Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The soft swish of expensive kimonos swept across the brightly lit hall, marking the arrival of Japan’s most powerful bloodlines. The occasion itself was vague: some had come to present new heirs, others to forge alliances, and a few simply to remind the world of their presence. Most of the clan heads were descendants of ancient samurai bloodlines, having inherited not only status, but real authority in their regions. A few representatives from the lesser clans were also present among the guests.

Utahime stood along the far wall, partly hidden in shadow. Her clan was not among the great houses and rarely found itself the centre of attention. Still, thanks to her father’s caution and political tact, they had earned a measure of respect — enough to secure a place at gatherings like this. Her father usually attended such events alone, but this time he had chosen to bring her along. She was already seventeen, nearly grown, he had said — and it was a good opportunity for her to meet the nobility. Utahime herself had never been to such clan gatherings before, and curiosity tugged at her: she wanted to see how these evenings truly unfolded.

Her mother had helped her choose the kimono. It was a soft shade of blue — a furisode with a gentle silk sheen. Not expensive but chosen with impeccable taste. Along the hem, delicate plum branches stretched upward, entwined with a silvery pattern that resembled curling smoke. The obi sash contrasted the fabric in deep violet, tied in a neat, almost school-like knot that lent her both shape and a hint of maturity. Her hair had been carefully gathered, though a few strands had slipped loose. She tried to tuck them back in place, but it was no use.

Young and out of place, she felt awkward — there wasn’t a single familiar face besides her father’s. So she kept replaying her mother’s words in her head: what one ought to do at such gatherings… and what to avoid.

Her father moved gracefully through the hall, exchanging pleasantries with older men, lingering near the clans that held real power. At that moment, he was speaking with someone. Utahime allowed herself a fleeting glance in their direction, careful not to let her gaze linger. It was considered improper for an unmarried woman to look a man in the eye — especially if he was an alpha. Still, she noticed: he was handsome. The proper kind of handsome. Tall, with sharp cheekbones, light hair, and amber eyes. His movements were fluid, deliberate, without any waste. She looked at him again. Something about him appealed to her — outwardly, at least — but the moment she caught his eyes on her, she quickly dropped her gaze to the floor, flustered.

The man with amber eyes was Naoya Zenin — a representative of one of the oldest samurai clans in Japan. At that moment, he felt irritation slowly spreading through his body like a quiet itch beneath the skin. The whole affair, he thought, had already dragged on far too long. There were too many pointless conversations, too many pleasant smiles that made him want to scoff aloud.

He had no interest in speaking with men from lesser clans as he saw himself far above such things. The man beside him stirred nothing but the urge to spit venom. And yet, he didn’t. Only because something — or rather, someone — caught his eye. A dark-haired woman standing in the corner. Beautiful, though dressed simply. His gaze swept over her as one might consider an object of quiet value and lingered longer than expected. Precisely because the man from the minor clan made no move to introduce her. That was unusual. At gatherings like this, fathers typically rushed to present their daughters to someone from a stronger house. Yet here — nothing.

Likely because the girl hadn’t yet shown signs of her secondary gender. But Naoya could feel it. She would be an omega. It was clear in her slight frame, the delicate line of her face, the curve of her throat, the restrained elegance of her posture. Far too clear. To him, she looked quiet. Fragile. And so, he watched her. She noticed — and quickly dropped her eyes. He took that as a good sign.

What Naoya didn’t know was that Utahime’s father was more cunning than most. He never dealt his cards openly. The old man preferred quieter strategies and they were effective. Though Zenin never approached her that evening, a silent decision had already taken root in his mind. One he would act upon later.

The longer Utahime watched the people in the hall, the more she wished to escape it. At first, her curiosity had kept her afloat. She greeted those who approached with graceful formality — a bow, a nod, a polite exchange, another bow. Over and over, all delivered with soft smiles, cautious phrases, and endless talk of honour and lineage. She had been trained in etiquette, taught how to behave — the posture, the tone, the deference, but with each new conversation, something inside her began to shift. It was as if behind the polished smiles and practiced laughter, nothing real remained. Only well, rehearsed emptiness.

By the middle of the evening, the light thrill she’d felt had curdled into into heaviness. The room seemed smaller. The air, thinner. What she longed for was not lanterns, not incense, not perfectly timed courtesies — but air. She stepped aside, quietly, following the wall’s edge, and slipped out onto the balcony. There, it was cooler. And she could finally breathe.

Behind her, the hall remained — dim lights, elegant bows, the soft murmur of voices. And that was when the atmosphere shifted. He stepped into the room.

Satoru Gojo was late, as usual. He never enjoyed evenings like this and entered the hall with a lazy gait, unhurried and unbothered. He wore a dark linen kimono, loosely fastened, as though he'd put it on without much thought. Eyes followed him the moment he crossed the threshold, and fans paused mid-motion. Gojo swept the room with a glance and gave the faintest grimace. Too many accidentally bared collarbones and throats. Some were already angling to catch his eye — with a cup of sake, a coy smile, a gentle gaze. He knew how the script went. Subtle hints. Quiet introductions.

"She’s very obedient."

"A daughter of good lineage."

"She keeps a fine home."

He knew the lines before they were even spoken.

He knew that one in every three women here was hoping he’d glance her way.

Some of the more desperate had even offered their omega sons.

Gojo decided not to ruin his evening. Instead, he made his way toward the balcony. The hum of the hall faded behind the sliding shōji doors. Beneath his feet, the floor gleamed with dark lacquer, polished to perfection. Low railings lined the edge, and thick wooden columns supported the structure beyond. One of those pillars, as it happened, hid a someone from his view — until he stepped closer.
A woman in a pale blue furisode. It looked modest, but the plum blossom motif near the hem was crafted with a delicacy not often seen in lower houses. He couldn't feel her scent — either her secondary gender had not yet shown, or she was using herbal suppressants. Good.

She hadn’t noticed him at first, preoccupied with the sweets. She took a small bite, trying not to wince, though the expression on her face said enough — the taste was mediocre at best. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. He knew the sweets here were never worth eating.

She seemed… different. Not like the others he’d grown used to at such gatherings. That alone made him step closer and say, almost lazily:

“The wagashi tastes like medicine but you're still eating. Trying to look well-mannered?”

At first, she didn’t realize that he was speaking to her, but then her honey eyes lifted in surprise — only to drop again the moment they met his. She swallowed the piece of sweet. Yes, the taste was unimpressive, but his comment had caught her off guard. And... wasn't it improper to address someone so casually?

A soft flush rose to her cheek, but she answered, voice calm though touched with edge:

“Do you always lurk in silence? Or is this your idea of starting a conversation?”

He gave a quiet laugh — easy, almost boyish as if he’d merely teased her, not breached the etiquette. The soft curve of his lips hardly suited the katana shifting at his back as he leaned in just slightly.

“Only when it proves entertaining.”

Utahime noticed: he wasa handsome man, yet there was something in the way he carried himself, in the ease of his posture, something that felt untouched by humility and immune to proper manners. She took him for a son of some great house — an alpha, no doubt — the kind of man who believed the world existed to look up at him. What she didn’t know was she stood before the head of the strongest one, the one they all bowed to.

Chapter Text

"I heard he beat the poor thing again".

The servants of the Gojo clan moved in perfect coordination. The corridors were never empty: someone was carrying a tray of tea, another walked by with reports, and someone else silently wiped away the traces of the passing day. There was always work to be done, but that never stopped the maids from talking, just like in any other clan. They gossiped as they worked, as if it, too, was part of their duty: lay out the futons, change the water, retell the latest rumors. And today, all the whispers circled around a single name. Naoya Zenin. More precisely — his wife.

"Such a sweet girl. Still such a young omega".

"And ended up in the hands of a tyrant".

Utahime heard the whispers, but never joined in. She walked past silently, bowing politely to the head maid. In her hands was a tray of sweets, favorites of the clan’s head, Satoru Gojo. She brought them to his quarters every evening.

She left the kitchen. The corridors here were long. She walked carefully. There was a quiet elegance in her movements, and her back remained straight, even though her heart pounded in her chest.

