Chains of Silk and Steel Ch. 05

Chapter Five

Sayuri

The scent of tea leaves and incense lingered in the room, clinging to the walls like ghosts of past rituals. Beneath it was the faint polish of wood--refined and orderly. Everything here differed from the grease-thick heat of the kitchens, where the stench of oil stuck to her skin and hair like a second layer she could never fully wash away.

Sayuri sat stiff-backed on the mat before Madam Rika, the head stewardess of the soldiers' quarters. The woman had served longer than Sayuri had been alive. Her silver-threaded hair was pinned with care, her face softened by years rather than hardened. Authority rested in her posture--a power earned through time and diligence, not birthright.

"Change is always difficult, but you will find your place," Madam Rika said, pouring a cup of tea and setting it before her. "Lord Dorei has selected you as one of his personal attendants. It is quite the honor."

Sayuri kept her face blank, biting her tongue to keep from lashing out. There was no honor in being given a sentence. She would have much preferred to go back to the kitchens. To her freedom.

Sympathy passed over the woman's face, and her smile turned soft before she continued. "You will wake before him, see to his chambers, clothing, and meals when required. You will serve his tea and ensure his quarters remain in order during his absences." She paused, her eyes lifting to Sayuri's face. "And if he summons you, you will go."

Sayuri let out a breath, her cheeks burning under the older woman's gaze. Her meaning settled between them like a stone.

Some men took more than tea from the women in their chambers.

Soldiers, hardened by war and starved of comfort, were not monks. When they returned from battle, their blood still hot from the fight, it wasn't uncommon for them to seek release--however they could. And attendants, those kept closest, were often the easiest to take.

Her hands shook as she lifted the cup to her lips. The porcelain was warm against her fingers, but the tea suddenly felt cold on her tongue, and the bitterness remained long after she swallowed.

His words slipped into her thoughts, "You're not as immune as you pretend to be, little moth."

The words brushed against her mind as surely as his lips had grazed her ear the previous night. She could still feel the heat of his breath, the whisper of it against her skin, the soft drag of his mouth along the curve of her jaw. Her pulse had leapt then--an instinctive response. Not fear. Not disgust.

Want.

The memory stirred it anew, a traitorous warmth blooming low in her stomach. She gripped the cup tighter, willing the tremor from her fingers, forcing the heat back down.

Had he moved her to his service for this? Was this what Dorei wanted from her?

Madam Rika studied her momentarily, then set her cup down with a quiet click. "Lord Dorei is not an unreasonable man," she said, her voice gentler now as though sensing her unease. "The women he summons to his chambers have always left satisfied. It is a role every girl here has been eager to accept."

Sayuri's fingers curled in her lap, hidden beneath the folds of her robes. She wasn't like every other girl--wasn't eager, wasn't willing to be called.

She wasn't.

And yet, the memory of his body pressing closer, of the heat that had pulsed through her in response, whispered otherwise.

Resentment flared beneath her ribs, biting and hot--toward him, toward herself. She inhaled slowly, smothering it down. She lowered her gaze, nodding once. "Yes, ma'am."

A warm smile touched the woman's lips. "Come. Let's get you settled."

The hallways of the soldiers' quarters were quieter than the palace's inner corridors, though no less grand. The scent of sandalwood and steel replaced the florals and incense that perfumed the rest of the palace--a sharper, cleaner edge that spoke of discipline, not decoration.

Sayuri followed Madam Rika past rows of identical, closed doors.

"This wing houses Lord Dorei's personal attendants and the soldiers under his immediate command. His private chambers are in the adjacent wing," the Madam explained as they walked. "Through here is the bathing house, and beyond that, the training yard." She gestured toward a passage branching off to a large set of doors. "The dining hall is this way. Meals are prepared in the adjoining kitchens, separate from the palace's main staff."

Sayuri barely heard the rest. Her chest tightened. She had foolishly hoped that she might still have access to the main kitchens. But if she was to eat here, work here, remain here...

Slipping away to meet Hiro would be that much harder. And by proxy, any hope of gathering information on the nobleman would wither.

They rounded another corner, and Madam Rika gestured toward a series of engraved doors. "These are the quarters for Lord Dorei's personal attendants. You will have one as well."

Sayuri's steps nearly faltered. A room to herself? Not a cramped sleeping mat tucked beside her sister. Not a shared cot in the servants' barracks. Her own space. A door she could close. She fought to keep her face still, but beneath her ribs, something unusual stirred--not quite joy, but close.

