There would be consequences. There were always consequences.
I stood on shaking legs and followed Sakurai through the corridors, each step feeling like walking to an execution. Behind me, in the common area, Haru laughed at something Esumi said. The sound followed me down the hallway.
They were happy and free, everything I would never be again.
Chapter 13
Kaneko
Sakurai led me deeper into the house, into a part that felt different—somehow quieter, heavier, as if the air itself carried weight.
My palms began to sweat. I wiped them on the sheer silk clinging to my body, but the sweat only smeared and grew worse.
I had abandoned my post. I’d run from the common area like a frightened child. The mistress would be furious, and there would be punishment. I’d not seen another beaten beneath this roof, but that was a punishment for slaves, wasn’t it? Perhaps I would be sold to a lesser house, as Hana had warned could happen.
Momoko had invested money and time, a lot of each, into making me her perfect addition, another porcelain doll who might turn a coin and enrich her purse. Surely, she wouldn’t abandon all that for a simple moment’s fear. Would she?
Perhaps I would be given to the guards, as she had threatened on my first day. I had heard of that punishment, of others facing one or more of the men and their sadistic games.
My thoughts spiraled, each worse than the last.
As we approached the elaborate doors to Momoko’s private chamber, the temperature dropped. It wasn’t gradual, like descending many stairs to enter a cellar. It was sudden, as though we had stepped from summer into winter in the span of a single breath. I could see my exhale misting before my lips.
Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.
The air felt wrong. It tasted wrong.
And there was a smell I could not identify—sharp and metallic.
Steel, perhaps. Or was it the tang of blood?
My legs wobbled and slowed and then stopped. I could not make myself take another step. Sakurai’s hand touched the small of my back, and I dared a glance back, seeing something I had never before found in his perfectly composed features: fear.
His hand trembled through the fabric of mykimonobefore he caught himself and withdrew it.
“Go and listen,” he whispered, and his voice was not quite steady. “If you have grown to trust me, even a little, hear her out.”
Her? Momoko? Why would I—?
Without another word, he pressed a kiss to my neck, reached past me, and slid the door open. The room beyond was dark. Too dark, considering the lanterns that should have scattered brightness throughout. Shadows pooled in corners where shadows should not be, refusing to follow the rules of light and flame.
Every instinct I possessed screamed at me to run. Damn the consequences. Damn the lash. Damn the mistress and her endless games. But Sakurai’s hand pressed gently against my back again, not pushing, just . . . encouraging.
So I stepped inside.
Behind me, I heard him exhale—whether in relief or regret, I could not tell—then his presence vanished and the door slid closed.
I was alone.
No.
Not alone.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, a figure resolved behind Momoko’s desk, a figure dressed entirely in black—inky clothing that seemed to drink what little light existed, wrappings that covered the face, leaving only eyes visible. Rising above shrouded shoulders, I saw the handles of crossed twin blades. The candlelight caught their edges, showing the blackness of the leather wrapped tightly, ready for their master’s grip.
The woman—for her bearing suggested a female—sat perfectly, impossibly still, like a statue or . . . like something that was not quite human.
And her eyes.