Servants always gossiped. Between tasks, between bows and breaths. As if truth was easier to speak in half-tones, not to someone’s face, but softly, while folding freshly washed towels.

Utahime never joined them but heard it all.

Married. A wife. Poor girl.

“He beats his wife…?”

The words clung to her, and a faint nausea rose in her throat.

An omega could be an ornament. A bargain. A vessel for children. A beautiful face tucked into a corner. But rarely a person. If you were born one, you didn’t get to choose. You were chosen. And not all alphas were kind. Utahime knew little about Zenin. Only that once, he had sent her a marriage proposal—one that never came to be. At the time, it had felt like a blow to her pride, but now...

“It could’ve been me… the one he beats.”

She didn’t know if it was true. Servants always whispered about something, and sometimes, those whispers were nothing but stories. They whispered about her, too. That’s why she chose to push the thought aside. And yet, it still settled heavily in her chest.

Utahime was nineteen and served as the personal maid of the Gojo clan’s head. She couldn’t stand him. It wasn’t because of his arrogance or the mocking remarks he occasionally threw her way. No. The problem was how he had invaded her life and turned everything upside down. With cold precision. With formality. The way only those who are certain their words will decide the fates of others can. At least, that’s what she had believed all this time within the walls of his estate.

Nearly two years ago, Utahime’s father passed away. After his death, things in the clan began to fall apart. She had no brothers, and her mother — overwhelmed and unsure —was in no position to lead. Utahime was too young to understand the nuances of negotiations and politics. With her father being the only breadwinner, trouble found them fast. The Iori family didn’t know what to do, but in a moment of desperation, an offer came from the most unexpected place. One of the Zenin clan leader’s sons had expressed his intent to marry her, sending a formal letter. It surprised her greatly, but her father told her once that in such clans, marriage arrangements were often made quickly.

“My secondary gender hasn’t even shown yet… what if I’m not an omega?”

She knew that men from powerful clans were alphas, and alphas married omegas. That was the natural order in their world. So many questions had spun in her head. There was still a chance she might turn out to be a beta and that, in her eyes, would have spared her a lifetime of complications. But back then, naive and overwhelmed, Utahime had seen Zenin’s sudden proposal as a lifeline. A hand extended toward her just when everything else felt like it was falling apart. A marriage to a clan like that could have saved her fragile family given them security, financial stability, protection.

She was young then. Too young to know who Naoya Zenin truly was or that women ran from a man like him barefoot through the forest in the dead of night and in search for escape.

In a year, her secondary gender would reveal itself. In this world, it mattered just as much as one's bloodline. If she turned out to be an omega — alone, with no protection — life would become unbearably hard. An omega from a small clan, with no one to shield her, could vanish... and no one would ask where she went. Perhabs, that's why her father had taken her to that gathering. To be seen. Perhabs it worked. After all, here she was, holding the letter.

That was why the Zenin proposal had felt like a lifeline — something she could cling to in the hope of saving her family, and maybe even finding a better home.

A few days later, Naoya withdrew his offer with no explanation leaving Utahime in complete confusion and quiet panic.

And that… was only the beginning.

Then came another letter. This time, from a different clan. When Utahime's eyes scanned the paper, her mouth fell open in shock. The Gojo clan was requesting that she live at their estate. As the personal servant to the clan head.

She clenched the letter in her hands, her fingers tightening with outrage.

“A s–ser–servant?!”

She had no idea who the clan head even was, no understanding of why he would send something like this to her but...

She had heard things.

That he was the strongest.
That he had a strange, unpredictable nature.
That people feared him.
And that he always got what he wanted.

And what he wanted, apparently, was to add her name to the list of those who served him — silently, obediently, with no right to their own future. Maybe for some, serving the strongest was a mark of honour. But for Utahime, it felt like a blow to the gut. The fact that she came from a small, powerless clan did not give him the right to send her an offer like this.

She had thought about tearing the letter apart and tossing it into the fire.

A servant.
Not an ally.
Not even a political pawn.
A servant.

What rose inside her wasn’t anger. It was humiliation.

Her mother had tried to calm her, gently saying: “Don’t let your emotions cloud your judgment, Utahime. Even if it stings. You must learn to control how you react. A position like this, being chosen to work in such a clan, isn’t offered to just anyone. It’s hard to get in, even as a servant. The clan head is extremely picky.”

She tried to stay composed, to keep herself from erupting into a storm of bitter emotion. But she didn’t want to accept the offer. Part of her hoped another would come—any offer at all.

The days passed. Their family’s situation only worsened. The money Gojo offered for her service could solve their problems. To refuse meant leaving her mother in poverty. Letting the clan fall apart.

For her family.
For survival.

With clenched teeth and a heavy heart, she accepted.
But the bitterness didn’t leave her.

“He has so many servants already, people who vanish into the walls at a single wave of his hand. And yet he decided to drag me into his whims, too…”

She thought angrily, even as she carried out every order, as a personal attendant should. But in her heart, she seethed.

Yes, she accepted.

But made herself a promise:
She would fulfill her duties — but never bow in spirit.
She would carry out orders — but never submit.
And never, ever break.

Utahime stepped into his quarters. The light of the setting sun streamed through the open window. She always prepared the room before his return. She knew his habits well: he usually arrived after the sunset, though sometimes he stayed out late, and on rare nights, didn’t appear until the dawn. But no matter how late he was, everything had to be prepared perfectly.

Her gaze swept across the room. The soft orange glow of the andon lamps spread gently over the tatami, casting faint reflections onto the wooden beams. When the sun slipped behind the horizon, the estate seemed to hold its breath, and in his rooms, everything softened: the rustle of fabric, the tremble of firelight.

A futon lay on the tatami – thin, but wider and thicker than what the others in the household used, with a silk cover embroidered at the centre with the clan’s crest. Next to it stood a lacquered side table for sweets, letters, and weapons. She always knew where everything belonged.

Gojo preferred to bathe in the evenings. The bathing room was attached directly to his chamber: there stood a deep wooden basin for rinsing, soft towels and a carefully chosen selection of fragrant herbs. Tonight, she had chosen dried bamboo and shiso — he preferred scents that didn’t overwhelm, but wrapped subtly around the skin, like smoke absorbed into cloth.

Steam was already rising in delicate tendrils, drifting across the water’s surface. She tested the temperature and gave a slight satisfied nod.

Everything was in place.
The sweets, too.

One bowl was by the futon, the other near the bath. He liked to eat snacks before sleep and during his soak. On the tray were sesame rice crackers, sweet beans in honey, and yuzu tea. He always grimaced at the citrus sharpness of the last one, but drank every drop.

The light from the andon fell across the surface of the water. Shadows stirred. Steam drifted lazily upward. She checked the temperature one last time and dropped in a bundle of dried bamboo and shiso. A warm, almost sharp scent rose into the air — spicy, faintly bitter.

Utahime knew exactly when he would arrive today. She had only a little time left. Just a little.

She also knew something else. During his rut, no one was allowed into his quarters. Only omegas were permitted — the ones who he chooses, each to match his preferences. Dark-haired beauties with delicate features. She had noticed that they all had bangs.

"Bangs make a person look more mysterious," he had said once.

And she remembered it, probably because she had bangs too.

Though she never thought of herself as mysterious. She has presented as an omega. And yet, in the two years that she’d lived here, not a single alpha had paid her any real attention. Only polite, distant conversation. She assumed it was because of the suppressants she used. Maybe that was for the best. Not all omegas were lucky with alphas.

Sometimes, being left untouched was the kinder fate. Even if, on lonely nights, she found herself so bitter she nearly shattered a teacup in her hand.

She let her gaze sweep over the room one last time. Everything was ready.

