The Bride Becomes a Weapon

POV: Anika

Kurosawa Estate – Midnight

Private Wing – The Inner Sanctum

A week had passed since the wedding bed ran red.

Anika had stopped counting time in hours.

Now she counted it in bruises. In glares. In the echo of boots down hallways. In the silence Rai left behind.

She was no longer locked away. He didn't need to.

She stayed.

And they knew it.

Kenji stopped looking her in the eyes.

Maiko only bowed.

Even the maids flinched when she passed.

As if they sensed something had cracked and melted and reformed into steel beneath her skin.

She still wore silk — but her steps sounded like thunder.

She still looked soft — but her gaze cut sharper than any blade.

Tonight, she opened the door to Rai's chamber without knocking.

He was shirtless.

Sitting at the edge of his bed, hands bandaged from a fight she hadn't asked about.

He looked up slowly. Eyes narrow. Alert.

Ready.

So was she.

Anika stepped in, barefoot. The kimono she wore wasn't hers — it was black, embroidered with dark roses, tied with a blood-red obi. Her hair unbound, lips bare, expression unreadable.

"I'm not your prisoner anymore," she said.

He didn't move. "No. You're not."

She came closer.

"You took everything from me."

"I did."

"And I want it back."

He tilted his head. "What do you want, Anika?"

She stopped in front of him.

"I want you."

His breath caught.

"But on my terms."

He stood slowly, towering over her. "What are your terms?"

She untied the obi.

Let it fall to the floor.

The kimono parted slightly. Not enough to expose — just enough to promise.

"I want you to take me," she said, voice low, "the way you always wanted to. Without guilt. Without lies. Without power hanging over me."

She stepped into him.

"And I'll let you."

His hand moved — quickly, violently — grabbing her wrist.

She didn't flinch.

Her eyes held his.

"I'm not breaking this time," she whispered. "You don't get to destroy me anymore. If you want me, Rai—then earn me. Ruin me… but know I'll rise stronger."

He growled. Low. Hungry.

"You think I won't hurt you?"

"I want it to hurt," she said.

His mouth crashed into hers.

It wasn't sweet.

It wasn't tender.

It was punishment and prayer.

Punishment for running. Prayer for the fact that she came back.

She gasped into his mouth as he walked her back, his grip hard, his breath ragged. He pushed her against the door she had entered so boldly through. Hands sliding under silk, tugging it free, baring her inch by inch.

And yet—she guided him.

Her fingers gripped his hair. Her legs wrapped around his waist. Her body arched to meet him.

No more resistance.

But no surrender either.

She chose this. She chose him.

And when he finally growled her name, voice cracked with something too raw to be lust—

"Anika—God—Anika…"

She whispered in return:

"I'm not your bride anymore."

She dragged her nails down his back.

"I'm your weapon now."

And when they fell onto the bed, the silk tore, and the storm outside shattered the sky — she didn't feel like she was losing herself.

She felt like she'd found her fire.