Page 48 of Kotori
"Yes." The word comes out softer than I intended.
"How did it feel?"
How did it feel? Like putting on someone else's identity. Like stepping into a role I never auditioned for. Like surrendering pieces of myself I didn't know I was giving up.
"Different," I say carefully.
"Different how?"
We stop outside my door, but he doesn't release my hand. This close, I can smell his cologne, see the silver threads in his dark hair. When he looks at me, it's like being studied by a predator who's already decided I'm worth keeping.
"Like I was playing a part," I admit, then immediately regret the honesty.
"Or like you were becoming who you're meant to be." His free hand rises to cup my face, thumb tracing along my cheekbone. "Some women spend their lives fighting their nature. Others have the wisdom to embrace it."
Embrace my nature. Like submission is written into my DNA, like serving him is my biological destiny. Like knowing he's yakuza should make me more compliant, not less.
"I don't know what my nature is anymore," I whisper. "Not since finding out about you. About all of this."
"I do." His voice drops to something intimate and commanding. "You're a woman who craves structure, protection, purpose. Someone strong enough to clean a bullet wound without flinching. Someone who confronts the truth rather than hiding from it. Someone wise enough to let herself be taken care of."
Taken care of. Such gentle words for what's really happening here. For being kept like a prisoner with knowledge too dangerous to let go.
"The girls adore you," he continues, his thumb brushing across my lower lip. "They've been happier these past weeks than they've been in years. They trust you, even knowing you've learned our family's secrets. You give them something they need."
Something they need. The guilt hits perfectly, designed to make leaving feel like abandoning children who depend on me. Children who trust me with their family's darkest truth.
"They're wonderful," I say, meaning it completely. "They deserve—"
"They deserve stability. Consistency. A maternal figure who won't abandon them when things become complicated." His grip on my face tightens almost imperceptibly. "Can you be that for them, Paige? Now that you know exactly what complicated means in this household?"
Can I be that for them? The question is a masterpiece of manipulation. He's making my captivity about their needs instead of his wants, my submission about their welfare instead of his control. Making my knowledge of his criminal life a bond rather than a reason to flee.
"I want to help them," I say quietly.
"Then stay." The word is simple, direct, absolute. "Embrace what you're becoming. Stop fighting what we both know is inevitable."
Inevitable. That word again, following me like a promise and a threat.
"What am I becoming?" I ask, though I'm terrified of the answer.
His smile is slow, possessive, certain. "Mine." His hand slides from my face to my throat, not threatening, just claiming the space, establishing ownership over the most vulnerable part of my body. "The woman who knows all of me. The keeper of my secrets and my daughters' hearts."
The implication is clear. I've seen too much to ever be free again.
"Sleep well, kotori," he murmurs, leaning close enough that his breath crosses my ear. "Sweet dreams. I'll be watching over you. You're too precious to lose now."
The words send ice through my veins. Watching over me. Not protecting. Watching. Because I know too much, because I'veseen behind the veil of his perfect family life to the yakuza reality beneath.
Then he's gone, disappearing down the corridor with silent footsteps, leaving me alone with the scent of his cologne and the weight of constant surveillance.
I slide into my room and close the door, leaning against it while my heart hammers against my ribs. His words echo in my mind,I'll be watching over you,as if that's some kind of revelation. As if I haven't known about the cameras for weeks now. As if I haven't felt those electronic eyes following my every move since long before I discovered the truth about his business.
I don't bother scanning the room anymore. I already know where they are. The carved wooden panel near the ceiling. The traditional scroll painting with its too-thick frame. The antique vase positioned just so. The hollow bamboo piece on the windowsill pointed directly at my bed.
I move through my evening routine without acknowledging them. What's the point? Fighting the surveillance is as futile as fighting everything else in this beautiful prison. The cameras are just another layer of control, another reminder that privacy doesn't exist here. That I'm always performing, always observed, always his.
Any sign of defiance now feels pointless, exhausting. I've already lost this particular battle. He knows I know. I know he knows I know. The game of pretending otherwise is over, and there's something almost liberating in the defeat.