When the shōji door slid open without a sound, Utahime straightened instinctively, folding her hands in front of her. He entered the room with unhurried ease. He wore an expensive kimono, the sash was tied loosely, slightly uneven, as if he had wrapped it with one hand, carelessly. And yet, there was one detail that didn’t match the lazy grace of his movements: the katana. It hung across his back, not at his hip like most warriors preferred to carry, but slung diagonally in the military style, ready to be drawn in a single motion. The sheath was dark, matte, unadorned. But the blade’s silhouette spoke of craftsmanship. Long and slender, with a gentle curve, like a wave hidden in wood.

His eyes scanned the room, measuring whether everything was in place. Then he walked over to the tray, picked up a sweet with a flick of his fingers, and bit into it slowly.

“You added honey,” he said with a smirk, eyes on her.

“You used to frown at the sourness.”

“Mmh.”

Satoru licked his fingers, smiling.

“Look at that, you’re starting to read me.”

He moved behind the folding screen without looking back. It was forbidden for a servant to follow him. Forbidden to see the head of the clan undressed.

The gaze was to remain lowered. Never to meet his face, never to meet his eyes. That was the rule.

But Utahime knew that he was waiting. He always waited. Gojo had his own understanding of rules and his own quiet decisions about who was allowed to break them. So she followed him quietly. Stepped past the screen and knelt behind him.

He sat in the bath, leaning back with casual ease. One arm rested along the edge, his fingers idly skimming the surface of the water. Steam curled around his shoulders, slid through his hair, and pooled along the floor. The air was thick — heavy with the scent of spiced pine and shiso. Utahime reached for the towel, soaking it in silence. He turned his head slightly toward her, and she lowered her gaze immediately.

“You’re tense,” he murmured, his voice gliding over her like warm water, but she caught the faint edge of amusement beneath it.

“You’re holding that towel like it’s a sword.”

He had a way of seeing straight through her, no matter how carefully she held her composure. He found the smallest cracks and pressed.

“If it were a sword,” she thought dryly, “I’d be holding it differently.”

“I’ll be more careful,” she said aloud, keeping her tone calm.

“So far, it’s like being scrubbed by a swordsman.”

“Even servants have hidden talents, Gojo-sama.”

He let out a low, approving chuckle.

Utahime tried to stay composed — she always did — but around him, her tongue grew sharper, and her spine straighter. Parts of her character that had been tightly bound in discipline and quiet obedience for years, sparked to life.
He never stopped her. Never reprimanded, never scolded. Only smiled and watched, waiting for her to snap again.

Perhaps he found it amusing.
Perhaps it was something else.
Something alive, in a place where everything else had long since gone still.

“You’ve changed, Ume,” he said softly.

“But your cheeks still burn — just like they did the first time.”

Her movements remained precise. But the memory of that night came back to her, hot and sudden, rising like heat off water.

***

Two Years Ago

Utahime had just arrived at the Gojo clan estate. At first, her duties were simple: cleaning, keeping inventory of bedding, preparing sweets for the clan head. She never once saw Gojo himself and that suited her just fine. There was enough to occupy her hands without the need for unnecessary encounters.

But one evening, the head maid approached her and said:

“You’ll go to Gojo-sama’s chambers tonight and prepare his bath.”

“All right,” Utahime replied with measured calm, though a flicker of surprise crossed her voice.

She followed the instructions exactly, as given: the water must be hot, but not scalding, the towels soft and the kimono neatly folded, placed nearby.

After a few minutes, the room filled with steam. The scent of shiso and cedar rose from the surface of the water, blending with the faint bitterness of warm wood. She folded her hands in front of her, gave a small nod to herself, and turned to leave. She had been told not to stay there for long. He didn’t like to find anyone in his chambers when he returned. The screen behind her slid open softly, almost silently.

“Where are you going?”

The voice was quiet, but laced with warning, enough to chill her to the bone.

Utahime froze. She immediately lowered her gaze, remembering she was not allowed to look at him.

“The bath is ready. Allow me to leave your quarters, Gojo-sama.”

She waited for a response. He didn’t respond right away. And in that silence, a strange thought passed through her. His voice sounded young. Too young.

“Stay,” he said, curt and quiet.

“Wash my back.”

Her heart thudded, loud and heavy in her chest. She felt the heat rush to her ears. Awkwardness, warmth, confusion — all surged to the surface, only to be instantly pressed down, forced still. Of course, he noticed her discomfort.

“What's wrong?”

She could hear the smirk in his voice.

“Never washed a man's back before?”

His tone was light, teasing like a seventeen-year-old boy trying to fluster a girl in the courtyard. But boys like that didn’t carry katanas with polished hilts and hands that moved like they knew how to kill.

“No, I— I’m not…”

Not trained… Not trained to do something like this… she wanted to say, choosing her words with care, but he cut her off, quiet and sharp:

“Then learn.”

Utahime understood from his tone that this wasn’t a request. There would be no room for refusal. She said nothing. Only bowed her head, stepped once and carefully rounded the screen, lowering herself to her knees behind him. Her fingers trembled slightly as she lifted the ladle, dipped it into the water, and let it pour. The cloth met his skin, a careful touch.

He chuckled.

“If you wash me like I’m made of porcelain,” he said lazily, “I might start thinking I’ve got some kind of skin disease.”
He turned his head just a little. Just enough to catch a glimpse of her face from the corner of his eye.

She was flushed to the tips of her ears.

“You’re ticklish,” he went on.

“Or do you always press your lips that tight when touching a man, hm, Ume?”

Utahime’s hand froze mid-motion.

“Ume?” she asked, confused by the nickname.

“You were wearing a pale blue kimono with plum blossoms. On the balcony. Remember?”

The memory flared to life instantly—
The scent of sweets.
The cool brush of evening air.

“I was only out there for ten minutes. The only man I saw was—”

Oh.

Oh.

That boy... was the clan head?

“There it is,” he said with a smirk. “I see you remember now.”
He sank a little deeper into the water, lazily.

“You’re doing fine, by the way. Just try not to drop the ladle on my head. I doubt that would help you climb the ranks.”

She bit down on her lip, trying to swallow the wave of indignation and shame. But she kept scrubbing his back, firmer now, wanting only to be done with it. She had never imagined herself in a position like this. Utahime let out a breath. Barely audible. Within minutes, the heat began to creep into her skin, but she told herself it was no surprise. The room was filled with steam. Even the faint dizziness, she chalked up to nothing.

Her gaze dropped to his back. Broad, defined by smooth, precise lines of muscle. Steam drifted upward from the water, curling against his skin, his neck, the contours of his shoulders. A single drop slid down his shoulder blade and disappeared into the heat below.

Her chest tightened. Her breath caught. She yanked the thought away, as if it had burned her.

Focus. Focus. Focus.

She’d felt strange all day — a restless itch under her skin, the air too thick, almost sticky. She’d blamed it on the summer heat, on fatigue. But when she dragged the cloth across his back, her fingers trembled. Her body flared up as if something deep inside had sparked to life without warning. Her stomach clenched. The damp air suddenly felt too hot. The skin on her neck — too sensitive.

She didn’t understand what was happening.

Her hand slipped lower, and a shiver shot up her spine, like someone had run a fingertip along her nerves.

“You…”

His voice cut through the steam — low, warning. She flinched at the sound alone. Her lips parted, as if trying to breathe again. Just once more.

Then again.
The scent.
The air.
His scent.

It pierced through the haze, hit her lungs, wrapped around her. And low in her belly, something ached.

No. No, it’s too early. It’s not supposed to— this can’t—

Her thoughts spiralled. She was warned that the first shift could be sudden, but no one said it would feel like this.

So overwhelming.
So physical.

She had hoped — hoped beyond reason — that she’d turn out to be a beta. That luck might spare her. But now she knew. And what made it worse — what made it unbearable — was that she didn’t understand why now.

She wasn’t even eighteen yet.
Not now. Not here. Not with him.
He’s— he’s—

Gojo turned his head. The moment her eyes met the depths of his icy blue gaze, a chill ran down her spine.

He’s an Alpha.

And she was in heat.
Just now.
In this exact moment.

An omega.

She was an omega. And there was no undoing that now.

Heat flooded her ears. Her pulse pounded in her temples. Everything inside her seized — tight, breathless— like the moment before a fall. Her mind screamed run, but her body — her body had already started to yield, to lean in, to press closer.

