Chapter 5
Chapter five
“You can’t possibly be going out looking like that.”
Kazuma didn’t even glance up at first, his focus on the small clay pots spread across the wooden table. His sleeves were rolled back to the elbows, fingers smudged with crushed herbs and resin as he stirred something thick and dark in one of the bowls.
Aimee paused with one hand on the doorframe, the other dropping to her hip. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She reached up, fingers snagging in one of the snarls. “I thought you liked the way I looked.”
When was the last time she’d run a brush through the mess?
Every morning, she just yanked it into a ponytail before heading out to teach the younglings.
Then, she would inevitably get shoved into whatever task the village tossed her way afterwards—fixing a pulley, sparring drills, hauling rice sacks. There was always something.
Kazuma looked up, one brow arched. “Oh, pet. I like every bit of you.”
Heat rose to her cheeks.
But he wasn’t done. “Even your inane drive to insert yourself at every opportunity to aid this charming prison of a village.” A faint grimace crossed his face as he pushed himself up from the chair, betraying the tug in his side. “But even you must draw the line at nesting the local wildlife.”
He shuffled over to the corner basin where cold, clear mountain water trickled into the wooden bowl balanced on the smooth, waist-height rock. Beside it was a short stool, a worn rag, and the single hairbrush they’d been trading for weeks.
Kazuma plucked it up, turned, and gestured to the chair he’d just vacated. “Sit. Before a squirrel mistakes you for home.”
Aimee narrowed her eyes. But she crossed the room anyway.
“It’s not that bad,” she grumbled, wood creaking beneath her as she sat, back straight.
“Besides, I’m not the only one helping. Ever since you could sit upright again, you’ve spent all your time grinding roots for the Grannies.
” Her nose scrunched as she braced for the first pull of the brush.
“It’s been, what—two weeks since you started? ”
After one too many questions about their techniques, the old woman had handed him a mortar and pestle and told him to earn his keep. He’d taken to it disturbingly well.
Behind her, Kazuma stepped closer. His fingers grazed the nape of her neck, light and careful, as he worked the tie free from her hair. Strands slipped loose over her shoulders.
“It feels like much longer.” Warm breath fanned her skin, grazing the shell of her ear with the kind of softness that shouldn’t have made her pulse quicken—but did.
“The healers here practice the old ways,” he continued. “Methods not reliant on Mana.” His nails grazed her scalp. “It is…worth learning.”
Aimee exhaled, her posture easing as his hands moved gently through her hair, eyelids fluttering shut before she caught herself.
“And it couldn’t possibly be that you just want to help?” she murmured. “That you’re actually grateful they saved your life?”
She heard the shift in his weight as he leaned back, then the scrape of bristles catching through the first tangle. He started from the bottom—deliberate, patient—and worked upward with quiet precision.
“I am grateful to you, Aimee, for saving my life.”
Her body relaxed with each stroke. It felt good. Too good.
Which meant she should stop it.
But then his hand cupped the back of her neck again, pressing lightly into the muscle where tension pooled. Her throat closed at the contact. The soreness from days of hunting, of hauling wild game down steep trails to the caverns below for winter storage, flared—then ebbed beneath his touch.
Her fingers dug into the edge of the chair. She wasn’t meant for this. For comfort. For kindness.
But still…she didn’t move.
The room hushed. No birdsong from the cliffside.
No clang from the blacksmith on the terrace below.
Just the quiet drag of his fingers, threading through her hair, smoothing and sectioning, palm resting warm at the nape of her neck.
Her eyes stayed closed. One inhale, then another, and the stiff line of her shoulders began to give.
“There.”
He stepped back, and his absence was immediate. No more heat, no more steady mass at her back.
“Much better.”
She opened her eyes. A braid now curved neatly over her shoulder, thick and even.
Her fingers drifted over it, following the length down to the end where he’d tied it off with a strip of leather.
She traced back up, discovering where tighter twists wove along the scalp before feeding into the braid’s spine—clean, crisp, and practiced.
“Um. Thanks.” Her fingers ghosted over the crown of her head again. “Where…?”
She turned to find him pale, one hand braced on the table. His other hovered near the back of the chair like he hadn’t decided whether to use it.
“Shit—here.” She stood, pushing the seat toward him.
“I’m fine.” But his gaze lingered on the chair a beat too long before he sank into it with an exhale. His fists clenched around his knees, knuckles white.
Aimee watched as he eventually reached for the mortar, movements stiff, knowing his mood would sour if she asked him if he was ok, again.
