The soft glow of lanterns flickered across the room, casting shadows that swayed with the breeze. The air was thick—heavy with warmth, with longing. Tengen sat at the center of it all, his broad frame relaxed, yet there was an unmistakable hunger in his gaze. Surrounding him were his wives, each beautiful in their own right, each seeking a sliver of his attention.

But it was clear where his focus lay.

Ayane.

Nestled against him, her delicate frame pressed to his chest, she looked almost ethereal in the dim light. His hands roamed her back in slow, possessive strokes, his lips ghosting over the crown of her head, drinking in her scent. Every inch of her fit so perfectly against him, as if she were molded just for him.

The others shifted beside them, their soft touches seeking his warmth, their voices laced with playful attempts to steal his focus. Yet, every touch that wasn’t Ayane’s only made his irritation grow. He barely reacted, his hold on Ayane tightening instead, his fingers threading through her hair, his lips finding her temple as if reaffirming his choice.

Suma pouted. "Tengen, don’t forget about us…"

Tengen exhaled, irritated. “Enough,” he said, voice laced with frustration as he pulled Ayane impossibly closer. “She’s right here. What more could I want?” He exhaled, tilting Ayane’s chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. "I don’t need distractions," he muttered. "She’s all I want."

Silence.

The wives glanced at each other before sighing, slowly retreating, giving him what he so clearly desired. It wasn’t resentment they felt—more of an understanding, an acceptance. They were his wives, yes, but Ayane was his favorite. The one he touched without hesitation, the one he held every night, the one he wouldn’t let go of even now.

The wives exchanged looks—understanding, resignation. This was the way things had always been. Ayane was different. Special.

With a satisfied smirk, Tengen kissed Ayane’s temple, his fingers tracing the lace of her lingerie. “That’s better.”