“Stand up,” he said, voice hoarse.

She flinched.

“I…”

The word broke. Her voice was small, but the fear in it was real. The kind that came with realizing something irreversible had begun.

“Now.”

His tone snapped taut. Sharp, commanding. All the amusement had vanished. Only tension remained. Like a drawn blade.

She had no right to disobey. No room to say no. And even if she had — her body would have betrayed her. Would have responded to him regardless, chasing heat over fear.

Iori rose on unsteady legs. Her knees buckled slightly. Her body shook, burning from the inside out, a heat with no direction.

Over and over, like a whispered prayer, she told herself:

Be obedient. Be brave.
Be obedient. Be brave.
And maybe it’ll be quick. Maybe he’ll just—

“Leave.”

The word struck her like a blade to the skin.

She froze.

“Leave.”

There was no anger in his voice. Only something sharp and dark. A warning, like the air just before a storm breaks.

She stepped back. Abrupt, instinctive. Bowed. Not like a servant, but like a girl who had just been given permission to run. She slipped from the bathing room, then from his chambers, almost at a run, trying not to cry, not to stumble, not to look back.

Utahime cursed everything, everything, because something deep inside her still wanted to go back to him.

The scent of sandalwood. The heat of the steam. His voice. His scent. It clung to her like a fever.

That night, she didn’t sleep. Her body burned. Her lips bled from how hard she bit them. Only the clan’s herbalist came to her, offering the remedy she now understood she would need. After her first heat, they moved her room. No one explained why. Before, she had lived close to his chambers. Now she was at the farthest corner of the estate. The path to his room had doubled in length. As if that had any hidden meaning.

***

Now.

Gojo was still in the bath, one arm draped over the rim. Utahime was still behind him, cloth in hand, back straight, silence caught in her throat. But now — after all this time — she had learned how to breathe in this air. She had learned.

To not look.
To not inhale.
To not tremble.

And yet, she remembered how her body — that foolish, fragile, omega body — had once reacted to him. Time had passed. Much had become routine. But the moment she was near him — the omega within her would lift her head again.

Slowly.
Quietly.

“Don’t you dare,” Utahime hissed inwardly, allowing no room for weakness.

With the herbalist’s draughts and her own sheer will, it was easier now to silence the impulses of that unruly part of her.

His voice broke the silence, like water slapping against stone.

“You’re quieter than usual today,” he said lazily.

“Planning an escape, Ume?”

“You’re surprised I’m not throwing barbs?” she replied quickly, slipping into her usual sharpness.

“I’m surprised you’re not even trying,” he said, tone light but with him, every joke came with aim.

She paused before answering.

“Just thinking. About the past.”

Silence.

“Sometimes I wonder what life would’ve been like… if you hadn’t sent that offer.”

“Interesting,” he said. “Thoughts like that usually come when it’s already too late to change anything.”

“I honestly don’t know why you wanted me here,” said Utahime dryly.

“Out of everyone in this house, you’re the most stubborn,” he replied. “Even your bows bristle. Isn’t that reason enough?”

She swallowed her irritation, but the words slipped out sharper than intended:

“And do you always take what you don’t need, just because you can?”

He didn’t respond right away. He simply turned his head, just slightly, as if aligning his gaze. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. The kind that made the room feel smaller and filled the space between them, thick and inescapable.

“And do you always ask questions you’re not ready to hear the answers to?”

That was his way of ending the conversation. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added:

“And don’t forget the towel. You always forget it when you’re angry.”

Utahime finished her task in silence. Her hands moved on their own—precise, practiced but inside, everything was boiling.

He hadn’t answered.
Of course not.

She had expected that.

Yet, the worst part was that despite it all, she still felt something. She saw the bead of water sliding down his temple. Saw the tension in his fingers. The omega inside her stilled, drawn in, silent, watching. And that — that was what she couldn’t forgive herself for.

Chapter Text

Later that evening.

From time to time, the Gojo estate became the stage for meetings with noble clan leaders. Satoru Gojo himself met these obligations with the quiet endurance one reserves for duties that are essential, yet entirely unloved.

The meeting room was austere in its design: long tatami mats of rice straw, panels of dark lacquered wood, folding screens painted in ink with cranes and pine trees winding over cliffs. Everything emphasized the status of the high nobility. Round lanterns cast a soft yellow light, beneath which the faces of those present seemed to hide behind shadows.

Satoru Gojo sat at the head of the table, as the master of the house, dressed in a white hakama with a deep blue lining. Colors that left no doubt about his status. He looked relaxed, almost like a man who had grown tired of it all the formalities. To his left sat Suguro Geto, his trusted right hand, dressed in formal haori. His expression was unreadable. He spoke little yet missed nothing. Every word, every shift in tone or glance, was caught in his quiet focus.

Utahime stood half a step behind Gojo, serving as his personal attendant, a tray with a teapot balanced in her hands. She wore blue, and among the other maids dressed in muted greys, she looked like a blot of color accidentally spilled onto a scroll. And it hadn’t been her decision. It hadn’t been her choice. An hour ago, Iori had rolled her eyes in quiet frustration when the head maid informed her, “He said you’re to wear blue.”

Utahime was certain Gojo had chosen to make her stand out on purpose — a whim of his, just to let everyone know that she is his personal maid. His tray, his tea, his permanent shadow.

“Pour me some tea, Ume,” Gojo said, pulling her out of her thoughts. “Before I forget why I keep you around.”

A subtle sting wrapped in casual words.

Utahime leaned forward slightly and, with restrained grace, poured the tea. Her face remained calm, though inwardly she wished it would scorch his tongue.

“Relax your face,” he added, taking a sip. “Or the guests will think you’re being punished.”

She never responded to his barbed remarks in public. Only adjusted her grip on the tray, making a quiet vow to scrub his back twice as hard next time.

Her eyes drifted over the guests in the room. The head of the Zenin clan was present, along with his sons and a handful of councillors. Their garments were rich, their faces carefully composed. The conversation circled around an old trade route and the Zenin clan’s demands regarding it. Formally, they cited an agreement sealed a generation ago. Informally, they were angling for control.

The discussion faded into a low, continuous hum, barely touching her awareness. Her eyes, however, settled and lingered on one figure in particular.

Naoya Zenin.

He sat to the right of the clan head, clad in a golden haori, its fabric folded with meticulous precision. His profile was all sharp lines and angles. A jaw carved in hardwood, cheekbones cut to draw attention. She stole a glance at him the way one watches fire: wary of the burn yet drawn to the way the flames dance.

After Uta­hime became a servant, she had hardly seen him. He rarely took part in such gatherings. The words of the servants came back to her, echoing in memory about his wife, about the beatings. She didn’t want to believe the rumours. When looking at a face carved so perfectly, without flaw or fracture, it was difficult to imagine a decay hiding beneath the surface.

Meanwhile, the head of the Zenin clan, turned to Gojo with a courteous smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“We only seek to honour the agreement made a generation ago. It granted equal access to the route and helped maintain trade balance.”

Gojo slowly lifted his gaze to him. The smile on his lips was soft but held no warmth.

“That agreement was made between two respected clan heads… both of whom now rest in their family tombs. Its term has long expired and with it, the former balance of power. The trade route that runs through my lands is no longer subject to division.”

The head of the Zenin clan didn’t falter. He only tilted his head slightly.

“Then perhaps we should consider forming a renewed alliance. To strengthen our trust.”

Satoru slightly narrowed his eyes.

“An alliance offered only after the benefit is gone can hardly be called trust,” Gojo said slowly. His voice was calm, but steel ran beneath the surface.

Pause.

“Tactics like that are fit for merchants, not for men who lead clans.”

He straightened, and his gaze turned colder.

“Consider this a refusal.”

Few people willingly sat at the same table with Gojo. He didn’t wrap his words in ribbons. And he was never afraid to say no, he knew none of them held a blade to his throat.

