“Because if I don’t, there are many who will not hesitate to kill you.”
It wasn’t a real answer, yet Mariko knew it was foolish to press beyond this.
ōkami continued. “But I won’t call you Chiyo, because that is not your name. And if you ever betray us, I will not stop Ranmaru from exacting his revenge.” He paused. “I am not a hero. Don’t forget it for a moment. I will not save you again.”
Mariko sat up abruptly, her features defiant. “I don’t want you to be a hero. And I don’t need anyone to save me.”
“Good.” ōkami walked away, his steps almost halting. Not nearly as graceful as Mariko had come to expect.
As she watched him fade into the darkness, Mariko found she did not know how to feel. She wasn’t sure if she’d kissed ōkami to keep him silent. Or if she’d kissed him because there was nothing else to be done. Nothing else to do but succumb. All those times she’d hated him. All those times her heart had jolted in his presence.
Did she truly despise him?
Or did she desire him?
Mariko lay beneath the stars for a time. Then came to a decision.
She did not truly care about ōkami. She was merely using him. Mariko was here on a mission. Here to discover why the Black Clan had tried to kill her. To discover who wanted her dead. And nothing—not even a boy who could kiss her senseless, could kiss her mind into silence—would ever change that.
For this time only.
ōkami was right.
Tomorrow she would forget this had ever happened.
A LESSON TO BE LEARNED
It had been a long time since ōkami had outright lied to his best friend.
He’d had no occasion to deceive the leader of the Black Clan. Not in many years.
ōkami owed him too much to lie to his face. Owed him far too much to ever hide behind the ease of a lie. It wasn’t that ōkami was averse to lying. He lied quite frequently. And with relish.
Often he lied about things that did not matter, merely for the sake of practicing the skill. After all, when one lived a lie, it became important to continue honing the art of deception whenever possible.
But this was a unique situation.
ōkami knew he should say something soon about—Takeo. Or Chiyo.
Or whatever the hell the girl chose to call herself on any given day.
Chiyo was not her real name. That much ōkami knew for certain. A gifted liar learned to recognize the skill in others. That night, she’d said “Chiyo” too carefully. With too much thought behind it. A name was something simple. Easy. It should roll off the tongue like unabashed laughter.
Not with such clear calculation behind it.
She’d lied to him. As he’d lied to her.
Never mind that she’d purported to save his life. Twice. Why the girl had done so, ōkami could not begin to understand. It was clear she’d disliked him at the onset. Found him lazy and trifling.
Just as he wished for others to find him.
But perhaps . . . perhaps her hatred masked an emotion far more troubling than mere dislike. The same emotion ōkami had struggled to contend with these past few weeks. Struggled to identify, especially as they’d argued with each other. Contended with each other over matters both large and small.
Attraction.
No. Want.
Alas, want was a weak word for what he now felt.
Perhaps the girl wasn’t water, as he’d first thought. Perhaps she was wind. Wind could whip a fire into a frenzy. Make a mighty oak bow. Lash water into mist.
Though he hadn’t cared to admit it—even to himself—ōkami had known something was wrong the first time he’d looked into Sanada Takeo’s eyes. The first time he’d touched . . . her.
It wasn’t that it was wrong.
It was that it felt strangely right.
And now?
He didn’t know for certain what had driven him to promise the girl who lied as freely as she breathed that he would keep her secret. All ōkami knew was that she fought back—with both words and a strength of conviction—as no girl ever had in his experience. That she saw through his many masks in a way that both unnerved and enchanted him. That her mind worked in a way ōkami could not take apart and piece back together.
That the moment she’d kissed him by the hot springs, his sight had gone liquid. And that the sound of her sigh was like a sunrise.
The memory thickened his blood. Left him on edge.
ōkami watched his reflection ripple across the surface of the lake. He looked drawn. Haggard. As a boy, he’d experienced nightmares often. A sleep disturbed by thoughts of anger and retribution. Remembrances of shame and scars of dishonor.
Then, as he’d grown from boyhood into a young man, ōkami had made a choice.
He would not be burdened by these things any longer. Refused to be burdened by any responsibility he did not elect to take on himself. Since then, he’d thankfully chosen to take on very little.
The fewer obligations he had, the less likely he’d be to fail anyone.
Once ōkami had made this decision, sleep came to him much more easily.
It had been a long time since he’d had a poor night’s sleep. A long time since he’d seen a face marred by exhaustion when he took in his reflection.
Last night had been a bad night.
A night filled with uncertainty.
ōkami had dreamed of a lagoon filled to its brim with steaming water. Then it had started to drain. Slowly. A churning whirlpool had formed in its center.
The girl’s face had drifted past him as she’d glided through the swirling mist.
She’d wandered to the edge of the lagoon. Smiled at him over her shoulder. Beckoned for him to join her. When ōkami had moved to her side—drawn as a dragonfly to a flame—she’d reached for him. Stepped into the lagoon.
And let the whirlpool swallow her whole.
The entire time she’d watched him—waited for him to join her, even in death—her features had remained serene. A flame in the mist.
ōkami had stood immobile. Witnessing as the water dragged her under.
Doing nothing.
Even in his dreams, he’d remembered how she smelled.
Clean. Like orange blossoms.
He recalled how she smiled. How her lips would waver at first, as though she still had not decided whether or not it was wise to show her true feelings to anyone.
Despite everything, ōkami had admired Sanada Takeo for this. When he’d thought her to be a boy, ōkami had appreciated how poorly she’d hidden her emotions—how inept she seemed at keeping them in check—despite the fact that the girl clearly knew how to tell a lie.
It reminded him of the small, angry boy he’d been in his past.
A boy who didn’t mind lying to others. But despised lying to himself.
ōkami frowned again at his reflection in the water. Shoved his hands beneath it, splintering the image. He washed his face. Let the water rinse away his memories. Cleanse him of all responsibility.