As they moved down the hall, Madam Rika paused at several doors, introducing Sayuri to the other attendants she found free from their duties. Sayuri dipped her head in greeting as names were offered--some girls younger, some older, their expressions ranging from polite indifference to mild curiosity. She tried to commit them to memory, though the faces blurred together, swallowed by the haze of unfamiliarity.

"And this is where you'll be sleeping." Madam Rika paused at a door near the end of the hall. She slid it open, revealing a modest chamber--small but far from sparse. A mattress was neatly tucked into an alcove along the far wall, a folded blanket resting at its center. A simple writing desk and stool sat beneath a narrow window, and a wooden chest waited at the foot of the mattress--empty now but ready for her belongings. If she'd had any to fill it.

Sayuri hesitated in the doorway. It was too much. Too good. Not lavish, but cared for. The kind of space meant for someone who mattered. Someone who belonged. Her fingers brushed against the frame as if testing it--half-expecting it to vanish beneath her touch.

She stepped inside.

Folded beside the chest lay her new uniform. Sayuri ran a hand over the fabric, surprised by the softness beneath her touch. It was finer than anything she'd worn before--not silks like the nobles, but well-made linen that wouldn't chafe against the skin. A pale blue kosode layered beneath a darker navy apron, its sash meant to tie neatly at her back. All of Dorei's attendants were dressed this way--clothed in his wealth, his favor.

A step up from the coarse, shapeless garb of the kitchen staff. And yet, it still seemed like a collar.

Her gaze drifted to the narrow window at the back of the room. Wooden slats filtered the sunlight, painting thin bands of gold across the floor. Something about the quiet here nagged at her.

The kitchens had been loud--smoke rising, servants shouting, bodies always moving. In the chaos, she could slip in and out unseen.

But here...

Here, the quiet was oppressive. The halls were still. The only sound would be her own footsteps echoing against the ground. If she left in the dead of night, someone would hear. Someone would see. Freedom had never felt so far away.

Madam Rika watched her carefully. "Is something the matter?"

Sayuri swallowed, forcing her voice steady. "Are we free to come and go from this wing as needed?"

The older woman's expression gave nothing away. Her gaze lingered a beat longer than was comfortable before she stepped past, smoothing a hand over the blanket on the mattress. "You'll have your duties. If you complete them, I see no reason you should be confined. But you are no longer a kitchen maid. You serve Lord Dorei personally, which means you are expected to be available at any time."

Sayuri nodded, but her chest remained tight. She wasn't being watched--not yet. But the warning was there beneath her even tone. Step wrong, and freedom would snap into a leash. And yet... as her gaze drifted over the quiet room--the clean floors, the warm blanket, the wooden chest--she felt it stir.

That dangerous, fragile longing.

If she wasn't careful, this place could feel like home.

Madam Rika didn't linger. "Your first task is to clean Lord Dorei's study," she said, her voice taking on a firmer edge. "The master values order. Everything should be returned exactly as you found it. The floors swept, the shelves dusted, and the ink brushes set neatly in place. He dislikes carelessness, as do I. Our work is a reflection of the household. If one of us fails, we all do. Do not disappoint me."

Sayuri inclined her head. "Yes, ma'am."

Madam Rika's expression softened, approval replacing the hard edge. "Lord Dorei is training for the remainder of the afternoon," she said, gesturing to the folded garment beside the chest. "Change into your uniform. When you are ready, you may begin."

She stepped toward the door, pausing briefly at the threshold. "You serve the Supreme Commander now. Wear it with pride."

The door slid closed behind her with a soft click.

***

Lord Dorei's study was larger than she had expected, but it felt even bigger in its stillness. It was orderly. Controlled. Every surface meticulously arranged. Ink and aged parchment lingered in the air, softened by the warmer scents of cedar and leather. Sunlight streamed through latticed windows, illuminating dust motes that swirled in slow, lazy spirals around her.

Sayuri let her gaze drift over the room--across the desk, the shelves, the weapons mounted above the far wall--until her eyes caught on the left side. She halted.

Books!

Not just a handful, not even a dozen, but hundreds. Lining the shelves in neat rows, some stacked in careful piles on the desk, others tucked into crevices like well-worn secrets. Scrolls bound in silk. Tomes with handwritten script along their spines.

Her stomach flipped, heat curling through her fingers as they twitched at her sides. She hadn't touched a book in years.

How many nights had she sat hunched in the dim corners of her father's shop, devouring the words of scholars and poets, running her hands over ink-stained pages that smelled of dust and time?