As the meeting neared its end, Gojo rose from his seat and turned his head toward Utahime. As the meeting drew to a close, Gojo rose and turned his head slightly toward Utahime. He leaned in not far, but enough to make her stiffen at the unexpected closeness. Still, she held her stance.

His voice was calm, almost offhand, but each syllable was sharply drawn:

“Go to your room. Too many curious ears here.”

“Yes, Gojo-sama,” she said with a bow.

Iori left without raising her gaze. The pale blue of her sleeves disappeared into the half-light. As the shoji door closed behind her, Suguro, who had spent the entire meeting silently reading the room, finally spoke:

“The Zenins weren’t pleased with your reply,” he said quietly, eyes on Gojo. “But you saw how soft they were tonight. Hardly showed their teeth and they do love to bare them.”

Gojo raised his eyebrow slightly, but didn’t seem surprised.

“Has old man Zenin decided to tame me with soft words?” he smirked. “Strange to see snakes try to hiss politely.”

Suguro leaned in, his voice low. 

“They’re planning something.”

“Most likely. But they won’t come at us head-on. Snakes like to bite when the blade is turned away.”

Suguro gave a slow nod.

“Then we stay alert.”

Gojo let out a short, mocking breath. Almost a laugh, though his eyes stayed ice-cold.

“I’m always alert.”

Satoru turned his head toward the edge of the room — toward the screen painted with cranes, the one that concealed the garden. A flicker ran through him.

“Where’s Naoya?” he asked, sudden and sharp.

Suguro’s expression tightened immediately at the tone.

“By the balco—” He turned to check. “Or… was there a moment ago.”

Gojo didn’t need more. When instinct spoke, it was never wrong.

***

Utahime hadn’t meant to disobey Gojo’s order, and yet her feet carried her elsewhere. Not to her chambers, but to a small, distant garden she always turned to when her thoughts buzzed like a swarm of bees. The events of the day flashed through her mind, along with Gojo’s words from their earlier conversation in his quarters.
She was still angry. Bitter, even but she closed her eyes and reminded herself of the reason behind it all.

“For the family. For the clan.”

Still, the question lingered — why had he chosen her? Utahime had been taught well, but she was far from the perfect maid. She followed orders, yes, but never bowed completely. She did her duty, but never without a sting. What did he see in that?

Another thought troubled her too — why no one looked at her the way they looked at other omegas?

Not with hunger.
Not with interest.
Only with quiet, courteous acknowledgement.

Was it because she came from a small, insignificant clan? Some alphas tended to avoid omegas if they weren’t of noble blood. Maybe that’s why Gojo had pushed her away during her first heat… to keep himself clean. The thought made her grimace, and the honey in her eyes dimmed for a moment.

As she entered the garden, Iori crossed a few stone slabs toward the small koi pond. She often came here to sit on the bench and watch the carp glide through the water. Red, white, their golden tails flickering like ribbon. Her gaze paused on the red ones. Too bright, too bold like they didn’t quite belong in the stillness of the pond. She moved to sit but something inside her shivered. Something instinctive. An omega’s sense catching the scent of another. She turned. A shadow stood at the garden’s entrance. In that shadow there was a man. Tall, slender, his posture perfectly straight. His hands were clasped behind his back. And he wasn’t looking at the garden. He was looking at her. Utahime narrowed her eyes. As he stepped just slightly into the moonlight, she saw his face — and knew him. The maids spoke of him often, always in hushed voices, quick and nervous. Never with fondness. Iori had received two letters from him: one with a proposal, the other with a refusal. She dipped her head, polite and careful.

“Good evening, Zenin-sama.”

What was he doing here?

Had he come... to see her?

A trace of girlish naivety stirred within Utahime.

He didn’t bow in return, nor did he nod. Naoya simply stared, long enough to make it clear she was being inspected, like something behind glass. A thing once nearly bought. Only after a pause did he move forward. Slowly, like someone entirely sure of his power. He stopped just short of the proper distance — like a man who knew exactly where the boundary was and deliberately chose to brush against it. The corner of his mouth tugged into a crooked, soft smile.

“So, you presented as an omega after all.”

There was no surprise in his voice. Only a lazy sort of amusement — not the playful bite she knew from Gojo, but something heavier. Sweeter. Like honey that sticks to the skin too long. Utahime knew what he was. Alpha. She could feel it in his voice, in his scent, in the weight of his stare. Her omega stirred, but not in the way it did with Gojo. She shifted her shoulder slightly, brushing the thought away.

“Yes,” Iori answered softly.

“And now, a servant,” he said, tasting the word as if it were something bitter steeped too long. “Curious… is that a step up for a clan so small, or just a fall from a height no one ever noticed?”

She lowered her gaze. It might’ve looked like submission, but in truth, she did it to hide the spark of anger — and surprise — rising in her eyes. Two years ago, he had seemed refined. Polite. Handsome. Proper. Utahime had always known that beauty could be deceiving, but until now, she hadn’t experienced it herself.

“My offer was the best chance you had,” he went on, ignoring her quiet irritation and letting a smile touch his lips, a smile that deliberately showed teeth, trying to assert dominance.

“You were the one who withdrew it, Zenin-sama,” she reminded him, her voice calm.

Utahime couldn’t understand where all that bitterness and arrogance in him came from. She tried to control her body, not letting her hands clench into fists. There was a time when she thought that if he looked at her long enough, she’d blush. But now? Now, she didn’t want to flush. Only to scrub herself clean, scrape away the sticky residue.

She wanted to turn and walk away. But she was Iori. And she was a servant. All she could allow herself now was to stand. Stand and breathe. Count each heartbeat and not let a single one of Zenin’s words sink beneath her skin.

He smirked, a chill in his expression.

“Someone got too greedy,” he said, unhurried. “And you… you weren’t worth a scandal  between clans.”

Then he tilted his head, studying her.

“Though I’m still amazed at the price he paid for you.

Turns out the rumours about Gojo were true — he knows how to be generous… when he wants to.”

A chill ran down her spine. She froze in place, eyes wide, trying to process what he’d just said. Only after a few seconds did Utahime part her lips, struggling to form a sentence:

“Forgive me… you said you withdrew the letter because Gojo-sama paid you?”

“He didn’t tell you, did he? Poor thing.”

Naoya gave a smug little smile, tilting his head slightly.

“You’ve been living here for two years — and still in the dark.”

Zenin spoke like a man convinced of his own righteousness — as if he knew everything and held all the pieces. But what hit the hardest was what she remembered: Gojo’s offer had come immediately after Zenin’s rejection. That realization stung more than any gossip ever could. Because it meant Naoya hadn’t simply changed his mind. He had sold his proposal like a product.

“If what you’re saying is true, then why did Gojo-sama go through all that?” she asked, her brows knitting together.

Naoya narrowed his eyes with suspicion.

“Don’t play fool,” he said, his tone laced with disgust. “You’re clearly serving him more than just tea and sweets, omega.”

His words hit her like a bucket of dirty water. Like a slap to the face. Not physical, but somehow worse. Her cheeks flushed with humiliation. Utahime exhaled through her nose. Slowly. As if she were releasing smoke she wasn’t allowed to breathe in.

Her jaw tightened slightly, lips pressed into a tight line. The last remnants of her girlish naivety shattered. And by the smug smirk on his face, she understood that he wanted to see her reaction. One she wouldn’t give him. Not here. For now, she would straighten her spine the way only brave and stubborn people do. And despite the heat in her ears, she says:

“I heard you got married.”

Naoya’s brow arched. He smiled. Of course. He thought she regretted it. But before he could open his mouth, Utahime added:

“I feel genuinely sorry your wife.”

The smile vanished from his face.

“And I’m glad you took your offer back.”

She bowed lower than before, with icy formality, the kind that struck like a blade wrapped in silk.

Naoya froze for a moment. His eyes darkened with wounded pride, and his voice dropped, lower and harsher, like the hiss of a snake:

“You speak so sharply… He allows you too much, omega. But it seems he teaches you nothing.”

Utahime saw the space between them shrink. Half a step, and he’d be too close. Her throat went dry not from fear, but from the awareness of it. She was an omega. A servant. A woman of no powerful name.

