I drew back, needing to see her. The desire in her eyes matched the pulse of need inside me, a relentless rhythm that shouted, 'Mine! Mine! Mine!’
“Naughty Tiger.” A quiet, possessive growl rumbled deep in my chest. “You’re not sharing me, Tora, not with them, not with anyone. You own me. Completely.”
A beat passed.
"Which means, Tora, what's mine is yours to decide. Including them."
Confusion flickered across her face. "What does that mean?"
"Yuki, Mami, and Hina." I kept my voice steady, even though offering this felt like handing her a blade and exposing my throat. "If you want me to release them from service right now. . .I will. They'll be compensated. Protected. Set up with new lives far from here. I will never see them again."
Her eyes widened. "You would do that?"
"For you?" I traced the curve of her jaw. "I would do worse. I would kill them, if you asked.”
She shivered. “D-don’t say that.”
“Your comfort matters more than their lives. More than tradition. More than convenience. More than anything. You decide, Tora. Right. Now."
“Kenji—”
“Let me know and I’ll tell my men to take them away.”
Her bottom lip quivered as if she were suddenly realizing that she could end their lifelong employment with a word. I saw her processing that power, weighing it in her hands like something precious and dangerous.
Nyomi directed her gaze to them, and I followed it.
Outside, I could see Yuki subtly adjusting Mami's collar. Hina was still practically vibrating with restrained energy.
Nyomi remained quiet for a long moment, studying them through the window. Then finally she spoke, "Tell me about them."
“Always a journalist.” I grinned. “What do you want to know?”
“Well. . .I want to get an idea of who they are before I make such a big decision.”
I traced circles on her palm. "Yuki reads philosophy and poetry. She typically collects first editions when we travel. She's learning Italian because she fell in love with opera three years ago when Reo bought them tickets."
"And Mami?"
"She paints. She has a small studio in the east wing of my mansion in Tokyo. This year, she began selling her work under a pseudonym at galleries in Tokyo and Paris. Most people don't know the artist is one of my Scales."
Nyomi's thumb resumed its gentle circles on my palm. "Hina?"
"The youngest. She's studying architecture remotely through a university in London. Wants to design sustainable housing for displaced communities."
"And you fund her education?”
“I do.”
Nyomi turned to look at me. "They have whole lives."
"Yes."
"But. . .they’ve also. . .built their lives around you?"
“Ever since they were kids.”
"If you released them. . ." She parted her lips. "What would happen to them?"