Makoto used to tease her for it: "You'll never find a husband with your nose stuck in a book, Sayu." She had laughed then, as if love was the only thing worth chasing. And in the end, her sister had chased it--right into ruin.

Sayuri swallowed against the bitterness rising in her throat as she ran a finger down the leather of a worn spine.

Her father had taught her to read so she could help with the ledgers, the skill nothing more than a practical necessity. But he had never realized what he'd given her.

Words had opened doors. Had made her see beyond the walls of their modest home. Beyond the life she had been expected to live. She'd tried to teach her sister to read once, but Makoto never had the patience. She had liked to listen, though--would curl against Sayuri's lap by the fire, eyes drifting shut as Sayuri read stories of places they would never see.

But in all her life, she had never seen a collection quite like this. There were books on history, on strategy, on philosophy. Poetry from the Golden Era, medical texts, records of old laws. Some were pristine, but others were worn, read and reread until their covers softened.

A man of war and bloodshed had read these? Studied them?

Her gaze slipped over the shelves and halted on a book bound in deep blue silk, its title scrawled in sloping calligraphy. A monogatari.

Her heart jumped in her throat. Before she could stop herself, her hands flew to her mouth, muffling a breathless giggle. The sound startled her as much as the thrill beneath her ribs.

Fiction was rare--an indulgence. Something she had only ever dreamed of touching. Her hands itched to slip it from the shelf, to crack it open, to read until the sun gave way to moonlight.

No.

The warmth drained from her chest as reality returned. There was no time for distractions.

Forcing herself into motion, she set about her work--dusting the shelves, sweeping the floor, wiping down the surface of his desk. Her fingers lingered over the objects scattered around the room, each offering a glimpse into their owner.

A crude, wooden carving of a tiger sat on the bookcase, its edges softened with age. Rough lines had been engraved into its belly by a childish hand, the characters forming his name--Kaiyan.

Beside his quills lay a jade stone, round and warm, its surface polished to a sheen--the kind of smoothness that came from being turned over in a palm, rolled between fingers in moments of thought.

And on the desk was a small lacquered box, unassuming yet well-kept, its lid slightly scuffed--not from neglect, but from use.

The things he kept were not extravagant. Not the gilded luxuries of palace nobles. They were personal. Comforts. Things that made him... him.

Not Lord Dorei but Kaiyan. Her lips tasted his name as her thumb swiped over the characters carved into the tiger's underside. Carefully, she set it back onto its shelf, and her eyes returned to the lacquered box, sitting plainly on the corner of his desk--as though meant to be seen. Or perhaps simply trusted to remain undisturbed. She hesitated beside it, fingers brushing over the smooth lid before curiosity won out. It lifted easily beneath her touch.

A single lock of hair lay inside, nestled in folds of pale lavender silk. Bound with a thin thread, it was dark as raven's feathers, the shade and shine so close to her own that her breath caught.

Sayuri stared. Who had it belonged to? A lover? A family member? Someone lost to time?

Whatever the answer, it was something he refused to part with.

Slowly, she closed the lid and stepped back from the desk. Her eyes lingered on it for a breath longer before forcing herself to move on. There was still work to do, and the sun was sinking low beyond the windows, staining the sky in streaks of amber and blood. She wanted to be gone before Lord Dorei--Kaiyan--returned.

She circled the room, cloth in hand, wiping down the shelves and surfaces, setting each item back exactly as she found it.

And then she reached the far wall.

A wooden stand held his armor, polished to a dull gleam. The chestplate was blackened steel, reinforced along the ribs with overlapping segments designed to absorb impact. The gauntlets were ridged, the grooves still faintly lined with oil. His sword rested in its sheath beside the set, the scabbard catching the dying light from the window.

It wasn't just the sword of a commander. It was a weapon that had taken lives. A blade that had cut men down as surely as it had protected its owner.

She swallowed, pushing down the unease curling in her stomach.

War had always been a distant thing--spoken of in whispers, carried on the breath of widows and mothers praying over empty beds. A thing that happened to other people. Other lives.

But seeing these things--touching them--made it real. Made him real.

Her fingers hovered over the chestplate, barely grazing the cool metal. They paused on a deep notch near the left side--right over the heart. The gouge was clean but brutal, a strike that would have slipped through and ended him had the armor not held.

She traced it lightly, the breath stalling in her chest. He had nearly... died.

Her hand drifted away slowly, fingers brushing once more over the worn grooves before falling back to her side.

