30. Kaneko
Kaneko
Four Samurai, one with a crossbow now pointed at my chest, stared me down.
I kneeled in Kazashita’s blood, his body growing cold in my arms, and calculated odds I already knew. One guard, maybe. Two if I was lucky and they were slow. But four? With one already at range?
I was skilled, not suicidal.
“Stand up,” the lead guard commanded. “Slowly.”
I laid Kazashita down gently, closing his eyes with trembling fingers still sticky with his blood. His face looked peaceful now, younger, as though death had erased years of guilt and longing.
“I told you,” I said, rising to face them. “I am under Prince Haru’s protection.”
“So you claim.” The crossbowman hadn’t lowered his weapon. “You will come with us to the palace. His Highness can verify your . . . arrangement.”
“We can’t just leave him here.” I looked down at Kazashita’s still form, sprawled in his own blood like discarded refuse.
“Leave it,” one of the guards said, his voice flat and dismissive. “It’s someone else’s problem now.”
It.
This man who’d crossed oceans in search of me, to save me, reduced to something less than human in the street.
My hands balled, nails digging into my palms hard enough to draw blood. “Prince Haru values his privacy above all things. Drag me to the palace, expose his affairs, and he’ll flay the skin from your bones.”
The guards exchanged glances through their metal masks. My words rang true for any noble, but especially for a member of the royal house.
“The House of Petals then. That is where you trade cock for coin, is it not?” the lead guard spat. “Your mistress can verify your claims.”
That was better than the palace, though still dangerous. Momoko might defend me—or she might deny any knowledge and turn me over to the mercy of these Samurai.
But what choice did I have?
I nodded and forced myself to not look back at Kazashita’s body as they surrounded me—one ahead, one behind, one on each side.
The walk back felt like a funeral procession.
I could feel the men’s suspicion with every step, their eyes cataloging the blood on my hands, my face, the way I moved too smoothly for a simple courtesan.
The house guards gaped when they saw our approach, hands moving to weapons before recognizing the Imperial insignia born by my Samurai escorts.
“Wake the mistress,” the lead guard commanded, causing the house guards to scurry faster than I’d ever seen the lazy men move.
Momoko appeared within minutes, wrapped in silk, her face perfectly composed despite the hour. Her eyes took in everything—the guards, my black clothes, the blood still smeared across my face.
She didn’t so much as flinch. Her expression revealed nothing.
“Honored Samurai,” she said with a graceful bow. “How may the House of Petals serve the Emperor’s justice?”
“This one claims to be Prince Haru’s consort.”
Momoko’s laugh was like the tinkling of bells. “Of course Kaneko belongs to Prince Haru.” She produced a ledger seemingly from nowhere, flipping to a marked page. “Three weeks’ exclusive rights, sealed with his personal mark.”
The guards leaned in to examine it.
“The Prince would be most displeased to learn his personal arrangements had become a matter of public record. And from what I have seen, he has become quite attached to this particular courtesan.” Momoko’s smile was as sharp as any blade.
“Unless you’d like me to wake His Highness?
He came tonight, hoping to spend time with this young man, but now sleeps alone. ”
“Uh, no . . . no. That won’t be necessary,” the lead guard said quickly. “But the city watch will be informed.”
“There are always questions.” Momoko bowed again. “Thank you for your diligence, honored Samurai.”
The men left, but not without backward glances that promised this wasn’t over.
The moment the door closed, Momoko’s composure cracked. “My office. Now.”
I followed her through silent halls, leaving bloody footprints on polished wood. She closed the door and whirled on me.
“Do you have any idea what you have risked? Imperial Samurai at my door, you covered in blood and dressed like a . . . a ninja assassin!” Her voice was low but vicious.
“The city watch will be all over us now. Everyone will wonder why the Emperor’s own Samurai patrol our park. Customers will fear to visit.”
I said nothing. In my mind, Kazashita’s eyes were losing focus as his hand grew cold against my cheek.
“Get out,” Momoko said. “Burn those clothes, and do not leave your chamber without permission.”
I bowed and stepped from her office.
Sakurai was pacing in my chamber when I arrived. The moment he saw me, he exploded. “What in the name of every fucking god have you done?”
“Keep your voice down,” I hissed, closing the door.
“Years of planning, destroyed in one night!” He ran his hands through his hair, the gesture wild and uncontrolled.
“The city watch will double patrols. Guards will remember your face. Even this new cover we’ve been building—it’s all ruined!
You can’t slip into shadows when everyone’s watching for exactly that.
” He stopped pacing to face me directly.
“Why? What could possibly have been worth this?”
“Someone died tonight,” I said quietly. “Someone who didn’t deserve it.”
Sakurai stared at me, cataloging the blood under my fingernails, the stain on my cheek, the hollow look in my eyes.
“The pirate. The one you knew from before. The one on the island.”
He wasn’t asking. How the hell did he know? I hadn’t even known Kazashita was in the capital until moonlight had lit his face.
I didn’t answer.
“Do not leave this house without my express permission. Do not practice what I taught you. You are nothing but a courtesan until I say otherwise. And give me back those clothes.” His voice carried ice. “I need to consult my handlers, see if there’s anything left to salvage.”
I peeled off the blood-stiffened clothes, each movement mechanical, and handed them to him. When I hesitated at my small clothes, he held out his hand, the implication clear: Give it all to me. Now.
I stood before him naked, as I had so many times, but he simply wadded the clothes into something of a ball and stormed out of my chamber.
I squeezed my eyes shut and took a few deep breaths, then padded over to the table where a washbasin sat.
The moment my hands dipped below the surface, the water turned pink, then red as I scrubbed at my skin.
But the smear on my cheek—where Kazashita’s hand had cupped my face—refused to fade entirely. Perhaps it was a trick of the light—or perhaps I didn’t want it to fade. I couldn’t be sure.
I toweled off and lay on my pallet, but sleep wouldn’t come. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Kazashita. Not dying—that would have been bearable—but alive.
The joy when he first saw me—and the devastation when I rejected him.
“She loved you . . . almost as much as I did.”
Irie would be waiting on her island, probably humming while she worked.
She’d wait forever for a reunion that would never come.
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.