Page 45 of Kotori
"Kuso gaki-domo," I mutter, looking at the bodies. Fucking kids. "They made me late for dinner."
Takeshi hands me a clean handkerchief as we walk to the car. "Your shoulder, Aniki."
"It's nothing." I press the cloth to the wound. "Have the doctor meet me at home."
"Shall I tell him to be discreet? For the sake of the American woman?"
I smile thinly. "No. Let her see."
The drive home gives me time to consider the night's events. The interruption. The blood. The way killing those men felt like release.
How fitting that my little bird's first attempt at flight was today—the same day I had to demonstrate the consequences of defiance to others. Perhaps she should understand what kind of man holds her cage key.
I dismiss Takeshi at the entrance and make my way to my private rooms. The wound isn't deep, just a graze that tore through skin and muscle. I've had worse. Much worse.
In my bathroom, I strip off the bloodied shirt and clean the wound myself with practiced movements. Antiseptic stings, but pain is merely information. The bullet left a clean furrow across my deltoid. It will scar nicely.
I wrap a bandage around the shoulder, pulling it firm but not tight enough. No matter. A little blood won't ruin dinner.
After changing into a fresh white shirt, I examine myself in the mirror. The bandage is already showing a faint red line where blood is seeping through. Perfect. Let her see it. Let her wonder.
The dining room glows with warm light when I slide open the doors. My daughters sit around the table, chattering quietly while Hayashi clears empty dishes. And there, beside my empty cushion, sits perfection itself.
Paige in the black dress I chose for her. Modest neckline, knee-length skirt, fabric that stretches when she turns toward my arrival. Her blonde hair catches lamplight, her blue eyes hold uncertain hope, and her posture speaks of someone waiting for approval she's desperate to earn.
She wore it. My gift, my command, my vision of what she should become. The sight of her compliance sends satisfaction racing through my bloodstream.
"Okaeri, Papa!" Aya bounces slightly on her cushion. "You missed dinner! But Paige-sensei helped me eat all my vegetables, and we saved you the good parts!"
"Did you?" I settle onto my cushion beside Paige, close enough to catch her scent—jasmine bath oils and nervous anticipation. "How thoughtful."
She turns toward me with careful politeness that doesn't hide her relief. "I hope your business meeting went well, Matsumoto-sama."
Business meeting. If she only knew what "business" looked like tonight—five corpses serving as messages to anyone who thinks they can disrupt my schedule.
"Very productive," I tell her, studying the way black dress frames her throat, emphasizing her neck. "Some problems require personal attention."
Her eyes catch on the spreading red stain on my white shirt, where blood is seeping through the hastily applied bandage. I see the moment she registers what it is—her breath catching, pupils dilating slightly. Good. Let her wonder. Let her understand the duality of the man who owns her now.
"You look very pretty, Paige-sensei," Mizuki observes with approval. "That dress suits you perfectly."
"Thank you." Color rises in her cheeks at the compliment. "It was provided for me."
Provided. Such careful language, acknowledging my choice without admitting surrender. She's learning the delicate balance between compliance and dignity that will serve her well in our household.
"Papa," Aya says, leaning against my arm. "Paige-sensei was worried you wouldn't come home for dinner. I told her you always come home!"
Always. The certainty in my youngest daughter's voice makes me momentarily forget the darkness I've just executed. Home.Where I belong, where my family waits, where beautiful women wear dresses I select and worry about my absence.
Where five men lie dead because they dared interrupt my evening.
"I apologize for the delay," I tell Paige. "Urgent matters sometimes require immediate attention."
Hayashi appears silently to serve tea, but I wave her away with a gesture. My eyes find Paige's, holding her gaze with quiet expectation.
She hesitates long enough for the silence to stretch, for my daughters to notice, for the weight of my attention to settle around her shoulders.
Then she reaches for the tea service.