Standing in this space, surrounded by things that didn't belong to her, felt strange. Things that seemed like glimpses into a man she had thought she understood--an arrogant noble who took what he wanted because he could. But here, in the quiet study, among worn books and old scars, something more was slipping through.

And she wasn't sure what unsettled her more--that she'd seen it... or that a part of her wanted to see more.

Sayuri moved through the rest of her tasks on instinct--dusting away the fine residue from the training yard, straightening what little there was to adjust, smoothing the fabrics draped over his chair. Her hands worked, but her mind was elsewhere.

The armor. The notch over his heart. The lock of hair resting in silk.

She willed the thoughts to quiet, but something else crept in to fill the space.

The books.

Her gaze flicked back to the shelves, drawn like a moth to a flame. That first spark of excitement stirred again--tentative but growing--fueled now by something more than curiosity. Longing.

She drifted toward them, fingertips skimming the spines, the rasp of parchment beneath her touch familiar. And when her fingers found the blue silk binding--the fiction--her breath caught.

Her hand trembled as she slipped it free, cradling it carefully as though it might vanish. The pages were softer than she remembered books feeling, the scent of parchment and ink rushing into her lungs, stirring memories of home, of stolen moments beside the hearth--of a world that had once been hers.

Her heart quickened, something warm, giddy, and reckless seizing her.

Before she could stop herself, she hugged the book to her chest, clutching it like a treasure. A breathless laugh--soft, almost a giggle--escaped her lips. Her cheeks ached from the smile stretching her face. For a moment, she was simply Sayuri--a girl she's long since forgotten.

The door slid open.

The sound cracked through her like a whip. She froze, the book still pressed to her chest, fingers curled protectively around the edges.

Kaiyan stepped into the room, the scent of sweat and steel trailing in his wake. His black tunic was unlaced at the collar, damp fabric clinging faintly to his broad chest. Loose strands of dark hair stuck to his temples, the rest gathered carelessly at his nape.

Behind him, his guard followed--ever his shadow.

Sayuri straightened, heat flooding her face as the giddiness drained from her limbs, replaced by cold rigidity. Her spine locked, and her chin lifted--desperate to reclaim the control she had so briefly abandoned.

His golden eyes flicked to the book in her arms. For a breath, he said nothing. Then, slowly, his lips curved--not in mockery or amusement. But in a smile. A real one. The first she had ever seen from him.

"Well," he mused, tilting his head. "This is unexpected."

Sayuri's grip tightened around the leather binding. She turned swiftly, sliding the book back on the shelf. "Lord Dorei, my apologies."

The words were out before she could stop them. She stiffened, heat flashing through her--not at him, but at herself. Fool. Giving him exactly what he wanted.

His smile lingered--then sharpened into something familiar. A smirk.

"A title and an apology? I should catch you like this more often. But perhaps, now that we're so intimately acquainted, you should call me Kaiyan,"

Her teeth clenched, and she glared up at him.

"Ah," he chuckled, "there's my little moth." His eyes traced her face, watching for something she refused to give. Then his gaze moved to the shelves. "So, you can read."

His guard let out a low chortle. "That makes her more learned than most of the men in the barracks." His attention settled on her, assessing but not unkind. Unlike Kaiyan, there was no possessiveness in his interest--only curiosity.

Sayuri ignored them both.

She glanced at Kaiyan's sweat-dampened tunic and grumbled. "You need a bath."

Kaiyan's brows lifted, amusement sparking in his golden eyes. Then, slow as a lazy predator, he stepped closer. "Then draw one for me."

Sayuri's fingers curled into the folds of her kosode, knuckles whitening. Irritation bristled under her skin, and she forced her chin higher. "I'm not done cleaning. Ask one of the other attendants."

Kaiyan took another step. Not closing the distance completely--but enough to pull the air tight, close enough she could smell the salt of his skin, the faint trace of steel still clinging to him.

Her pulse skipped as her body recalled what she had tried so hard to forget. His breath against her ear, his hand on her thigh, his body, firm and warm, clutched between her legs.

"No," he murmured, his voice low--quiet and certain. "I want you, little moth."

His fingers brushed the inside of her wrist, his thumb tracing the dark curve of her birthmark. A touch so light it should have meant nothing. But her heart still tripped over itself.

Warmth spread up her arm like an ember catching on dry kindling, every nerve in her body snapping to attention. She didn't retreat, wouldn't give him the satisfaction. She felt him--the heat radiating off his skin, the weight of his gaze--taking in every flicker of her expression like he was searching for something.

