates with fury. The words are incomprehensible, but the rage needs no translation. Each syllable cuts through the air like a blade, his voice dropping to a register so low it shakes the floor beneath my feet.
"Ore no nawabari ni..." The rest dissolves in a torrent of Japanese, but the deadly calm beneath the storm terrifies more than any shouting.
I flatten against the wall, heart racing. Takeshi responds, voice deferential but urgent. Kaito's commands silence him instantly.
Something crashes against a wall—glass shattering, perhaps a vase or decanter. Then silence, more deadly than the rage that preceded it.
"Korose!" The single word slices through the quiet with lethal precision.
I don't know what it means, but the weight of it, the finality, sends ice through my veins. It wasn't spoken in anger, but with the calm certainty of someone delivering a sentence that cannot be appealed.
Footsteps approach the door. I panic, turning to flee before I'm discovered eavesdropping. In my haste, I bump against adecorative table. The vase on top wobbles, and I catch it before it falls, heart pounding.
The footsteps pause.
I don't wait to see if they investigate. Moving as quietly as possible, I hurry down the corridor and take a different route back to my room, mind racing with implications.
This isn't just a wealthy family with traditional values. This is something far more dangerous. The tattoos glimpsed beneath Kaito's collar, the deference of the men in the garden, the security measures throughout the compound—it all suddenly makes terrible sense.
I've accepted employment from a yakuza family. I'm living in a crime lord's compound. I've surrendered my phone, my passport, my connections to the outside world to a man who commands people with a single word—a man whose rage feels like a physical force even through walls and doors.
And I have no way out.
Back in my room, I sink onto the bed, trying to control my breathing. Part of me wants to pack my things and run—but to where? With what money? The nearest town is miles away across mountain roads I don't know. I have no phone, no transportation, no one to call for help even if I could reach them.
I'm trapped not by locks and chains, but by isolation and dependence.
A soft knock interrupts my spiraling thoughts. I open the door to find Aya standing there in pajamas decorated with cartoon rabbits, a book clutched to her chest.
"Williams-sensei," she says hesitantly, "will you read me a story? Kohana-nee is doing homework, and Mizuki-nee said she's too busy."
