5. Ena
FIVE
Ena
T he reception hall buzzes with murmured conversations, the clink of glasses, and the soft strains of classical music floating through the air. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the room, their light glinting off the polished shoes of men in tailored suits and the sequins of women in opulent gowns.
I should feel invisible in this crowd, but I don’t. Not with whispers trailing me like ghosts, their judgments sharper than daggers.
“She doesn’t belong here,” someone had muttered earlier, loud enough for me to hear. Their words slashed through my composure, though I’d pretended not to notice.
My fingers fidget with the silk of my obi as my eyes scan the room, drawn inevitably to the figure standing at the far end. Takashi Nishimura. I can feel his presence before I see him, like a magnet pulling me into his orbit.
I’m not comfortable being at this party. I was never asked to attend, not even as a companion to Yua or her chaperone. But here I am, dressed in dinner attire I’ve never worn—attire that made Yua scowl the entire way down to the reception room.
“Such a waste of good clothing,” she muttered, loud enough for me to hear, her lips twisted in disdain.
I tried to ignore her, but it was hard to shake the unease coiling in my stomach. The furisode is stunning—too stunning for someone like me, with its scarlet silk base embroidered with delicate plum blossoms in soft pink and gold. The flowing sleeves feel foreign, almost impractical, and the weight of the perfectly tied obi at my waist only adds to my sense of not belonging. Even my hair, styled into an intricate updo adorned with a single crimson blossom pin, feels like a costume.
I should be invisible, but I know I’m not. The second I stepped into the reception room, eyes followed me. Whispers. Glances.
I can’t decide which is worse—the attention or the looks of disapproval.
This is far too expensive for someone like me to wear, and in my gut, I know who arranged it. I hate the thought. And yet, I couldn’t ignore the flicker of excitement I felt as I slid into the soft material.
Takashi Nishimura—my enemy, for all intents and purposes—and yet, even in this crowded room, I feel him. I know he’s here. I can feel his gaze on me, like a tether between us. It’s as if my soul is calling to his, and he’s answering.
Something is happening. I don’t know what, but it tightens my chest. When I got home earlier, my mother told me my father had been called to speak with the fathers —the leaders of the yakuza. She was excited, as if something good could come from it. But nothing good ever comes from being involved with those men.
You better remember that, Ena . I chastise myself as a tightness coils in my lower stomach at the thought of Takashi.
A young man approaches, his polished smile disarming. “Good evening. I’m Akira Nishimura,” he says smoothly, his charm almost too practiced. Despite myself, I perk up slightly under his attention, but something feels off. Isn’t it untoward for a man to flirt so openly with his brother’s betrothed?
I glance around the room, trying to shake the thought—and freeze.
Takashi.
He’s across the room, his gaze focused on me, heat simmering behind his dark eyes. It’s like a physical pull, and for a fleeting moment, I wonder if I should give in. Satisfy this craving.
I shake my head quickly, trying to dismiss the thought. Akira is still talking, but his words barely register. My chest tightens, and I murmur a quick excuse, heading for the back door. The cool night air on the balcony does little to calm the fire ignited within me.
I take a few deep breaths, steadying myself. But when I turn around, he’s there—standing in the shadows, watching me.
“It’s a little creepy, you know,” I say, my voice sharper than intended.
He shrugs, a half smile curving his lips. “You complained about me startling you before, so I waited. Plus,” he adds, his gaze dipping briefly to my furisode , “you look absolutely stunning in my present, hime. ”
Hime —princess. I can’t help the soft laugh that escapes me. “I’m anything but a princess, Takashi-sama.”
“Call me Taka, please.” He steps closer, slow and deliberate, and my eyes dart toward the party inside. The last thing I need is to spark rumors that could hurt my family even more.
“Don’t worry,” he says, reading my thoughts with unnerving ease. “There’s nothing untoward going on.”
“I beg to differ. You’re a betrothed man, and I’m a single woman—and we’re alone on a balcony.”