And all of that — all of it — gave him power. Power to grab her wrist. To yank her by the hair. To speak to her however he pleased. And no one would stop him. Even if the real snake wasn’t in her but was in the man standing before her. She was just about to lift her gaze to look him in the eye and show she wasn’t afraid when a shiver ran through her. She froze, sensing another presence in the garden. Heavy. Radiating Fury.

Then came a voice, unexpected and cold, like snow falling in the middle of June:

“Have you forgotten the proper distance to keep from a woman, Zenin?”

Satoru Gojo stood beneath the branches of a tree, slightly off to the side, but his aura had already spread through the garden. Cold. Solid. Crushing. Naoya tried to step back subtly, but Utahime saw the slight shudder in his body. He was an alpha and still, in the presence of clan head Gojo, instinct told him: run.

Utahime didn’t move. She only exhaled, a little louder than before.

“I was merely trying to teach your servant a lesson,” Naoya said evenly, turning his head toward Gojo. “She doesn’t know how to speak to someone of my status.”

“You’re right. She doesn’t,” Gojo replied calmly, tilting his head slightly.

“But in my house, we don’t teach to converse with those whose nature is to crawl through grass and strike from behind.”

He took a step forward. Slow. The way predators move.

“We crush them until the poison leaves with their breath.”

Naoya clenched his jaw. His eyes narrowed slightly. Pride and reason wrestled inside him. He wanted to snap back but he couldn’t. He knew it could cost him more than he was willing to pay. Satoru, both as an alpha and a samurai, was far stronger than he was.

“It is unwise to test the limits of my hospitality.”

“Well then,” Naoya exhaled, “it seems I’ve intruded on someone else’s evening rituals.”

But his gaze didn’t return to Gojo. It settled on Utahime. He inclined his head, almost in a bow but the gesture lacked both respect and sincerity.

“Enjoy your night,” he said, voice thin. “I trust it will be… eventful.”

He turned and walked away with practiced ease, but she saw the stiffness in his shoulders. His pride still fought but his instincts had already surrendered.

They were alone now. Utahime’s body eased slightly, though the unpleasant residue of her encounter with Zenin still clung to her.

“Come with me.”

She didn’t realize at first that Gojo was speaking to her. Iori followed with a delay, but the clan head didn’t stop. His steps were steady, as if nothing had just happened in the garden. He looked calm but the way his fingers curled told her he was angry. Satoru didn’t look back. Only once the shoji door slid shut behind them did he turn to face her. She lowered her gaze.

“Remind me,” he said softly, but with an edge, “what did I tell you before you left?”

“You instructed me to return to my quarters, Gojo-sama.”

Guilt gathered in her throat — not thick and suffocating like fear, but quiet. Persistent. The kind that clings to the bones. Because if Gojo hadn’t come into the garden, Zenin would…

“Forgive me, Gojo-sama,” she said quietly, controlled, bowing just a little lower than etiquette required — the kind of bow one gave not for a mistake, but for a failure. “I didn’t mean to disobey. I… I like that garden. The fish in the pond. I wanted to see them before returning to my quarters.”

He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t look at her, only past her, as if sorting through something inside himself. Then he stepped closer, leaned down, and said:

“Disgusting.”

His voice was laced with anger. Utahime flinched at the sound of his voice but forced herself to stay still, focusing on her breathing. If there was punishment coming, she would accept it. She exhaled, bracing for whatever came next, but Satoru didn’t speak. Instead, he reached toward the sash of his hakama and pulled out a white handkerchief. The fabric was small, with delicate embroidery along the edge, barely visible in the low light. A personal item, one that held his scent. He raised it, as if intending to wipe her mouth but he didn’t touch her. He simply held it out.

“Take it.”

There was no request in his voice. Only expectation.

She froze. Her eyes went to the fabric. The omega inside her lifted her head at the gesture just slightly. Utahime pushed her back down.

Sit still and be quiet. Do you hear me? Sit still. Stay quiet.

A faint crease formed between her brows. In proper households, giving an omega a piece of clothing, jewellery, or any item carrying an alpha’s scent meant something. It wasn’t done for servants. New feelings stirred in her eyes. Confusion, and a quiet embarrassment.

Gojo caught the shift in her expression.

“Keep it,” he said.

“I don’t want my servants smelling like Zenin. Ruins my mood.”

Her fingers twitched slightly. Naoya had left his scent on her. A snake, through and through. But she didn’t reach for the handkerchief right away. Iori knew alphas were possessive by nature, intolerant of rivals on their territory — clan heads even more so.

Yet she wasn’t his wife.
Nor his concubine.

Nor his mate.
Just a shadow in his house.

Just hands that placed the tray on the lacquered table and wiped his back when asked. That’s why his behaviour made no sense to her.

Gojo didn’t like the silence.

“Or do you enjoy carrying his scent?”  His tone was calm, but there was a weight behind the words, a quiet disdain. His nostrils flared slightly, like a predator catching the scent of trespass.

Utahime’s shoulders tightened. Of course she didn’t want that. The very thought made her skin crawl. She still didn’t understand his actions, but she knew better than to provoke him further. Her hands slowly reached for the cloth. Her heart thudded faster as she caught his scent in the fabric. Something stirred beneath her ribs and lower, clenching instinctively. Utahime held her breath, repeating the words she’d clung to like a prayer for the past two years

Don’t look.
Don’t breathe.
Don’t tremble.

She had spent time learning to suppress this part of herself. But his scent... it struck a nerve she wasn’t ready for. It took a few seconds before she could steady herself.

“You only had to say, Gojo-sama”, — she exhaled. — “If it offended you, I wouldn’t have let myself be seen until the scent wore off”.

“You talk back after I just protected you?” he said quietly, but it still sent chills down her spine.

She mentally cursed herself for throwing fuel on the fire — even if that hadn’t been her intention.

“I’m grateful for your protection, but... a handkerchief is a personal item. I don’t quite understand why you gave it to me”.

Utahime clenched the cloth in her hands without thinking. She stood still, gaze lowered, feeling the slow, heavy weight building in her chest. He didn’t want Zenin’s scent on her. That made sense. But… did he want his own on her? Could a servant even accept something so personal from head of the clan just to mask someone else’s scent? That was considered intimate.

“I’ve explained myself. Now you’re dismissed. And make sure this time… you go where you were told to” he said at last, turning away from her.

She could still sense his anger. She stood still, blinking in confusion. He was still angry; she could feel it. But he wasn’t punishing her. He was letting her go. Confused, Utahime moved to bow, but her gaze caught on the katana strapped to Gojo’s back, and with it a memory surfaced in her mind.

Back then, he didn’t punish me either.

The thought clung to her. She hadn’t given that moment much thought before. But now, in the stillness of the room, under the weight of words and her own rising suspicions, it wasn’t a question that formed in her mind. It was a pattern.

Softly, she said:

“You don’t punish me.”

“And you enjoy being punished?” he said dryly, not bothering to turn. “Interesting tendencies, Ume”.

But Utahime didn’t flinch.

“I didn’t mean just tonight…” she said slowly, her voice quieter now. “I remember once—I brushed against your katana. You punished someone else for the same. But not me. You never do.”

The words hung in the stillness, heavier than they sounded.

***

A year ago.

Utahime stepped into the clan leader’s quarters, silent as shadow—just as she’d been taught. She held the letter with careful fingers, meaning only to set it down and slip out before Gojo returned.

The katana was there, beside the table. He usually kept it close, but tonight he had left it. No one was allowed to touch the blade.

She remembered the story. A servant once grazed the sheath by mistake. By evening, he was sent to break stone in the sun. Some said he got off easy—the master was in good spirits that day, didn’t take his hands or his life. Others disagreed. Labor like that could still ruin a man.

She didn’t want to think about it and turned her gaze away from the weapon. Stepped closer to the table to place the letter. The edge of her sleeve brushed against the scabbard. Utahime jerked her arm back. The katana slipped and fell to the floor with a dull thud. Iori inhaled. Her heart kicked hard. A simple “I’m sorry” and a bow wouldn’t be enough this time.

