Page 87 of Kotori
"Again," Kaito commands, not even breathing hard.
They reset, bow formally, and begin another round. This time I can see the difference in their skill levels—Takeshi is good, very good, but Kaito moves like violence made art. Every technique perfect, every response anticipating his opponent's next three moves.
When the bout ends with Takeshi on his back and Kaito's bokken at his throat, I realize I'm squeezing my thighs together unconsciously, aroused by the casual display of dominance.
"Aniki," Takeshi pants, accepting Kaito's hand up. "Your form is flawless tonight."
"Focused mind produces focused technique," Kaito replies, finally turning those dark eyes toward me. "Ah, Paige-san. Thank you for joining us."
Us. Like this was planned. Like my humiliation requires an audience.
"Strip," he commands casually, as if asking me to remove my shoes.
My face burns crimson. "Here? In front of—"
"Did I ask for discussion?" His voice carries quiet authority that makes my knees weak. "Remove your clothes and kneel where I can see you while we train."
Takeshi's presence makes this a thousand times worse. His carefully neutral expression tells me he's been briefed on what to expect, but that doesn't make exposing myself in front of my employer's lieutenant any less mortifying.
With shaking hands, I begin unbuttoning my blouse. The cotton drops to the hardwood, revealing my body in the lamplight. My skirt follows, then my underwear, until I'm completely naked and trembling in the doorway.
"Beautiful," Kaito murmurs, appreciation clear in his voice. "Now kneel there, kotori. Watch us train while you wait for my attention."
I sink to my knees on the hardwood floor, hyperaware of how exposed I am. But Takeshi doesn't even glance in my direction—his eyes remain fixed on his oyabun with the rigid discipline of someone who knows exactly how lethal it would be to show interest in what belongs to Kaito.
They resume sparring while I kneel in humiliated silence. Each crack of wood against wood makes me flinch, but it's the sight of Kaito in motion that has me panting with need. The way his hakama shifts with each movement, how sweat dampens his gi until it clings to his chest and arms, revealing hints of the black ink that decorates his skin beneath—the shadow of dragons and koi that seem to move as his muscles work. The controlled violence speaks of exactly what those hands could do to me.
Twenty minutes pass. Thirty. My thighs begin to ache from maintaining position, but I don't dare move. Takeshi never oncelooks my way—his focus absolute, his respect for Kaito's claim so complete that my naked body might as well be invisible.
"Enough for tonight," Kaito finally says, setting his bokken in the rack with ceremonial precision. "Takeshi, you may go."
"Hai, Aniki." Takeshi bows deeply, his eyes never straying from his master's face as he collects his gear. Not even a sideways glance as he passes my kneeling form. "Thank you for the lesson."
When the door slides closed behind him, the silence feels heavy with promise and threat.
"Did you enjoy the demonstration, kotori?" Kaito asks, moving closer with predatory grace.
"Yes," I breathe, not trusting my voice for more.
"What did you learn from watching?"
The question catches me off guard. "That you're stronger than anyone. That you always win."
"And how does that make you feel?"
"Safe," I admit, then immediately flush at the honesty. "And aroused."
His smile is absolutely devastating. "Good. Because now you understand what you're surrendering to. Not just a man, but a weapon. Not just dominance, but the certainty that I can protect what belongs to me through whatever force becomes necessary."
He kneels in front of me, close enough that I can smell sweat and exertion and the masculine scent that makes my mouth water. The gi hangs open slightly at his throat, giving me glimpses of black ink disappearing beneath the fabric—traditional designs that mark him as dangerous, as someone who belongs to a world most people never see.
"Do you know what you are, kotori?" he asks, his voice dropping to something intimate and commanding.
"Yours," I whisper, the word torn from somewhere deep and broken.
"Yes. But more specifically?" His hand cups my face with devastating gentleness. "What exactly are you to me?"
I know what he wants me to say. Know what truth he's been pushing me toward for weeks. The words taste like ash and honey on my tongue.
