When exhaustion finally took me, the dreams were even worse. Kazashita reached for me over and over, but I could never touch him, could only watch the blood spread while he died believing I felt nothing.
I woke gasping, my hands clutching empty air, his name on my lips.
The room was dark.
Too silent.
Too empty.
And on my cheek, I still felt the ghost of his bloody hand, marking me forever with a love I still could not return.
Chapter 31
Kaneko
Three days passed in suffocating silence. Sakurai never returned. Not once did his shadow darken my doorway, not a single message slipped beneath my door. His absence felt deliberate—a punishment, perhaps, or simple abandonment.
Had I outlived my usefulness?
Or were the shadows simply baffled as to the best way I might be of use?
Momoko wouldn’t look at me either. When our paths crossed in the corridors, she turned away as if I were a ghost haunting her establishment. Other courtesans whispered when they thought I couldn’t hear, speculating about the night the Imperial Samurai came, about the blood, about why Momoko’s prized acquisition now slinked through the house like a pariah.
Only Hana still came.
Each morning, she arrived with clothes and the routine of a courtesan’s life. She never asked, but questions filled her eyes—about the blood, the guards, the way I’d returned thatnight looking like Death himself. In classic Hana form, she executed her duties with quiet efficiency, occasionally touching my shoulder or adjusting my collar with more gentleness than was required. I think she knew I couldn’t have answered her questions even if she’d asked. And yet, she remained my one true friend.
On the third day, I was serving sake in the common room, moving between tables, when the atmosphere shifted. Conversations stuttered to a halt. Heads turned toward the entrance.
Prince Haru stood in the doorway, Esumi at his side.
Their presence was not unusual, but their timing was. Theynevercame during daylight hours. The Prince’s visits were always nocturnal affairs, discreet arrivals through back doors or side entrances after most had retired. And yet, there he stood in full daylight, dressed in traveling clothes rather than his usual flowing silks.
Whispers erupted like flames across dry grass.
Haru’s eyes found mine from across the room. He raised one hand, a subtle gesture that commanded without words.
Come.
I set down my serving tray and crossed the room, feeling every gaze follow my movement. The whispers intensified—speculation about why the Prince would summon me so publicly, what our arrangement truly entailed, whether this had anything to do with the night the Samurai had come.
Was I being called for punishment or pleasure? Would I survive the Prince’s wrath?
Haru led us to a private alcove. Esumi followed, his hand resting casually on his hilt—a reminder that despite his easy smile, he was still Samurai, still prepared to meet threats with violence.
A serving girl appeared with sake and three cups and then vanished behind the screens. The moment we were alone, Haru’s mask fell.
“We’re leaving,” he said without preamble. “Within the hour.”
“What?” I blinked, certain I’d misheard. “Leaving?”
“For Temple Suwa.” Esumi poured sake for all three of us, his movements precise despite the tension in his shoulders. “This trip was planned long ago. We were supposed to leave in a few weeks, perhaps a month, but the capital is becoming . . . unstable.”
“The rebellion?” I asked carefully.
Haru took his cup but didn’t drink. “My father is dispersing the Imperial line. My older brother, the Crown Prince, has already been sent away. His convoy was attacked this morning. He survived—barely. This third assassin was more creative than the first two.”
“Third?” My voice came out strangled.