His hand dropped to the hem of his tunic.

Sayuri sucked in a breath. Her eyes slipped downward just as his fingers grasped the fabric and peeled it up and over his head in one smooth motion. He let the tunic fall to the floor. Bare-chested, he stood before her.

The first thing she noticed was his skin--sun-bronzed, still glistening with sweat. Then, the muscles shifting beneath--lean, battle-forged strength, the kind built from necessity, not vanity. Scars came next. Pale lines cutting across his chest and ribs--faint ghosts of blades and arrows long past.

But it was the ink that stole her breath.

The black lines stretched over his left shoulder and curved down his chest, coiling along the plane of muscle like it belonged there--as much a part of him as the beauty.

The beast depicted there was unlike anything she had seen. It had the claws of a tiger, but its body was heavier--thick with power, muscles fluid beneath ink-dark skin. Its long, curving snout rested in repose, mouth slightly open as though tasting the air. As though it had already judged it--and found it wanting.

It was no lion. No dragon. No creature of war meant to strike fear at a glance. Like the man who bore it, the thing did not need to bare its teeth to command.

The shading was so precise, so deftly woven with his skin, that it seemed to shift in the light--lines blurring and sharpening, shadows breathing against flesh. For a moment, it felt alive.

Sayuri did not know what it was. Only that it looked as though it had seen things no one else had. And remembered them all.

"Do you like what you see, little moth?"

Sayuri's blood turned molten. She forced her gaze up--only for it to collide with his. Amused. Knowing. Watching.

Kaiyan stepped in, and the space between them vanished. Her pulse quickened--not with fear, not yet--but with the familiar irritation, the one he was so adept at summoning. He was too close. Too bold. Always pushing. Always trying to break her.

Her skin prickled as his hand lifted, catching the end of her sash. His fingers dragged slowly down its length, almost absently, as though he were toying with the thought of undoing it.

A game--that's all she was to him.

This is what he always did. Pressed into her space, needled at her temper, watched her bristle and burn for his own damn entertainment.

She kept her spine stiff, refusing to flinch under his gaze. Refusing to push him away, to tear her sash from his grip. Refusing to let him win.

Kaiyan's lips quirked. His eyes were on her when his fingers tightened.

The tug was sharp. Sudden. And just like that, the knot unraveled.

The whisper of fabric sliding free was soft, barely more than a breath, but the sound tore through her and sent her skin alight as if he'd stripped her bare. The apron loosened, the fabric relaxing around her hips, but the kosode beneath held--not perfectly. Bare skin emerged at her side, just above her hipbone, before the layers drifted back into place.

A sliver. A glimpse. A tease. And his eyes missed nothing.

Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart slammed against her ribs--shock, heat, dread. No man had ever touched her like this. No man had ever been so bold.

The meaning of Madam Rika's words unfurled in her mind, clearer than ever. "If he summons you, you will go."

Her stomach knotted--part fear, part fury. But beneath it, something else stirred. Something warmer. Something darker.

Anticipation.

Heat flooded her body as she refused to look away. He didn't move. His gaze dragged lazily over her, following the subtle shift of her stance, the quick rise and fall of her breath.

She hated him for it. Hated him for making her feel this way. Hated herself for wanting him to take even more.

One hand lifted slowly to her face--his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. Sayuri's body locked tight even as a spark shot down her spine. Her lips parted, a breath catching at the back of her throat. Her gaze snapped to his--but his eyes had dropped lower.

He was looking at her mouth.

He leaned in. Close enough for her to feel his breath, warm and steady. Near enough, their lips would touch should she lift her chin.

Her pulse hammered--her body frozen, caught between fight and surrender.

And the worst part--the very worst part--was that she didn't know which she wanted more.

His tongue darted out, running over his lower lip before he caught it lightly between his teeth.

Her chest tightened until it ached. He was going to kiss her.

She could already feel it--the pressure of his mouth on hers, the heat of him pressing closer, the slide of his hand moving lower, her kosode falling away, leaving her exposed.

She no longer knew if she had the power to stop him. Or if she even wanted to. Perhaps she would let him have her right there, in his study, with the door open and his guard watching.

But if she did... what then?

Would he tire of her--like all men did with girls like her--once he had what he wanted? Would he cast her aside, as Sata had discarded Makoto?

Her sister had believed she was special. She had thought she was different--until the moment she was nothing. Until she was dead.