“It’s actually…” She touched the braid again, lighter this time. “It’s good. Where’d you learn how to…?” She faltered, mouth pulling sideways. “Plait?”
He didn’t look up.
“A girl in my group home.” He reached for a pinch of dried thorny leaves and let them fall into the mortar. “She kept getting reprimanded for leaving it loose. They said it was a risk—easy to grab during combat.”
The pestle ground into the stone.
“She was hopeless,” he said flatly. “Couldn’t even complete basic shinobi forms without stumbling.” His lips thinned, and the grinding stopped. “It wasn’t much, but I fixed her hair for her every morning during Tanshi training.”
Group home. He was an orphan.
“That actually sounds…” Aimee hugged herself. “Nice of you.”
He dropped the pestle into the bowl with a dull thud.
“It was expedient.” His hand flexed again. “She kept slowing us down.”
“Of course.” She didn’t believe him.
Kazuma reached for the pouch without meeting her eyes, the scent of crushed thorns rising as he funneled the powder inside.
“What happened to her?” Aimee’s voice barely carried.
He didn’t answer at first. Just stilled, hand hovering above the drawstring.
“What happens to all hopeless shinobi,” he said eventually. “She didn’t make it through her first mission.” His eyes closed, and a moment passed. “We were twelve.”
Then he began tying the pouch shut.
“Luckily, we were assigned someone competent after that.” His mouth slanted into something that wanted to be a smile but twisted instead. “That bitch is probably wondering where I am by now.”
“Kaz…” She stepped forward, unsure of what she meant to say.
“Don’t you have some pedestrian task to perform?” A muscle ticked along his cheek. “Elsewhere.”
Aimee drew the bowstring back, her stance solid, feet shoulder-width apart, knees flexible. The string stretched further as her fingers grazed her cheekbone as she exhaled through her nose. Steady. Clean form.
It had been three days since he’d effectively dismissed her. Three days since he’d said a word or even looked at her.
And, surprisingly, it fucking grated.
Her spine locked, tension surging down her arm, and the string snapped free.
The recoil caught her before she registered the failure, a whipcrack sting across her cheek. Metal clanged as the arrowhead skittered across the rock, the bow landing beside it with a dead thud.
“Shit!” Her hand flew to her face.
“Aimee-Sensei!” Shinka’s voice broke from the cluster of younglings behind her.
She turned away, clutching her face, blood hot and slick between her fingers. “I’m fine,” she called out.
Footsteps scuffed behind her.
“No—stay back!” She spun, fast. One arm out to hold the kid off. “Just a scratch.” She yanked her shirt over her head and pressed the fabric hard against the wound.
“Face wounds bleed like hell, that’s all. Stay back, I mean it.”
She should’ve been more careful. Stupid. Letting her blood spray. If it touched anyone…
“Aimee?”
Mira’s voice. Crisp. Dry.
Aimee didn’t turn right away. She focused her mind. Slowing the frantic pump of her heart. Then she pivoted, pressing her shirt harder against the wound, blood already soaking through the linen.
“Stupid mistake.” She lifted her elbow slightly, revealing the dark bloom spreading across the fabric. “Already paying for it.”
Mira looked past her to the twisted shape of the bow on the ground, string dangling limp.
“A mistake?” Her brow arched as she turned to Shinka. “Is that what happened, boy?”
Shinka stepped forward, eyes on his toes. “Yes, Momma. Aimee-Sensei stretched the string too far, and it broke.”
Mira blinked, her expression unreadable as her attention returned to the ruined bow.
Aimee didn’t need to see Mira’s face to know she was doing the math.
Human strength couldn’t snap that bowstring. Not that way. Not with that force.
And Mira would know. She was an expert.
They’d spent the last couple of weeks squaring off in weekly archery matches—her against Mira with the hand-carved compound bows. Half the village gathered to watch now, cheering bets placed with laughter and tea.
“Mira—”
Heat surged.
Aimee barely had time to brace before Mira was there, a flicker of flame and fury, one hand wrenching her chin up, nails biting into Aimee’s jawline.
“Fuck—Mira!”
“You knew it would be me,” she hissed. “Me, who must execute you, Aimee. And you did it anyway. That was the deal. No Mana. Ever.”
Flame exploded from Mira’s palm, flinging Aimee backward.
She hit the ground, shoulder slamming into rock, the damp linen of her shirt clutched even harder against her bleeding face.
“I thought you were my friend!” Mira barked. Her back was already turned, arms stiff at her sides, fire licking up her forearms. “Stupid. Never trust a shinobi.”