Page 8 of Kotori
I run my fingers over the silk ropes kept in the lacquered box beside my bed. They'll look beautiful against her skin when the time comes. When she's ready for this particular lesson in Japanese culture.
The foreign woman is everything I require—beautiful enough to maintain desire, intelligent enough to interest me, damaged enough to reshape, isolated enough to claim without interference. Her natural maternal instincts ensure she'll bond with my daughters quickly, creating emotional chains stronger than physical restraints.
Beautiful, willing captivity.
My phone displays live surveillance feeds from throughout the compound. Formal studies have been canceled for today, allowing them to get to know one another.
Paige is currently in the gardens with Aya, helping collect fallen maple leaves while Kohana reads nearby and Mizuki practices calligraphy in the pavilion. Natural family scene, maternal figure surrounded by children who've already claimed her attention and affection.
The afternoon sun catches her blonde hair as she laughs at something Aya says, foreign beauty standing out like a rare flower transplanted to foreign soil. When she bends to examine whatever Aya has discovered, her skirt pulls tight across curves that make my jaw clench with want.
Exotic enough to fascinate, perfect enough to own completely.
She kneels on the grass to help my youngest daughter with some discovery—probably an insect or interesting stone that captures six-year-old imagination. The gesture puts her at child level, revealing automatic maternal instincts, but what draws my attention is the graceful line of her neck as she leans forward, pale skin that would mark beautifully under my hands.
I imagine those blonde waves wrapped around my fist while I teach her exactly what belonging to this family means. The thought sends heat through my blood, makes me shift in my seat as my body responds to possibilities that will become reality soon enough.
When she stood this morning in my study, close enough to catch her scent, I wanted to pin her against the wall and show her what real authority feels like. The way her pulse jumped when I held her hand too long told me she felt the same dangerous attraction.
American women think they understand desire until they meet a man who takes what he wants without asking permission.
She rises from the grass, brushing dirt from her skirt, and the simple movement draws my attention to the sway of her hips, the way fabric clings to her thighs. Everything about her body calls to the predator in me—soft where I'm hard, vulnerable where I'm armored, foreign where I'm rooted in tradition. I want to strip away her independence piece by piece until all that remains is a woman who knows exactly who she belongs to. I want to hear her voice break when she says my name, watch her blue eyes shimmer with need when I touch her the way no regular boy ever has.
The surveillance feed shows her helping Aya arrange colorful leaves in patterns while Kohana shares observations from her book. Paige responds to both girls with equal attention, maternal instincts engaging naturally despite professional boundaries.
Kohana looks up from her book to share some observation, and Paige listens with the focused attention that makes teenagers feel heard, understood, valued. But I'm watching the way late sunlight illuminates her profile, imagining how those expressive blue eyes will look when she's underneath me, learning to surrender everything she thought she'd never give up.
Even Mizuki glances their way between brush strokes, pretending disinterest while obviously monitoring the dynamic between the new teacher and younger sisters. My eldest daughter inherited protective instincts from me, but she also inherited the ability to recognize when someone belongs here.
And Paige Williams belongshere. In my home, in my bed, carrying my children, beautiful and willing and completely mine.
The setting sun paints traditional gardens in shades of gold and crimson, ancient beauty enhanced by seasonal change. Maple leaves falling onto ground that will soon be coveredin snow, stone paths winding between courtyards designed by masters centuries dead, traditional architecture rising in graceful tiers toward mountain forests that surround us completely.
Home. Legacy. Prison.
All matters of perspective.
Theformaldiningroomembodies everything about my heritage. And my precious family is at the center.
My daughters kneel in perfect seiza position, wearing formal kimono instead of their usual modern clothing. Mizuki in deep purple silk that complements her serious nature, Kohana in soft white with cherry blossom patterns, Aya in bright pink that matches her personality. Traditional dress for a traditional occasion—establishing hierarchy through ceremony.
Paige enters with Hayashi, and I watch her reaction to the formality. Surprise, then careful observation as she takes in the traditional elements, the positioning of cushions, the way my daughters sit with practiced stillness.
She's dressed appropriately in a conservative blouse, dark skirt, and minimal jewelry. Respectful but still distinctly foreign, blonde hair and blue eyes marking her as outsider despite cultural sensitivity.
"Paige-san," I say, not rising from my position at the head of the table. Let her come to me.
She approaches with appropriate caution, uncertain about protocols she doesn't understand. Good. Uncertainty makes people eager to please, grateful for guidance.
"Please," I gesture to the cushion beside me, close enough that our knees will almost touch when she kneels. "You honor our family with your presence."
She hesitates before settling onto the cushion with awkwardness. She tries to copy my daughters' formal posture but lacks the years of training required for natural grace. Still, the attempt shows cultural respect.
This close, I catch her scent again—light perfume, unfamiliar soap, clean skin warmed by afternoon sunlight. The cushion beside me puts her close enough that our knees almost touch when she shifts position. Close enough that I can see the pulse at her throat, watch her chest rise and fall with each breath, notice the way she unconsciously leans slightly away from my proximity while her body betrays her with subtle tells of attraction.
I watch her body's reactions with a predator's focus. Something ancient recognizes ownership before her conscious mind can process it. The animal part of her that knows she's been marked as prey. The primal female that senses a male who won't be denied.
Americans think they've evolved beyond such instincts. Their women play at independence while their bodies still respond to dominance. The flush spreading across her chest isn't cultural confusion. It's recognition. It's surrender waiting to happen.
