Heavy footsteps thud on the floor, and I stiffen immediately. Those are not the footsteps of a five-foot-one, one-hundred-pound Japanese woman.
My arms slosh into the water, and I push myself up.
“I did not realize you were still bathing.” Kurosaki’s voice cuts like an arrow through the wood divider.
Grabbing the towel hanging from the hook, I wrap it around myself.
“No need to rush on my account,” he adds.
I jump out of the tub so fast that water spills over the sides. Fumbling for the clothes the laundry woman set aside, I get dressed. It’s one thing to be caught off guard, but I’m also naked.
A double whammy.
My body’s still damp, but I don’t care as I wrench a long tunic-like shirt over my head, pull on long, loose pants, and step into the indoor slippers that Ren offered me before I could walk into the large Japanese-inspired villa.
Kurosaki waits near the large window overlooking the east of the property. It faces an orchard that Ren mentioned was meant to be cherry blossoms, but the transplanted trees didn’t take to the soil, so they never bloom.
At present, the cherry blossoms look like gnarled and haunted trunks that reach for the sky, claws shaking at the heavens and begging to be put out of their misery.
Kurosaki turns around. His face, as usual, is a serene mask. “Did you sleep well?”
A dark, unpleasant feeling digs into my chest. Every time Kurosaki shows up in front of me, the meeting rarely ends in a happy, father-son bonding moment.
“Fine,” I spit. Why is he pretending to be nice? What exactly does he want?
Kurosaki’s eyes slide over me. “The clothes suit you.”
I look down and realize that I’m wearing an outfit similar to his. My lips tighten in displeasure, and I pull at the sleeve, wondering if there’s any way I can get the laundry woman to return with my old clothes.
His sharp eyes follow the movement. “Do you need Kenji to see to the wound on your arm?”
“No.” I put a hand over my sleeve. The gauze J wrapped for me fell off a long time ago, so I’ve been tending to it myself.
Kurosaki’s gaze trails to the tub. “I asked Yuki to prepare a mugwort and perilla leaf herb tonic. It should help with your recovery. I will have her pack enough satchels with you to take back.”
Does he want a thank you? All of these injuries are because of him. I’m still recovering from that time his lieutenants beat meto a pulp, and it washisman who cut my arm with a knife during sparring practice.
“Come.” Kurosaki plants his hands behind his back. “Walk with me.”
I follow him through the door, my chest tightening.
When I’m around Kurosaki, I feel like I’m balancing on a tight rope. At any moment, I can make a wrong move and go plummeting, yet I have no choice but to keep moving forward, always with a knife at my back, waiting for that inevitable drop to the bottom or a stab from behind.
Hayato is outside the door, and he bows when Kurosaki walks past. We turn a bend, and there are more people in the hallway. They all acknowledge Kurosaki the same way.
He glances at my face. “You look upset. Do you dislike it?” He motions to one of the bowing lieutenants. “The respect shown?”
Is it respect or fear?
I look away rather than answer.
Kurosaki leads me through the front door and into a courtyard with neatly mowed grass. Cobblestone paths lead to different parts of the compound—the kitchen to the left, the training hall straight ahead, and a few more buildings that I haven’t seen yet.
“Westerners believe that life is about makingyourselfhappy. The individual comes first.” He makes a low sound in his throat and squints into the sunlight. “Here, we believe that when everyone is happy, one is happy.”
Again, I don’t respond.
Kurosaki’s eyebrows pull close and down, creating a forehead crease. “Speak. I wish to hear your thoughts.”
