Flame in the Mist

by Renee Ahdieh

  His hand still had not left her chest. It stayed there, solid and steady. Unmoving.

  Before Mariko could think—before Ōkami’s cold smile could fully form—she grasped him by the neck and pulled him toward her.

  Her lips crashed into his. Warm water sluiced across her skin.

  He tasted like rain and fresh mint.

  And—for a breath of time—Mariko’s mind was silenced. In that single moment, there was nothing to consider. Nothing to contend with.

  Nothing but a stolen kiss beneath a stormy sky.

  Ōkami pulled away. “What the hell are you doing?” His words were an outraged rasp. He looked defiant.

  But Mariko knew better.

  Before his mind had spoken, the Wolf had kissed her back.

  “I want you to stop talking,” Mariko said. Only honesty would do at a time like this. “Don’t you want to stop talking?” She tried to speak over the ragged pounding of her pulse. “Or perhaps not. Tell me—right now—what do you want, Asano Tsuneoki?”

  He stared down at her. Though the color of his eyes nearly matched their centers, Mariko watched the lines between them blur. Another flurry of emotions passed across Ōkami’s face. Confusion. Trepidation. Uncertainty.

  But Mariko did not miss that first thought. That first emotion.

  Desire.

  “Do you feel ridiculous now?” she whispered.

  Mariko was met with a trace of humor and a silent challenge.

  She responded by stealing another kiss.

  Ōkami’s hand still rested between them, his long, strong fingers pressed against her skin. And when that hand slid to her neck—when he fitted himself to her and closed his eyes, settling into the kiss—Mariko did not want to let go. Ever.

  It was a mistake. All of it. For as long as she’d known him, Mariko had despised the very idea of this boy.

  But the truth of him?

  The truth was not quite as simple. It was a silent entreaty. A wordless plea.

  Don’t stop.

  Ōkami rolled onto his back, positioning her above him. He braced her chin in one hand, his lips traveling down her neck. To her bared shoulder. Back up to her ear.

  Don’t stop.

  The rain battered down around her. Her heart slammed against her chest. Mariko finally closed her eyes, no longer caring about anything else but the feel of him. His hands at her back. His kisses across her skin. The stars could fall—the moon could crash from the heavens—and Mariko would not care.

  When Ōkami broke away, his breath spilled from his lips in jagged slivers.

  “Don’t stop,” she said without thinking.

  His response was a wicked smile. Wordlessly, Ōkami rolled again, pinning her beneath his mouth, covering her with his body. He slid lower. Watched her face as he blew a cool stream of air across her bare stomach. A thread of molten amber raced down her spine.

  When Mariko trembled—sparks dancing across her skin—Ōkami laughed softly.

  Then he kissed her again, and it was a controlled fire on her tongue. The type that threatened to burn into a crashing, thrashing ache. The type of kiss—the type of boy—Mariko had thought to avoid at all cost. The unpredictable type. The dangerous type.

  Her hands slid inside his soaked kosode to his chest. To feel the rise and fall of smooth muscle beneath her fingertips.

  “Who are you?” Ōkami demanded in her ear.

  Fitting how the Wolf could speak in such a cold and exacting voice. Yet kiss as he did.

  With such abandon.

  Mariko knew Ōkami heard each beat of her heart. Felt each of them as she did.

  “I’ll tell you if you tell me,” she said, her words as bated as his.

  “You’ll lie.”

  She nodded. “Then we can both be liars.” Mariko waited for Ōkami to decide. For him to make the decision to fight back. Or leave the truth alone.

  For now.

  With a blistering look, Ōkami yanked her topknot free of its bindings. Then he kissed her beneath the chin, so softly, so gently, that it made her gasp. Made him laugh again under his breath. Made her realize that nothing was in her control.

  That everything was in her control.

  She tangled her fingers in his hair as their lips met. As their kiss deepened. In that moment, Mariko wanted to believe Ōkami would not tell.

  At least for now.

  —

  They lay beside each other in silence, staring up at the newly uncovered stars.

  Close enough to touch but fathoms apart.

  Her heart had only just ceased pounding. Her breath had only just settled. All that passed between them were lingering traces of feeling.

  Nothing of substance.

  Ōkami was stretched out beside Mariko, offering half a smile to no one. As though he was both amused and at war with himself all at once.

  “Ōkami—”

  “What is your name?” he asked pointedly. “Your real name.”

  Mariko thought for an instant. Trust was not an option. Not when so much still depended on maintaining secrecy. “Chiyo.”

  He inhaled, the sound laced with irritation. “You’re lying. Again.”

  “I am not lying, I—”

  Ōkami turned toward her, his eyes locking on hers. “Don’t draw a line. Unless you wish for me to cross it.”

