“What are you doing?” he asked cuttingly, though his hands wavered above hers. “Stop being so strange.”
Mariko settled into her stance. “I am strange.” She brandished her practice sword. “And you had better learn to appreciate it.”
—
ōkami was in hell.
The first chance he had, he was going to attack his best friend and leave him for dead. It was only fair after all. ōkami would rot in hell before he admitted to anyone that he’d been rendered a fool.
Each time ōkami was forced to touch her, he tallied another way he would make the leader of the Black Clan pay.
“Stop!” he barked. Truly this girl brought out the worst in him. Made him lose the control he prided himself in having at all times. “You’re still not holding the blade correctly. Each time you swing it, your hands group closer together. Keep an invisible palm between them, or you’ll lose control of the blade entirely.”
Fitting that ōkami was lecturing her on losing control.
She gritted her teeth, her deep brown eyes flashing at him like unfaceted jewels. Her fingers wrapped tighter around the handle. She raised the blade above her head once more.
“Strike,” he ordered.
She brought it down, and ōkami knocked it from her grasp with punishing precision.
“Pick it up,” he said, swinging his own blade in a lazy arc.
Her pursed lips reminded him of rosebuds. Not red. Nothing loud and obvious. But blushing pink. Subtle and warm. Just like the way she smelled. As if the color of gold had a scent.
Anger rippled down his throat. If he wasn’t more mindful of his thoughts, this girl would inevitably bring about the death of Takeda Ranmaru.
ōkami inhaled. Exhaled. Tried to speak gently. “Again. This time, keep the blade steady. Move slower. More deliberately.” He demonstrated, the wooden sword cutting through the air in a rush of sound. The movement felt good. Though ōkami hated using a katana—as it brought to mind memories he’d sooner forget—he had to admit he’d missed the feel of the weapon in his hands.
After she repeated the motion ten more times, she eyed him sidelong.
“How many times should I do this?” she asked.
“Until I think you’ve done it right.”
She chewed the inside of her cheek. “Am I not going to learn how to fight?”
“First learn how to hold a sword. If a katana is an extension of your arms, your arms are currently broken. Would you encourage a man to fight with broken arms?”
Her eyes shot heavenward. “Why do you not carry any blades?”
“Because I prefer not to carry any.”
“You’re quite rigid, you know.”
ōkami almost laughed. “And you are not?”
“Have you forgotten already, honored sensei? My arms are broken.”
That time, he did laugh.
She wavered for a moment, clearly deliberating her next question. “I’ve been told a samurai’s sword is his soul.” Her blade moved into position above her head, ready to practice once more.
A sneer curled the corners of ōkami’s lips. “Only if you are fool enough to follow the way of the warrior would you ever say something so ridiculous.”
“Bushidō is about experiencing life in every breath. Seeing life in the simplest of things. There is beauty and honor in that. You yourself said as much.”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t put too much stock in what I say.” ōkami struck her sword again. This time she managed to keep it in her grasp. “When I fight, I wear a mask. There is no honor in that. And I’m glad of it.”
“I think you’re lying,” she muttered. “And—despite what you may think—I do put stock in what you say. One day I hope to say something that stays with you.” She angled her chin.
ōkami swallowed. This girl unnerved him in a way he could not begin to fathom. He needed to end this exchange. Immediately. “Words are foolish. Promises are useless. Anyone can say anything to get what it is they desire. Believe in actions and actions alone.”
“You’ve said this to me before,” she replied softly. “And I still don’t believe you are right.”
He whipped his practice sword toward her. On instinct, she parried the blow. ōkami could not hide his surprise at how quickly she learned. Most men he knew did not understand the push and pull of swordplay so readily.
He nodded in approval. “Well done. Don’t let it go to your head, though.”
She smiled. “My father taught me the touch of true strength is as light as a feather.” With a slight swagger, she brandished her sword, eyeing him with noticeable circumspection. “He also said the deeper you dig, the higher the walls around you become.”
“Your father read too many books.”
She laughed, and the sound warmed through him. Just like a sunrise.
Without thought, ōkami moved closer, reaching for her elbows, intent on drawing them toward her center. Giving her better control of the blade. His right foot slid in the space between her feet, his knee grazing her inner thigh.
The instant it happened, ōkami knew it was a mistake. The sharp intake of her breath. The darting eyes.
His thundering heart.
“You haven’t told me not to do this,” she said softly, a becoming flush rising in her cheeks. “Nor have you asked me why I’m here.”
Against his better judgment, ōkami replied, “Why would I?”
“Because I’m a girl,” she whispered.
Irritation took root in his chest. Not irritation with her words. But irritation with her need to say them and what it meant. ōkami steadied his gaze on hers. “You are first and foremost a person. A reckless, foolish person, but a person nonetheless. If I ever say you are not permitted to do something, rest assured that the last reason I would ever say so would be because you are a girl.”
When her eyes softened, ōkami knew he’d made another mistake.
But he didn’t want to take back his words.
She was without a doubt strange. Maddening. A force to reckon and be reckoned with. And—as she’d demanded of him earlier—he appreciated it.
In that moment, ōkami knew he was in a great deal of trouble.
All because of a wonderfully strange girl.
A FOREST OF BLOOD AND FIRE
Kenshin gasped awake. His chest heaved as he struggled to draw in breath. The ground beneath him was wet, the grass by his fingertips charred. Copper and ash coated his tongue.
He sat up and gripped his throbbing head. When he gazed down at his fingers, he saw they were covered in dried blood. Fear coiled up his spine.
He looked around.
The blood was not his.
No. This was not possible. This could not have happened. He could not have—would never have—done such a thing.
Kenshin tried to conjure an image of the last thing he could recall.
Shouts. An angry exchange of words. A refusal to cooperate. Threats blasted both ways. Flashes of blood and smoke and fire, their sources hazy and unclear.