Page 32 of Kotori
"The meal tonight honored you with beauty, tradition, the finest my family can offer," he says with quiet certainty. "Tomorrow you'll understand what that generosity costs. What we do to protect what matters to us."
The promise in his voice makes me shiver. Educational.
My hand trembles on the door frame. "Goodnight, Matsumoto-sama."
8
Paige
Thesoftknockcomesat exactly four in the morning. I wake disoriented, sheets tangled around my legs, the taste of sake and expensive food lingering on my tongue.
"Williams-san." Hayashi's voice carries through the door, controlled despite the ungodly hour. "It is time to prepare."
I stumble to the door in my pajamas, blinking against the soft hallway lighting. Hayashi stands waiting with two younger women I haven't met, all three dressed in crisp uniforms despite the early hour.
"Prepare for what?" I ask, though my stomach already knows the answer.
"Your morning appointment with Matsumoto-sama." Her tone reveals nothing. "The bath has been drawn. We will assist with traditional dress."
Before I can object, they're ushering me toward the bathroom where steam rises from the deep soaking tub. The water is perfectly heated, scented with something floral and clean. I wantto ask questions—what kind of traditional dress, what exactly is happening, why does this feel like preparation for execution—but something in Hayashi's expression stops me. She's not my ally. She's his.
"Please, Williams-san." One of the younger women gestures toward the tub. "Time is limited."
I slip into the hot water while they work around me. Preparing towels, arranging bottles of oil and lotion, laying out undergarments I've never seen before. Everything coordinated with military precision. The bath should be relaxing, but I can't shake the feeling that I'm being prepared like a sacrifice being readied for the altar.
When I emerge from the tub, they wrap me in the softest towel I've ever felt and begin the process of drying and oiling my skin with movements that speak of long practice. Not roughly, but thoroughly. Completely.
The undergarments are unlike anything I've worn—a white cotton wrap that binds around my chest, silk shorts that feel like nothing against my skin. Then comes the first layer of the yukata, pure white cotton that whispers against my oiled skin.
"Traditional dress requires many layers," Hayashi explains as they add a second yukata in pale blue, then a third in bright sapphire. "Each piece has meaning, purpose."
The obi comes next—a wide silk sash that requires all three women to tie properly. They wrap it around my waist multiple times, pulling it tight enough that my breathing becomes deliberate. The bow they create at my back is elaborate, requiring adjustments and re-tying until it meets their standards.
"Cannot breathe wrong," one of the younger women murmurs as she adjusts my posture. "Must sit, walk, move with intention."
They slide my feet into white tabi socks, then traditional wooden geta sandals that click against the floor with each step. The sound is delicate, feminine, impossible to move silently in.
When they finally position me in front of the full-length mirror, I barely recognize myself. The kimono transforms my body into something elegant and restrained. The multiple layers hide my curves while making me more feminine, more delicate. My blonde hair has been swept up, leaving my neck completely exposed. I look like I belong in a museum. Or a master's private collection.
"Beautiful," Hayashi says with satisfaction. "Matsumoto-sama will be pleased."
The way she says it makes clear that pleasing him is the only consideration that matters.
"What exactly am I supposed to do?" I ask, trying to adjust the restrictive obi.
"Walk. Listen. Learn." Hayashi's tone suggests these instructions are complete. "He waits in the eastern garden. Follow the stone path."
They escort me to a side door I've never used before, one that opens directly onto the gardens. Dawn is just breaking, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold, and mist clings to the carefully manicured landscape like something from a fairy tale. The stone path winds between ancient trees and perfectly trimmed shrubs, past small bridges over babbling streams and stone lanterns that cast soft shadows in the growing light. Everything is precise, beautiful, designed by masters over centuries. And completely isolated.
I hear him before I see him—the whisper of bowstring releasing, the solid thunk of arrow meeting a target. Following the sound, I round a corner to find a small clearing where Kaito practices archery in the growing dawn light.
He's dressed in traditional kyudo gear—a white gi and dark hakama, but the top is pushed off his left shoulder and arm, leaving him half-exposed for the draw. Sweat gleams on his skin despite the cool morning air, and I can see the full scope of his tattoos for the first time. I stop breathing.
The black dragon coils across his shoulder blade and down his back, breathing stylized clouds that move as his muscles shift with each draw. Cherry blossoms fall like blood drops around the creature, and beneath it, koi fish swim upstream across his chest in gold and red. Wind bars flow down his exposed arm between chrysanthemums, the ink work so detailed it looks alive in the early light.
He draws the bow with what I can only imagine is perfect form. His breathing is controlled, meditative, each release followed by the solid impact of an arrow finding its mark in the distant target. There's something hypnotic about watching him—the controlled power, the way ancient ink moves across sweat-slicked skin, the perfect balance between restraint and deadly accuracy.
When he lowers the bow, only then does he acknowledge my presence.