Shit, shit, shit!

She froze. One second. Then two. And then, quiet fear coiled around her. Slowly, like handling something sacred, she crouched and lifted the weapon. Adjusted it to the precise angle it had been. Even checked its line from below.

 “Do you always look at another man’s katana like that?”

The voice snapped behind her like a nerve being struck. She hadn’t heard his footsteps, but now he was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. Gojo watched with a trace of amusement, eyes squinting slightly. His gaze slid from the katana to her face.

“Forgive me, Gojo-sama. I shouldn’t have lingered here.” Utahime lowered her head.

He approached slowly. She hoped he hadn’t seen anything.

“Tell me, Ume… have you ever held a weapon?”

He’d seen it. Clearly.

“No, Gojo-sama”.

It wasn’t a lie. She hadn’t held it, only adjusted it. A mere touch, but even that felt like a boldness that should have cost her. Cold crept up her legs as if she’d stepped into a river.

His lips twitched, not in the usual smirk, but in something close to approval.

“A good answer for a poor decision. Remarkable, Ume.”

He stepped toward the katana, fingers gliding over the sheath like one would stroke a wild animal. Then he picked it up and to her shock, offered it to her, balancing it on his palm. There was a fox-like gleam in his eyes.

“Want to try?”

She froze. Gojo’s gaze didn’t press, it simply waited with quiet, sharp interest. She looked at the blade. Then shook her head slowly.

“No,” she said, barely above a whisper. “It’s enough… that you let me.”

He nodded, as though the refusal told him what he wanted to know.

 “Then go.”

There was warmth in his voice. A softness no one else would believe existed. She left his quarters on unsteady legs, pulse roaring in her ears, silently thanking every higher power that he’d once again let her leave whole.

***

Now.

"That katana is your favourite. No one's allowed to touch it".

“Fascinating”, he said, stepping toward her, “how you can be so sharply observant…”

He paused, studying her with narrowed eyes.

“… and yet stay blind as a bat”.

Utahime didn’t have time to respond. Gojo closed the distance between them in a flash. She felt the heat from his body, the tension in how he moved. Her breath caught.

“Look at me”. His voice left no space for disobedience.

“I’m not allowed to”, she said quietly.  “It’s against etiquette”.

“Etiquette?” he repeated with a smirk. “I set the rules in this house, Ume. Look at me.”

Gojo had always been fond of making his own rules and defying everyone else’s. She knew it well: disobeying him was worse than breaking any rule ever written.

Her lashes trembled. As if her eyes alone could commit a sin. Slowly, as though crossing an unseen threshold, she raised her gaze. Honey-gold eyes met sky-blue — and they held her there, unblinking. Her heart quickened. He wasn’t looking at her like at a servant. Or someone to scold. No, there was something dark lurking in the depths of his eyes.

“I was angry”. His voice dropped, softer now, and lower. “The last servant jumped out a window in terror. I still got to him. But you… you were afraid and still stayed. That is why I didn’t punish you”.

He exhaled slightly and added in almost a whisper: “And maybe… because even a katana, you picked up more gently than some people treat the living”.

She realized he had never once punished her. It could’ve been something to be proud of credited to luck, his indulgence, or a rare moment of kindness. But the truth...

Why didn’t I ever notice? Was I so caught up in my own bitterness that I missed it entirely?

She let out a breath, gentle like releasing a thought that had stayed too long.

And said:

“You paid Zenin so he would withdraw his offer”.

He blinked once, surprised either by her words, or by her audacity — or perhaps by both. Something flickered in his eyes but vanished too quickly to call it an emotion.

 “Yes”.

Utahime faltered, not in her step, but in her breath. She looked away, just for a moment — needing something solid to anchor herself. Then looked back at him. Then she looked back at him. Not with resentment, not with reproach, but with a strained attempt to understand.

“You interfered in another clan’s decision… and in my future”.

Gojo held her gaze. In her eyes, he saw a fire no omega was meant to show. He could have silenced her with a snarl, or an alpha’s command. bringing her to her knees, so she apologies for the audacity. She would’ve apologized — but with thorns. Thorns he rather liked.

He narrowed his eyes slightly, thinking. Then smirked sharply, crookedly.

“And you wanted to tie your future to him so badly? Strange, I didn’t notice that in the garden. Back there, you reeked of anger and anxiety”.

“No, Gojo-sama”, Utahime said quietly, still looking at him.  “But you knew I couldn’t refuse your offer. So, please, don’t pretend you care about how I felt”.

His gaze grew heavier at her words.

“Since you’re in the mood for honesty and feelings…” his voice sounded deceptively gentle.

He stepped closer, towering over her. Utahime had always known he was much taller, but only now did she feel it.

“Tell me, would you have preferred if I had touched you back then, during your first heat?”

Her heart skipped a beat. The sky-blue eyes were looking straight into her soul.

"You would’ve preferred I touched you back then? When you were scared and confused?" he repeated softer now, almost a whisper, but the words carried a weight he had borne for two years.

He watched her. Watched her lashes tremble, the way her gaze dropped, the flush that crept across her cheeks. She only shook her head — a small movement, as if she were trying to push away not a thought, but a fire.

"I thought so too," he said, stepping back to give her space. "You’ve heard about Zenin’s wife, haven’t you?"

"Everyone heard," she answered dully.

"Then you can understand why I bought you out."

The light from the andon flickered in the room — just like her voice.

"You wanted to help me… but by making me a servant?"

"You weren’t ready to be anyone else," there was bitterness in his voice. "You had just lost your father and were too young."

Utahime stayed silent. His words created chaos in her head. For two years, she had promised herself she wouldn’t bend to him, believing him to be terrible...

When she finally spoke, her voice broke with vulnerability.

"Why do you want all this?"

The light from the andon dimmed. Shadows stretched across the walls, tangled like unfinished thoughts. They stood facing each other: one with her head slightly raised, and the other with his chin tilted down, leaning in just a little.

"I thought you'd figured it out already, Ume," he said in a quiet, almost velvety voice. "But it seems your stubbornness blinds out even the obvious."

She’d always thought herself perceptive. She noticed the way he always checked for his sword first. The way he’d tug at his sash when irritated, hiding it behind a smile. But she never saw how his eyes always searched for her first when he entered a room. Only then did they move to anything else. She never noticed that every woman he ever brought close bore a resemblance to her. The fringe. The hair color. The curve of the jaw.

Utahime noticed the smallest details but was blind to the obvious because of the stubborn promise she had once made to herself. Even her omega, the one she had hidden under layers of willpower and bitter herbs — foolish and shamefully alive — understood more than she did. Because every time she saw him, it reached out to him.

She stood there, clutching his handkerchief like a foreign truth. Unspoken, unnamed, but alive beneath her skin. Utahime looked into those blue eyes, which held too much inside. She only blinked in surprise when his hand slowly touched her face. Noticing she wasn’t afraid of his touch, Gojo leaned in and gently and pressed his lips to hers.

The kiss was soft. The omega inside her moaned quietly. Utahime didn’t know what to do, silence it again or let it breathe.

Don’t look.
Don’t breathe.
Don’t tremble.

His palm stayed on her cheek. His thumb slid slightly across her skin, and she shivered. It was... too much. A breath escaped her lips before she could hold it back. That was when he deepened the kiss. His body pressed closer, and she felt the wall at her back.

Her fingers clenched at the collar of his kimono. Her cheeks burned, her chest rose faster. Everything inside her was in chaos — from fear to relief, from anger to longing. It was the first time she had ever felt him this close.

His lips moved lower to her neck. His tongue traced the most sensitive spot and when he pulled her skin between his lips, slow and possessive, her breath caught — tumbled inward, stolen from lung. And each of his breaths felt hotter than fire to her. She moaned. Soft, almost afraid of herself.

Then he slowly pulled back, and she couldn’t look him in the eyes anymore. Because she didn’t want to see what she both longed for and feared.

“You’d should return to your chambers, Ume,” he exhaled quietly.  “Or this conversation will end on my futon.”

