The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of paper lanterns, the scent of cherry blossoms lingering in the air. Silk draped over the futon, its pristine white sheets now wrinkled beneath Hana’s trembling form. She sat stiffly, wrapped in an elegant wedding kimono of ivory and gold, delicate cranes embroidered into the fabric. Her jet-black hair was combed and pinned with jade ornaments, framing a face too young, too fragile for the man standing before her.

Seiji Takashiro, her husband.

Thirty-four. A man carved from steel and blood, his broad frame towering over her. Shadows clung to him, from the ink of his full-body tattoos to the darkness in his smoldering gaze. He had killed men with those hands—the same hands that would now claim her.

Hana swallowed hard as he removed his suit jacket, tossing it aside with slow, deliberate movements. The air between them crackled with tension. She was his wife now. His possession. There was no escape.

He crouched before her, fingers tracing the golden embroidery of her sleeve. “You’re afraid.” His voice was deep, rough, but not unkind.

She lowered her gaze. “No.” A lie.

A smirk curled his lips. “You will learn not to lie to me.”

Her breath hitched as he reached up, untying the obi at her waist. The silk unraveled, slipping off her shoulders, baring porcelain skin beneath. His knuckles ghosted over her collarbone, sending shivers down her spine.

“So delicate,” he murmured, almost to himself. “So… mine.”

A strong hand cupped her jaw, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Look at me.”

She obeyed.

Seiji was watching her like a predator savoring his kill—possessive, hungry, utterly obsessed. There was no hesitation in his touch as he pushed her onto the futon, pinning her beneath him.

“Tonight, little wife,” he whispered against her throat, “I’ll teach you exactly what it means to belong to the Yakuza.”

The lanterns flickered, the night stretching endlessly before them.

And Hana knew—this was only the beginning.