A moment passed in stillness. “I don’t have any wishes, Mariko,” he said gently. “I haven’t had the luxury of dreams for many years.”
“Liar.” Her brow furrowing in concentration, Mariko broke away another piece of hardened wax.
“I’m not lying.”
“Then what are you doing here? Why did you allow yourself to be captured?” she asked in a hollow whisper, her exasperation mounting. “Why do you persist in provoking them? Do you hope they break every one of your bones a million times over?” Her ire grew with each question, but Mariko could sense Ōkami smiling as she continued chipping away at the hardened wax.
“Are we in a lovers’ quarrel?” He laughed. “I’ve missed sparring with you, in words and in … other ways.”
Her fingers tightened around her work as warmth blossomed in her neck. “Stop acting like a fool.” Mariko gritted her teeth. “It’s not going to work with me. Stop pretending nothing matters, when I know that to be far from the truth.”
Ōkami did not reply immediately. “I guess you know all my secrets now.” Though amusement tinged his tone, Mariko caught the spark of something else beneath it. Something limned in fire.
Anger.
He is not the only one with a reason to be angry.
“Clearly I don’t know all your secrets.” Mariko let the sound of indignation mask her pain. “Or have you already forgotten how you concealed your identity from me for weeks?” A flash of recent memories caused her sight to swim. “Even after we’d shared more than I’ve shared with anyone else?” She swallowed. “Even after I’d given you my heart?”
Ōkami said nothing for a time. The pain renewed in her chest, spreading like blood through water, but she refused to fill the silence first. Refused to ask the question that had been burning on her tongue since that fateful night in the forest.
“You can ask me, Mariko,” he said finally. “From you, there is nothing I wish to hide. Not anymore.”
Mariko inhaled. “Why did you lie to me about who you were?”
“It was enough that Tsuneoki and Yoshi knew. In truth, I would have preferred it if no one did.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He frowned. “I didn’t want anyone to think they owed me allegiance or apology.”
“So you lied to everyone from a misguided sense of nobility?” She blinked. “Allow me to congratulate you, Lord Ranmaru, for you are now the noblest of fools. And now your life may be forfeit.”
Ōkami’s eyes glinted as he shifted forward. “My life is always at risk.”
“I see,” Mariko replied. “So why bother trying to preserve it for anyone, least of all for yourself?”
“I’m glad you’re finally seeing things clearly, Lady Manko.”
Her brow furrowed. “Don’t mock my pain.”
“My apologies. I’d say I was only taking the bait, but my foolish nobility dictates I behave otherwise.” His words were measured, refusing to engage her in any meaningful way. Refusing to offer the slightest apology. With a yawn, Ōkami leaned into the wall at his back, as though he were bored and in need of rest.
It was what he always did. What he’d always done since the day in the clearing when Mariko had first met him. As soon as Ōkami was ever forced to answer anything of substance, he found a way to worm out of it with a dash of humor or a turn of apathy. Like a coin being tossed through the air.
Tonight his apathy enraged Mariko beyond measure. It grated on her even more than his usual condescension. She’d managed to keep the worst of her fears at bay for much of the night, but now they threatened to return, their claws scraping near her heart.
“After all your family lost, I don’t understand how you can continue to be so indifferent. Are you feigning it?” Mariko demanded. “Or have you been feigning apathy for so long that you no longer know the difference? Do you even know what it means to truly feel?” The words left her in a sudden rush, her anger mounting beyond her control. With a muted cry, she threw the empty vial of camellia oil against the iron bars, the glass shattering on contact. The exploding shards rang out a twisted melody as they struck the metal, the song clamoring through the darkness, threatening to draw the notice of anyone listening above. A gasp of fear escaped Mariko’s lips. A worry that her anger at him would be their undoing.
They waited like statues until silence once more engulfed the space.
When Ōkami spoke, his voice was soft. Apologetic. “That was … dramatic.” He sighed. “But I suppose I am to blame for that.” All trace of sarcasm had vanished. “I have no excuse for provoking you, especially when you came to help me.”
“No.” Mariko shook her head, her right hand trembling as she brushed a tendril of hair behind one ear. “My behavior is mine and mine alone. You are not to blame. I let my anger take hold, and anger is a temperamental beast.”
“As always, you are the wisest man I know, Sanada Takeo,” Ōkami said gently.
“Ha!” Mariko resumed her work with the lock. “When I next see Yoshi, I will be sure to tell him you said that.”
Ōkami did not respond immediately. “I can think of nothing I’d want Yoshi to hear more.” He cleared a strange rasp from his throat. “Though he would likely agree with you, especially after all that has transpired.”
Another small piece of wax fell from Mariko’s hands. “I still don’t understand why you allowed Prince Raiden’s men to put you in chains. Why didn’t you simply turn into smoke and kill them that night in the forest?”
“I could have done that, it’s true.” Another beat of quiet passed as Ōkami pressed farther into the shadows, all but concealing his face from view. “But I could not take the risk of what might have followed.”
Mariko’s focus remained fixed on the makeshift key. “That we might have won?”
“No.” He paused. “That I might have lost … everything.”
“Noble fool,” she grumbled.
“We do what we must.” Ōkami leaned forward. “It’s my turn to ask a question. What are you doing here, Mariko?”
Startled by the question, Mariko almost dropped the lacquered chopstick. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m here to rescue you.”
“You volunteered to come to Inako—to marry a heap of steaming dung like Prince Raiden—simply to set me free?”
Mariko chewed on the inside of her cheek. “Do you not wish to be set free?” Her forehead creased. “To fight alongside your men to restore justice to our land?”
“Justice to our land?” Ōkami laughed. “You’ve been spending too much time around Tsuneoki.”
“Stop making jokes. They’re inappropriate at a time like this. They won’t do anything to dispel your anger.”
“I disagree.” Ōkami sat up, wincing through the motions. “And I’m not angry. Just bitter.” He paused in contemplation. Took a deep breath. “I watched Yoshi die, Mariko.”
A sudden hush settled around them as Mariko stilled in her work, her hands dropping into her lap. It was as though something had reached into her chest and wrapped her heart in a burning vise. The feeling grew until it reached her eyes. All the burdens of the last few days seemed to descend on her in a rush, as though a dam had been broken, the water fighting furiously to regain its lost ground.
Tears began rolling down her cheeks in steady streams. Tears she had once considered a sign of weakness, but Mariko knew—in this moment—that Yoshi would have encouraged her to shed them. Encouraged her to be true to herself, no matter the cost.
It had taken her losing everything she knew to finally understand. Feeling pain and sorrow was not at all a sign of weakness.
It was a sign of love.
As he watched her cry, Ōkami let his head rest against the wall, his fists clenching at his sides until his knuckles turned white. As though he could take hold of his pain and leash it tightly to him. He said nothing for a time, and the space around them fell silent, like Death itself had come to roost.
Mariko concentrated on the sound of his breathing. Despite the worrisome whistle emanating from his throat, she let its rhythm lull her into a feeling of calm. The last time she’d listened to Ōkami breathe was the night he came to her tent in Jukai forest, after she’d been welcomed as a member of the Black Clan. The first girl to join the ranks of their brotherhood. Ōkami fell asleep beside her, his bare skin pressed to hers, and Mariko kept still, not wanting to disturb him.