Page 67 of Kotori
Using his daughters as leverage. The manipulative bastard.
"Fine," I concede, hating the way victory flashes in his eyes. "For them."
"For them," he agrees, but we both know it's a lie. "Rest well, kotori. Tomorrow will be memorable."
He turns to leave but pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. "Three weeks is a long time. I've thought about you every day."
Then he's gone, leaving me breathless and furious and aching with a need I don't want to acknowledge.
18
Kaito
"Tomorrowwillbememorable."
I turn away from her door, savoring the rapid intake of breath behind me, the delicate flush spreading across her throat, the slight tremble in her hands as she grips the doorframe for support. Three weeks is indeed a long time, but the wait has been worth it.
The rope did its work beautifully that night, teaching her body lessons her stubborn mind would have rejected. And my abrupt departure the next morning, leaving her desperate, unfulfilled, and processing the remnants of what I'd done to her, was calculated to maximize impact.
My security chief meets me at the end of the corridor, bowing slightly. "Welcome back, Matsumoto-sama. Everything is prepared as requested."
"Excellent." I continue toward my private chambers, not bothering to look back. I don't need to see her to know exactly what she's doing—standing frozen in her doorway, watching meleave, her body remembering the feel of my rope even as her mind struggles against the memory.
My daughters await in the family dining room, but they can wait a moment longer. First, I need to verify other preparations.
The security hub sits in the west wing, a climate-controlled room filled with monitors displaying every corner of my compound. Not that I need to physically be here because the system connects directly to my private devices, but I prefer to see the full array when conducting certain evaluations.
"Leave us," I tell the technicians, who bow and exit immediately.
When the door closes behind them, I settle into the ergonomic chair and bring up the feed from her room.
On screen, she paces her room like a caged animal, one hand pressed against her throat where I know her pulse races. She pauses at the window, then at the mirror, then finally sinks onto the edge of her bed, hands gripping the mattress so tightly her knuckles turn white.
I turn on the audio.
"Bastard," she whispers, but there's no conviction in it. Just frustration and something darker, more desperate. "Absolute bastard."
I smile as I watch her struggle with herself. With the need I carefully cultivated before my departure. With the understanding that only I can satisfy what I deliberately created.
She stands abruptly, moving to the bathroom where she splashes cold water on her face. The camera angle shifts automatically to follow her. When she looks in the mirror, I can see the war in her eyes—anger versus need, pride versus surrender.
Need is winning. As I knew it would.
Back in the bedroom, she tries to distract herself with a book, but her focus is clearly elsewhere. She shifts restlessly on thebed, crossing and uncrossing her legs, one hand absently tracing patterns on her thigh that mirror where the rope had pressed three weeks ago.
"Just go to sleep," she mutters to herself. "Just forget about it."
But she can't. That's the beauty of what I've done. The rope's physical presence may be gone, but the psychological imprint remains. I've rewired her nervous system to respond to memories, to phantom sensations, to the mere anticipation of what might come next.
My phone buzzes with a message from Hayashi.Dinner is ready. My daughters are waiting.
"Soon," I tell her, though she can't hear me through the monitor. "Soon you'll understand exactly how thoroughly I own you."
I switch the feed to my private tablet and head to join my family, outwardly the devoted father returning from business abroad, inwardly counting the minutes until nightfall.
Dinner with my daughters is a pleasant distraction—Aya's excited chatter about the Tanabata Festival, Kohana's shy smiles, even Mizuki's careful politeness. They've missed me. The realization is warming, even to someone like me.
The American teacher sends her regrets—a headache, apparently. We all know it's a lie, but I allow it. Let her think she's buying time, creating distance. The anticipation will only heighten tomorrow's inevitable surrender.