  “Well then, don’t cross it.” Mariko’s voice was even, though her pulse skipped.

  “You know me well enough to know that is not an option.”

  An uncomfortable silence stretched between them.

  Mariko did know him well enough to know that. Yet she still knew nothing about him. And she wished she could ask him something of note. But—as usual—the Wolf had made it impossible, using only a few simple words. And it only made her want to draw that line and push him past it.

  But it was far too risky. Not when he held her secret in his grasp. And not when she’d foolishly entrusted him with a piece of her heart, if only for a moment.

  As if in reminder of that fact, Mariko’s chest hollowed. She had to redeem herself for such reckless behavior. Behavior so unlike her. These stolen kisses beside these hot springs would have lasting value if she could learn something that served her greater cause. After all—even if Ōkami brought out a wild, uncontrolled part of herself Mariko had not even known existed before—he was still a member of the Black Clan.

  Engender trust.

  Strike when they least expect it.

  “What should we do about . . . this?” she asked in a simple tone. Detached. Much like his typical demeanor. A tone that did not match the sentiments swirling within. One she hoped would prod him to reveal something—anything—of value.

  Ōkami looked back toward the night sky. “Ichi-go, ichi-e.”

  Mariko took a deep breath. “For this time only.”

  He nodded.

  “I don’t believe that’s the intended meaning behind it,” she said flatly.

  “It’s the meaning I give it. Each breath exists for that one moment only. We live for that one moment only.”

  She paused. “Is that how you wish to live your life? From moment to moment, without a care for the past or for the future?”

  “It’s how I live my life now.”

  “Is that why you choose to follow, instead of to lead?” Here was a chance for her to learn about Ōkami’s past. Perhaps even about the source of his powers.

  “I have no interest in leading.”

  “You are a warrior gifted with unique abilities. Does that not give you a certain responsibility?”

  “I do not have the gift—or the willingness—to inspire. In battle, my only responsibility is to be the sword. The axe. The fist.”

  Though Mariko tried to harness the sentiment, disappointment settled across her features.<
br />
  Ōkami glanced her way. “Don’t have expectations of me. Don’t look at me and think you should be seeing something else.”

  “I’ve never looked at you and expected anything.”

  “Liar. You see me. Just as I see you.”

  “You see nothing,” Mariko grumbled.

  “I see you,” he said softly. “Exactly as you are.”

  The air between them filled with all that remained unsaid. All that should be said.

  Yet wasn’t.

  Worry spiked through Mariko’s core, its point all too sharp. “What if—”

  “Don’t.” Ōkami stood without making a sound. “Don’t ask me questions to which you don’t want the answers.”

  Mariko watched as he tied his black kosode shut.

  “I’ll keep your secret for now,” he said.

  “Why would you do that?” She had to ask. Though she cursed herself for uttering the words.

  “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 wate
r. Shoved his hands beneath it, splintering the image. He washed his face. Let the water rinse away his memories. Cleanse him of all responsibility.

  He was not lying to himself. He did not care about the girl. Ōkami could not afford to care about her. She was trouble, even if she was smart. Even if there was something awkwardly fearless about her.

  She was nothing to him. Even though he should have asked her why she’d dressed as a boy. Should have let her know how curious he was about her. How much he wished to know all that passed through her clever mind.

  But he would not answer her questions. So he had no right to ask his.

  For this one day, Ōkami would not tell anyone about her.

  This one day only, he would lie to his best friend.

  For this time only.

  —

  “I think it’s time Sanada Takeo learned how to wield a katana. And I think you should be the one to teach him,” Ranmaru announced the instant Ōkami entered his tent that morning.

  Ōkami’s resulting hesitation spoke volumes. “I don’t use swords.” The Wolf pronounced the words carefully, each one bound in an underlying threat.

  Tread no further.

  Ranmaru grinned, his expression unaffected, even when met with signs of Ōkami’s cool fury. “I think it’s time for you to change that.” His response was equally underscored with a trace of menace.

  Might had to be met with might. Especially on the field of battle.

  “With all due respect, I don’t really care what you think.” Ōkami turned to leave.

  Ranmaru stepped into his path, his hands raised in peace. “I understand. It isn’t necessary for you to wield swords in battle.” His lips thinned into a hard line. “But it is important that you not forget from where it is you came.”

  Ōkami remained stubbornly silent.

  The leader of the Black Clan tried a different tack. “Your father was—”

  “I know who my father was.”

  “Good,” Ranmaru said quietly. “And you know who my father was.”

  “I never forget. Not a single day of my life do I forget who your father was.”

  Hurt flashed across Ranmaru’s eyes. It would be different if Ōkami made clear how angry he still was. Showed Ranmaru the pain that shaped his fury instead of rejecting its existence.