They didn’t move.
“He’s dying!” My voice broke. “Please!”
“He is wako,” one said simply. “An oath breaker. Death is the Emperor’s justice.”
I turned back to Kazashita. His eyes were open, fixed on mine, and there was something almost peaceful in them. I caught his hand in mine, and my thumb traced over the scar across his palm—the one he’d gotten cutting me free from my bonds on the island, the first time I’d seen him as something more than just anotherwako, the first time I’d seen him as someone who would bleed for another’s freedom.
“Worth it,” he whispered. “Every moment . . . worth it . . .”
“Don’t talk. Save your strength. Someone will come. Someone has to—”
A weak, rasping laugh escaped him, more air than sound. “Irie . . . she’ll be so disappointed.”
“What?”
“She wanted . . . wanted to see us happy together. Said she’d never seen anyone . . . love like I loved you.” His eyes crinkled with something that might have been humor if not for the blood on his lips. “She loved you . . . almost as much as . . . as much as I did. Joke’s on me . . . right?”
My chest constricted.
Irie waited on her island, probably preparing herbs for our return, believing in a love story that could never be, that never truly was.
“Kaneko.” He coughed, blood speckling his lips. “Need to . . . need to tell you . . .”
“I know.” The words came out choked. “I know, Kazi.”
“No.” Another cough, weaker. “Listen. Kichi . . . still alive.The Worm. . . looking for you. Be . . . be careful . . .”
His warning dissolved into labored breathing. Then, with what must have been the last of his strength, he reached up, his bloody palm cupping my cheek. The gesture was so tender, so careful, as if I were something precious he still needed to protect.
“I love you, Kaneko.” The words were barely breath now, his eyes starting to lose focus. “Always . . . loved you . . . from that first . . . first day . . .”
“Kazi—”
“Would do it . . . again . . . all of it . . . to save you . . . one more time . . . a thousand more . . .”
His thumb moved against my cheek, and I felt the wetness—his blood mixing with my tears, marking me, leaving his stain on my skin like a final claim. Even in death, he marked me as his, even knowing I could never be.
His hand grew heavy against my face but didn’t fall—I held it there, pressing it against my cheek, feeling the warmth leave his fingers.
His chest rose once more.
He drew a shallow, stuttering breath.
Then released it.
Then stillness.
“No.” I shook him, gentle at first, then harder. “No, Kazi, gods, please!”
But he was gone.
I kneeled there in his blood, cradling his body, as the Samurai watched in silence. The man who’d loved me with a devotion I didn’t deserve, who’d crossed oceans and given up everything for a chance I could never offer him, was dead.
Because of me.
Tears fell freely then, hot and bitter, as I pressed my forehead against his and whispered the truth I couldn’t say while he lived: “In another life, Kazashita, in another life, I could have loved you, too.”
The guards let me mourn for exactly three breaths before one spoke: “You will come with us now, whore. The magistrate will want to question you about your . . . association with this pirate.”
