Page 47 of Kotori
The eager question makes my chest tight. Special business. What a gentle euphemism for organized crime.
"I, well, that depends on many things, sweetheart."
"What things?" Aya's face scrunches with confusion. "You live here now. You're part of our family. Papa said especially after what happened, you belong with us."
You belong with us.Said with such casual certainty, like my inclusion was never in question. Like everyone accepts I belong here permanently. Like knowledge of their father's criminal enterprise has only bound me closer to them.
"Aya-chan," Mizuki says quietly, "Paige-sensei might have other commitments."
"What other commitments?" Aya interrupts. "She works here. She knows our secrets now. She eats with us. She sleeps here. That means she's family, right Papa?"
All eyes turn to Kaito, who sips his tea with infuriating calm while my future hangs in the balance. When he finally speaks, his voice is gentle but absolute.
"Paige-san's commitments are to this household now," he says. "Her place is here, with us. Especially after what she witnessed. Isn't that right, Paige-san?"
The question hangs in the air.
Say yes, and I admit defeat. Say no, and disappoint three girls who've done nothing wrong, who've welcomed me with innocenttrust. Not to mention the implicit threat—that having seen what I've seen, knowing what I know, leaving is no longer an option.
"I'm grateful to be here," I say finally, which isn't an answer but isn't a lie.
"Gratitude is wisdom," he murmurs, and something in his tone makes my pulse quicken. "Recognition of blessing received."
Blessing. Like being trapped in a beautiful cage is something I should thank him for. Like knowing I'm living with a yakuza boss and his family is some privilege.
"Girls," he says when the tea service is complete, "time for your evening routine. Paige-san and I will review tomorrow's lesson plans."
The dismissal is gentle but absolute. The daughters rise with perfect obedience, offering polite bows before filing out of the dining room. Aya pauses at the door to wave goodbye with both hands, and my heart clenches at her innocent affection.
Suddenly, we're alone.
The dining room feels smaller without the girls' chatter, more intimate. The lamplight casts shadows across his face, highlighting his sharp cheekbones, the way his dark eyes hold mine with uncomfortable intensity.
"You handled tonight well," he says, rising with only the slightest wince betraying his healing wound. "Better than I expected, given what's transpired since our last formal dinner."
Better than he expected. Like this was a test I passed without realizing I was being graded. Like my knowledge of his true identity was just another hurdle to overcome.
"Thank you," I say automatically, then catch myself. "I think."
His smile is slow. "Uncertainty becomes you. Humility is attractive in a woman who knows too much."
Humility is attractive in a woman who knows too much.The casual threat wrapped in sexism should make me angry, shouldspark the feminist rage that got me through college. Instead, I feel myself flush under his approval.
"Come," he says, extending his hand. "I'll walk you to your quarters."
The gesture looks polite, gentlemanly even. But when I take his hand, his fingers close around mine with unmistakable possession. He's not escorting me—he's claiming the right to guide me, to decide when our evening ends.
We walk through corridors lit by traditional paper lanterns, our footsteps echoing off polished floors. The compound feels different at night. More isolated. The soft lighting creates pools of warmth surrounded by shadows, making every corner feel secretive and private.
"You've adjusted well since discovering my position," he says as we walk, his thumb tracing across my knuckles. "Most would have run screaming."
"I tried running," I remind him quietly. "It didn't work out."
His chuckle is low. "Yes. And now you understand why leaving isn't possible. Not just for my sake, but for yours. The world I inhabit isn't forgiving of loose ends."
Loose ends. Like I'm a dangling thread that needs to be either woven in or cut off. The implication is clear, and my mouth goes dry.
"You wore the dress I selected," he says, changing subjects with dangerous ease.
