Whispers in the Tatami Room
The rain whispered against the paper windows like secrets no one dared speak aloud.
Anika moved barefoot through the eastern wing of the Kurosawa mansion, guided only by the faint glow of lanterns and the silent pull of restlessness. She couldn't sleep. Not after that look in Rai's eyes earlier—the one that warned her he was losing patience.
Her silk robe swished softly as she passed the sliding doors of the tatami room, its floor lined with woven straw mats and walls painted with cranes and plum blossoms. She paused. Something about the room called to her, even if she knew she shouldn't go in.
She slid the door open and stepped inside.
The room smelled of cedar, ink, and old smoke.
A black rose sat in a simple vase on a low table in the center.
"You're not supposed to be here."
The voice made her flinch.
Rai Kurosawa was already seated on a cushion in the corner, shrouded in shadows. A dark yukata hugged his broad frame. A half-empty cup of sake rested in his hand.
He hadn't lit the lights.
"I couldn't sleep," she said, trying not to sound small.
"You shouldn't wander in the dark. This house has memories. Some bite."
"Do you?"
He smiled, slow and unreadable.
"I bite only when disobeyed."
She turned, intending to leave. But before her fingers touched the door, his voice dropped again.
"Come here, Anika."
Something in her chest pulsed—fear, perhaps. Or something worse.
Curiosity.
She hesitated. Then stepped toward him.
One step.
Two.
When she reached him, he set the sake aside and gestured to the cushion beside him.
She sat, rigid.
They stayed in silence, just the rain and the dim crackle of incense smoke between them.
Then she felt it.
His fingers brushing her wrist.
She jolted slightly, but he didn't stop. He traced a slow line from the inside of her wrist to her elbow, watching the goosebumps rise along her skin.
"You react so easily," he murmured. "A breath. A touch. A word."
"Stop," she whispered.
"Say that again. Louder this time."
She couldn't.
He leaned closer, his breath warm against her cheek.
"You think you hate me. But hate isn't stillness like this."
His hand rose to her cheek, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.
"Hate doesn't shiver."
"I don't want this," she said, trembling.
"No," he agreed softly. "But part of you doesn't want to run either. And that's the part I'll keep."
Then he kissed her.
Not gently. Not cruelly. Just… deliberately. Like a signature.
Her hands curled into fists. Her body stiffened. But when he pulled away, she realized—she hadn't moved.
Why hadn't she moved?
"Good night, little bride."
He stood and walked out, leaving her in the silence.
Anika touched her lips.
They burned.
With fear.
With fury.
With something far more dangerous.