Sayuri's gaze dropped to his chest--but the inked beast, the scars, the bronze skin blurred away. Her breathing sped up, hitching with a whimper as it turned toward hyperventilation.

Warm fingers found her chin, and he tilted her face up, forcing her eyes to his. She couldn't hide. He wouldn't let her.

Sayuri's heart pounded, her pulse quickening so violently it was a wonder he couldn't hear it. Her lips parted, but no sound came.

His gaze locked with hers, and... he saw it.

All of it.

Not just the heat. Not just the desire she had tried and failed to smother. He saw her fear. The crack. The place where her defiance buckled beneath the weight of something older, something far more fragile. He saw Makoto in her eyes--the ruin that would come after surrender.

Her throat tightened, shame scorching through her veins. She hated him for seeing it. Hated herself for letting him.

His expression didn't soften, but something shifted beneath it. He held her there a breath longer--watching, taking in every flicker, every breath, every ripple of panic in her chest.

Then he stepped back.

The heat of his body receded, and the space he left behind felt cold and hollow. The tension snapped like a bowstring pulled too tight.

And he was gone.

Kaiyan reached for a fresh tunic, sliding it over his body with the same ease he had stripped--fluid, control settling back over him like armor once more.

"I have business to attend to." His voice was smooth, unaffected, as if nothing had transpired. "I shall meet you in the bathhouse in an hour's time."

Sayuri clenched her fists, willing her body to still--to ignore the way her skin thrummed where his fingers had been.

The door slid shut behind him.

She exhaled sharply, releasing a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

Damn him.

Her hands dropped to her waist, quickly retightening the sash he had undone--yanking the knot tight until it bit into her palms. But it did nothing to ease the tremor in her fingers. Her skin still burned where his hand had been. Her heart still raced--too fast, too wild.

She felt unsteady, like the ground had shifted, and she couldn't find her footing. And worst of all, she was still aching--still wanting.

Shame hooked its fingers in her gut. She was no better than Makoto. She would break--just like her sister. And she had no idea how to prevent the fallout she so desperately feared.

Behind her, a throat cleared.

Sayuri turned, her head snapping toward the sound.

Kaiyan's guard stood there--further back near the shelves as if he'd taken a leisurely interest in his surroundings. But she knew better. He had been giving them privacy. Or as much privacy as Kaiyan ever allowed.

His posture was relaxed, arms folded loosely, but there was something almost... knowing in the way he looked at her.

He tilted his head slightly. "I haven't seen him like this in years."

Sayuri frowned, trying to reel in her thoughts. Her chest was still tight, her breath coming in uneven pulls. She hoped he couldn't see the flush still warming her skin--or the faint tremor in her hand where it rested against her thigh.

She fought to sound unaffected, but when she spoke, her voice wavered--breathless and trembling. "Like... what?"

She flushed, cursing herself for the crack she had let him hear.

The man's mouth twitched, but it wasn't quite a smile. "Like himself. You know, tonight was the first time I think he's truly smiled since before his mother died." His eyes flicked to the lacquered box resting on the desk--as though the two were connected.

The lock of hair inside--it was his mother's.

The guard shifted, leaning lazily against the shelves, his gaze sliding over the books before settling back on her. "You're not as invisible as you might think, Miss Kagawa."

Sayuri's stomach tightened. Not... invisible? "I... I don't know what you mean."

He didn't push. His tone remained casual--too light. "You should know Lord Dorei is not the kind of man who likes to share. Late-night disappearances tend to draw attention. Especially with those the Master has taken an interest in."

Her heart stammered against her ribs. Hiro. Had Kaiyan sent someone to follow her? Why?

If he knew--if he suspected--what would he do?

Hiro had only ever tried to help her. If punishment was coming, so be it. She would take it. But she would not let it fall on him. Not for her.

Her heart constricted--like a hand squeezing until everything throbbed so painfully she could hardly breathe.

And now, with this reassignment, her chances of finding the nobleman--the man who had ruined everything--were slipping through her fingers like sand.

A long pause stretched between them before the guard gave the barest tilt of his head. "When the Master sees something he likes," he said quietly, "he takes it. And right now, Miss Kagawa, that something is you."

Sayuri licked her lips, and her gaze slipped to the door as if she could still see him standing there. Her pulse spiked as the words twisted through her, curling tight around her ribs. Goosebumps rose along her skin.

Was that a warning?

Or a promise?

And which did she want it to be?

She swallowed, breath slowing--but her heart didn't.

She didn't know the answer.

And that terrified her most of all.