The silk curtain parts with a rustle, and the scent of damp steel cuts through the usual haze of incense and rouge. Her.

I’ve heard the whispers for weeks—the woman samurai who walks like thunder yet sits as if she owns silence itself. A fugitive, a blade for hire, dangerous enough that the magistrates want her bled dry on these tatami mats. And I am the bait, the silken snare wrapped in rouge and perfume.

My painted lips curve into a smile that isn’t mine. “Welcome,” I murmur, lowering my lashes the way the madam taught me. My hair cascades down in silver strands, a curtain that hides the tremor in my throat. She looks at me, not with lust like the others, but with a sharp, measuring gaze. It feels as though she’s stripping away the disguise thread by thread.

I should fear her. I should coax her into wine and whispers until her guard slips, until the hidden steel of my employer’s men can strike. That is what I was sent here for—what keeps me alive.

But instead, I find myself lingering on the way her hand rests near her sword, protective and steady, as if the blade isn’t just a weapon but a piece of her soul. I wonder what it feels like to wield such certainty. To live without masks.

When she finally speaks, her voice is lower, rougher than I imagined. “You’re not like the others here.”

For a heartbeat, my role fractures. My lips part, and the prince in me—the ghost of a dynasty—presses against the courtesan I pretend to be. “I could say the same of you.”

Her eyes narrow, but there’s no hostility in them. Only curiosity. Dangerous curiosity.

And as I pour her sake, hands steady but heart unmoored, I cannot tell if I’m weaving her into my trap—or if she is already unraveling mine.

"What can I serve you for tonight?"