The thought should scare me, but instead, it excites me. A flood of heat rushes through me, unbidden images flashing across my mind: his hands on me, our bodies tangled. Where on earth is this coming from?
“Who says I’m betrothed?” he counters smoothly, his voice low. “And who says you’re single?”
I cock my head to the side, disbelief tightening my chest. “You’re demented.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, and I bite my tongue, expecting anger. Instead, he laughs—a low, rich sound that sends a shiver down my spine.
“Oh, koibito ,” he murmurs, his tone teasing yet unmistakably intimate. “I hope you keep that fire for as long as we live.”
Koibito ? Sweetheart. His sweetheart?
“Are you drunk?” I ask, more to steady myself than anything else.
“On you? Yes.”
His words steal the air from my lungs as he steps closer. Instinctively, I retreat, my back pressing against the cool rail of the balcony.
But he doesn’t stop. His movements are slow and calculated, like a predator closing in on its prey. And when his body finally brushes against mine, a wave of heat washes over me, making my pulse race.
His hand lifts, cupping my cheek, and before I realize it, I’m leaning into his touch instead of pulling away. The warmth of his skin grounds me, even as the world feels like it’s spinning out of control.
“You feel it too, don’t you?” he asks, his voice softer now, threaded with something deeper. “It was always supposed to end like this. Your soul and mine are connected through enishi . Meeting you was no coincidence.”
I shake my head slightly, but I don’t break the connection of his hand on my cheek. The weight of his words makes my chest tighten, even as his touch feels like the only thing tethering me to the earth.
“It’s just a story,” I whisper, though my voice lacks conviction.
“But it’s not, is it?” His gaze pierces mine, his thumb brushing lightly against my skin. “Tell me you don’t feel it—that when our eyes met for the first time, you didn’t feel the pull. I heard kokoro no yobigoe —the call of your heart—and my soul answered.”
His words are irrational, poetic, impossible. I should laugh, push him away, dismiss it all as beautiful lies meant to get under my skin. And yet, I can’t deny the truth that burns in me: I did feel it. That pull. That inexplicable connection.
Even if there’s no future in this, even if it’s a ploy, I fear I’ll never feel this kind of passion again. And that fear drives me to give in.
“Kiss me,” I breathe out, the words barely audible.
His dark eyes flare, the glimpse of control slipping away before he steps closer, his movements sure and commanding. His hands rise to cup my face, his touch firm yet tender, as his lips capture mine. The kiss is consuming, igniting every nerve in my body. His mouth moves over mine with skill and hunger, his tongue coaxing mine to meet his.
I melt against him, clutching at the silk of his black kimono, feeling the smooth fabric beneath my fingers. He tastes like sake and something darker—something that feels like power wrapped in seduction. The world disappears, the party and the city fading into irrelevance. All that matters is him.
He pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against mine, his breathing shallow. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me, hime ,” he murmurs, his voice rough with restraint. “If we do this, you’re mine. Entirely. Forever.”
His words make me tremble, the weight of his claim sinking deep into my chest. “Yes,” I whisper, trembling with need. “Yours.”
The corner of his mouth lifts in a wicked smile, and he scoops me into his arms without hesitation. The silk of his kimono brushes against my skin as he carries me around the balcony. He moves through an open window, taking me to a room bathed in the warm glow of paper lanterns.
He sets me down on the edge of the low bed, his fingers lingering on my waist. “Say it again,” he demands softly, his voice a low growl. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I reply, the words spilling from my lips without hesitation.
He kneels before me, his powerful frame folding gracefully, the hem of his kimono pooling around him. His hands slide up my thighs, the warmth of his palms searing through the fabric of my furisode . “I’ve wanted this—wanted you—since the moment I saw you,” he says, his gaze holding mine. “But tonight, Ena, I’ll make you feel it.”
