“I’m glad you like them.” I squeezed Nyomi's hand. "They’re from Kyoto. My landscape architect tried to convince me that local flowers would be easier to maintain out here, but I wanted these specifically."
“Why these flowers?”
I guided her down another step and stopped us at a bush. My hand possessively tightened around hers. Then, I leaned in closer.
"Satsuki means 'fifth month,'" I murmured against her ear.
She shivered.
I nipped at the lobe and licked my lips. "The flowers bloom once a year, blazing with life, commanding all of Japan to witness their glory. And then—" My voice dropped to a whisper as she released my hand to touch a flower. The loss of her skin against mine felt like a physical wound. I watched her fingers caress the delicate pink petals, imagining those same fingers trailing across my chest.
“Then?” she asked.
"Then the flowers wither and die, leaving nothing but memory and longing until the next bloom."
She looked up at me. "That's. . .a little sad that it’s such a short time of blooming."
"The short bloom is what makes them precious. If they bloomed all the time, no one would notice them. But because they're fleeting, because you can't have them whenever you want. . ." My voice dropped lower. "Every moment with them matters."
"So you brought them here." Her eyes searched mine. "To a place where hardly anyone would see them."
"I brought them here, because when something is rare and beautiful, I don't share it with the world. I keep it for myself.”
“You’re very much a dragon.”
“In some ways.”
“Inmostways.” She put her focus back on those flowers and touched them.
And I lovingly watched.
The breeze lifted her braids again, carrying the sweet scent of the azaleas around us. Sunlight slid across her collarbone, and I obsessively followed it with my gaze.
The intensity of my want should have alarmed me.
Surely, this wasn't normal—the way every cell in my body oriented toward her like she was magnetic north. The way her absence felt like amputation.
I'd built empires, crushed enemies, commanded thousands of psychotic men without a tremor in my hand, but one look from her could bring me to my knees.
Is this healthy?
This obsession that made her pulse more important than my own heartbeat. . .
Probably not.
The Satsuki bloomed for weeks, brilliant and all-consuming, before they faded. What we had—this sharp, aching thing between us—didn’t feel fleeting like that.
It felt intense and inevitable.
And maybe that's what made it so dangerous.
I wasn't savoring borrowed time.
I was devouring immortality.
Her fingers left the petals, and I caught her hand again, needing that connection like oxygen. The relief of her skin against mine was pathetic, yet. . .revealing how much I had descended into madness.
Still. . .I didn't care.
