Page 22 of Kotori
The negotiations with Tanaka conclude swiftly—his relief at our protection tangible in every bow, every grateful murmur. The old craftsman signs over his legacy with trembling hands, accepting the generous terms that will preserve eight generations of tradition under my clan's protection. Sake is poured, cups exchanged with proper ceremony, the ritual of acquisition completed with mutual satisfaction.
I leave Takeshi to finalize the details, my mind already shifting back to more pressing concerns.
Bynightfall,I'malonein my study again, the low light casting shadows across surveillance feeds that capture her every movement. The business of the day falls away as I immerse myself in studying her—Paige, the American, the woman who's rapidly becoming my most valuable acquisition.
The footage is intoxicating. Her careful movements through my home, the way she's already adapting to our rhythms, the subtle changes in her posture when addressing household staff. She's learning faster than I anticipated, her body languageshifting toward traditional deference without conscious awareness.
I focus on the moments she believes herself unwatched. The way her fingers trace her neck where I touched her yesterday, lingering over her pulse point as if recreating the pressure of my hand. The private frown when she practices proper bowing forms in her room, determined to master even this small submission.
She wants to succeed here. Wants to belong. Wants my approval more than she's willing to admit to herself.
I watch her brushing her hair before bed, the rhythmic strokes revealing the tension she carries in her shoulders, the way she studies her reflection with uncertainty. She doesn't yet understand what's happening to her—how each small compliance, each traditional custom she adopts, binds her more tightly to me.
The surveillance feed shows her rising, moving to her door to check the lock I warned her to use. "For your protection," I'd told her, the lie tasting sweet on my tongue. The truth—that I don't trust myself near her bedroom, that the lock is to protect her from my darkest impulses—remains unspoken between us. Even I don't know what I'd do if I found her door unlocked, an invitation I'd interpret as consent.
She tests the handle, double-checking the barrier between us, unaware that even this small act of self-preservation feeds my hunger. Her cautious obedience only makes me want to break through every defense she constructs.
Beautiful, willing transformation.
6
Paige
Ifindthefirstcamera while hanging lights.
Three days into my stay at the Matsumoto estate, I'm balancing on a chair in my bedroom, trying to attach the string of fairy lights I brought from America. A touch of home to make this beautiful prison cell feel more mine. My fingers brush something hard and metallic tucked into the decorative ceiling molding.
Not part of the architecture.
I freeze, fingertips exploring the object. Small. Circular. A lens.
My stomach drops as I carefully step down, mind racing. A camera. There's a fucking camera in my bedroom ceiling.
"No," I whisper, suddenly hyper-aware of my body, my movements. "No way."
But once I start looking, I can't stop seeing them. Another in the bookshelf, disguised as an ornamental piece. A third behind the antique mirror—only visible when light catches it at a specific angle.
Three cameras. At minimum.
My bedroom. My private space.
Horror washes over me in nauseating waves. How long have they been watching? What have they seen? My undressing, my showers, my private moments?
The violation is so profound I can barely breathe.
Matsumoto. The way he looked at me that first morning, like he knew exactly how my sleep had been, what I'd worn to bed. His penetrating stare that seemed to see right through my clothes.
He's been watching me. All along.
I sink onto the edge of my bed, hands trembling. I should leave. Pack my things and walk out the front gate. But then what? No money, no phone, no contacts in Japan. The nearest American embassy is hours away, and I don't even have train fare.
I'm trapped.
I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing.Think, Paige. What are your options?
I could confront him, demand he remove the cameras. But the memory of kneeling before him flashes through my mind—his absolute authority, the way he made me bow like a servant. The cold, calculated power in his eyes. A man like that doesn't respond well to demands.
I could pretend I never saw them. Continue as if nothing's changed. But everything has changed. My skin crawls knowing unseen eyes track my every move, cataloging my most private moments.