With deliberate care, he unties the obi at my waist, the intricate knots coming undone beneath his skilled fingers. The silk parts, sliding down my shoulders and pooling at my feet, leaving me bare before him. His sharp intake of breath is audible, his eyes roaming over me with a reverence that makes me feel both powerful and vulnerable.
“Perfection,” he murmurs, his hands brushing over my curves. “You’re everything.”
I reach for him, my fingers slipping beneath the folds of his kimono, but he catches my wrists, holding them gently but firmly. “No, hime . Let me show you.” He guides my hands to my sides before leaning in, pressing a kiss to my collarbone. His lips travel lower, tracing a path down the swell of my breasts, his tongue flicking over sensitive skin until I’m gasping beneath him.
His hands grip my hips as he kisses lower, his breath hot against my stomach. When his lips reach the apex of my thighs, I tense, but his voice cuts through the haze. “Relax,” he murmurs, his tone soothing yet commanding. “I’ll take care of you.”
He parts my thighs gently, settling between them as his hands slide upward. His fingers trace over my skin, teasing, exploring, before he dips between my folds, his touch deliberate and skilled. The sensation is overwhelming, pleasure sparking to life with every movement.
“You’re so wet for me,” he growls, his voice thick with approval. “So ready.”
Before I can respond, his mouth replaces his fingers, and the first stroke of his tongue sends a jolt through my body. I clutch the bedding, a moan slipping from my lips as he devours me, his tongue moving with precision. He alternates between soft, languid strokes and firm, focused pressure, his lips closing around my clit as he sucks gently.
“Taka,” I gasp, my head falling back as he pushes me higher and higher. His grip tightens on my thighs, holding me in place as I writhe beneath him. He slides a finger inside me, then another, stretching me slowly and carefully, preparing me for him. His fingers curl, hitting a spot that has me crying out, my release building fast and inevitable.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against me, his voice muffled but commanding. “Let go, Ena. I’ve got you.”
With a broken moan, I shatter, my climax washing over me in waves. He doesn’t stop, his mouth and fingers drawing out every ounce of pleasure until I’m trembling beneath him.
When he finally pulls back, his lips glisten with evidence of my release. He kisses his way back up my body, pausing to tease my breasts with his tongue, his hands cradling my curves like they’re precious. “You’re so beautiful when you come undone,” he whispers, his voice filled with awe.
He shrugs off his kimono, revealing the tattoos that cover his powerful chest and arms. The intricate designs swirl over his skin, telling a story I want to know. My breath catches as I take him in—every inch of him is built to dominate, to protect. But tonight, he’s mine.
“Don’t be afraid.” He leans over me, his body pressing me back against the bed. “I’ll go slow. I’ll take care of you.”
He guides himself to my entrance, his gaze locked on mine. The heat of him against me makes me shiver, and I grip his shoulders as he begins to push inside, the stretch intense but exhilarating. He stills, his forehead resting against mine, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice rough with restraint.
“Yes,” I whisper, my body adjusting to him. “Don’t stop.”
He begins to move, slow and measured, giving me time to adjust. But as the pleasure builds, the pace quickens, and his thrusts become deeper, more urgent. His hands grip my hips, holding me steady as he drives into me, his body pressing me into the mattress.
“You feel incredible,” he groans, his voice rough with need. “So perfect, hime . Made for me.”
I cling to him, my nails digging into his back as I meet his thrusts, the sensation overwhelming. The pleasure builds to a crescendo, and when I shatter around him, his name falls from my lips in a broken cry. He follows moments later, his release warm and claiming, his body shuddering against mine.
As the aftershocks fade, he collapses beside me, pulling me into his arms. His lips press against my temple, his breath warm against my skin. “Ena,” he murmurs, his voice soft and full of reverence. “You’re mine now. I’m never letting you go.”
I nestle against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. “You’re going to be my queen, Ena Matsuda,” he whispers, his voice filled with conviction.
And no matter what the odds are, in this moment, I believe him.
Want to know about Takashi and Ena’s legacy? Read Her Ruthless Warrior —the story of their son, Hoka Nishimura.