Chapter Text

Gojo.

"You are the strongest samurai. You will become a man, lead the clan, and take an omega as your wife, as befits the strongest of the noble bloodline."

Grow into a man.

Lead.

Take.

Hammered into him since childhood, three stones laid into the path he was expected to follow. No one ever questioned: Satoru Gojo would present an alpha. It was felt from early on. You could feel it in the way he looked people straight in the eye, unblinking even before elders; in the way he walked too certain, too bold for someone so small. And fate didn’t object to the first two. He came into his power and the world bowed to him. He took command and his name was spoken in low tones, out of respect and a touch of fear. All had gone as foretold. All but the final step. The one that seemed simplest to most. After all, he was young, radiant and impossibly rich.

His pheromones didn’t linger in the air without a reason. He held them back, knowing what effect they had on omegas: their breathing would falter, and their bodies would respond, even if their minds still held their backs straight. He knew it. Felt it in the tremble of their voices, heard it in the shallow catch of breath, noticed it in the way their gaze shifted — hesitant, but already drawn in. So he held back, not out of modesty, but for his own peace. He attracted enough attention without scent. With it, that attention clung — thick and sweet, like honey spilled in the sun, irresistible to every summer bee. And that was his curse.

It’s nice to be wanted… but is it truly you they want?

Or your title? Your power? The scent that carries a promise: You’ll be safe, if you belong to me.

He craved a different kind of desire. Not the kind that dropped at his feet, but the kind that chose him. The first was common. The second? Elusive. Like incense smoke, always slipping through your fingers.

The first time he saw Utahime, he felt a rare sense of ease. She didn’t know who he was. There was no fawning, no strained politeness. She stood a little awkwardly, clearly unfamiliar with such gatherings. Maybe it was even her first.

He liked her quiet defiance. He noticed how she lowered her gaze, but never her head. How she spoke with respect, but without shrinking her voice. She wasn’t the kind who asked for pearls and offered sugar-sweet kisses in return. Even at that young age, she had a will of her own. And he had always admired women with a will.

The minutes by the balcony were short, almost formal, but something in her touched him more deeply than all the hands that had ever touched his shoulders without permission.

Later, when tragedy struck her — when her father died — he realized he didn’t want to leave her alone. Still, he didn’t rush. He knew: in mourning and sorrow, any hand can seem like salvation. And if he were to send a letter with an offer, perhaps she would say yes without understanding its meaning.

Not for her.

Not for him.

So, he decided not to offer his house — not yet — but simply his help. He wrote the letter himself, dismissing every servant. Before he could send it, he learned she had already received one — from the younger son of the Zenin family.

“Incredible. No mourning. No choice. Just a bed and he’s already turned down the sheets.”

That day, a sharp crack split the glass in Satoru’s chambers.

The Zenin had been at odds with other houses for years. Silent grudges, quiet wars over land, old debts no one forgot — all needing careful, deliberate settlement. Satoru had taken his time unraveling the threads and found the truth lying plain beneath: most conflicts could be buried

in gold and silver. And the Zenin? They had the coin. Like any clan whose name was etched deep into the age of shoguns and imperial courts, they guarded more than swords and armor — they sat on treasure. But they bore a flaw. The kind born of silk sheets and silver spoons — a stinginess that rotted deep. That was the heart of the Zenin: a warrior’s face, but the soul of Yama-Uba.

“They won’t cook their own grain but they stare like beggars at someone else’s,” his grandfather used to mutter about them.

If Satoru offered his help, the Zenin would retreat. With Utahime’s debts, they’d hardly want the burden. Family pride and frugality came first. And in the end, Gojo had been right.

The Zenin withdrew their proposal.

That’s when the samurai began to wonder: Would it be enough to simply offer her protection? What if another letter came — from a different clan? How could he ensure… that no one else reached for her while she was in such a fragile state? As for her family’s debts… Paying them off would be no burden to him. But he doubted she’d accept such help from a stranger man.

Perhaps a different kind of gesture was needed.

The maid entered soundlessly. She bowed with practiced grace and moved to replace the candles in the andon, letting the light grow warmer, clearer. Gojo didn’t notice her at first — his thoughts still turned inward — but then his eyes lifted. And caught her watching him. She stilled. Bowed again, lower than custom demanded. And waited.

He stared. The servants were always present. They knew the scent of his chambers, the weight of the fabric across his shoulders. They moved through his life like shadows. Silent. Constant. Too close.

He tightened his grip on the writing brush, then in the next breath pushed aside the old scroll and pulled a new one toward him. His movements snapped into precision. The ink struck clean, harsh lines. The message was short.

“You’ll hate me at first for this. Because you won’t understand that you matter, Ume. But this way, you’ll be near. And safe. And when your family’s debt is gone — if you tell me you want to leave — I’ll let you go. But if even a single part of you feels what I do…”

The letter was sent.

She hadn’t said yes right away.

But on the day Utahime Iori crossed the threshold of his estate, Satoru stood on the veranda of the second floor, leaning against a pillar. The wind played lazily with the edge of his haori, lifting the silk with a slow breath. Below, at the base of the stone path, she walked toward him. Unhurried. Her steps were light, but not timid. She followed directions — respectfully, as custom required — but her face held something else. Stubbornness. A quiet resolve. Her brows were gently furrowed. Her lips pressed tight.

When she was given the grey uniform, Gojo found himself wincing. Grey was for the background — for walls and shadows. It didn’t belong on her. It dulled the light in her eyes — the light he remembered, sharp and alive.

She was young, and her secondary gender had yet to manifest. That gave him an illusion of freedom, and he allowed himself a little more: lowering his guard, he released his pheromones. It calmed him. Drove off other alphas who might instinctively be drawn to her. And it made the space around her feel more personal.

Gojo knew she wouldn’t sense it until her manifestation. But there were things he didn’t know: when a powerful alpha stays close to an unpresented omega for too long, when his scent clings — subtle but steady — the body listens, even if the mind is still asleep. And sometimes, an omega blooms not in season, but in response to the breath of the one who lingered near too long.

That’s why, sitting in the bath, he had no idea — could not have known — that he’d soon be fighting his own instincts. That the hands resting easily on the sides of the tub would curl into fists in an instant. That her scent would hit him harder than any samurai have ever had.

At first, it was faint — a subtle trace, like the bloom of peach blossoms at spring’s first breath. Then it grew thicker, fuller like warm honey stirred with wine and spice.

Heat.

Sweet first heat.

His chest tensed like that of a beast before a leap. The veins in his neck stood out more sharply. Alpha instincts rose like wolves catching a scent. A painful, insistent desire rushed down his spine. He felt the throbbing pressure building in his groin.

He wanted to turn around. To bury his nose in her neck. To inhale deep, pull her scent down to the bottom of his lungs. To press her against the wall, the floor, himself.

To mark her.

Gojo clenched his teeth; a predatory growl stuck in his throat.

You’ll scare her, you’ll scare her, echoes of reason pounded in his head, but his body demanded.

To lay her beneath him, to grip her hips, to sink his mouth into her neck until she trembled and whispered his name like a prayer. He wanted their breaths tangled, wanted her to wrap around him, pulsing beneath him — an omega. His omega. The only one. The only one who never asked, but still drew him in.

To bite into her neck — not to mark her, no, not yet but just to quiet the hunger inside, if only for a moment. To flood the world with her scent.

He lifted his head slightly.

Utahime froze. He felt her desire — mixed with fear and confusion. He felt the restraints snapping, felt the very core of his alpha breaking loose. He could no longer stay in that space. Not between her breath and the edge of losing control.

"Leave," he said hoarsely.

Later, he sent the herbalist to her quarters. And from then on, she visited Utahime before each heat. Gojo also ordered she be moved to another room — farther away, just in case. Because if there was a next time, he knew he wouldn’t survive it without giving in.

A samurai is taught to endure. To master the blade, the voice, the body.

To hold back.

To bear pain.

To deny longing.

A strong alpha can survive the pull of a heat. He can resist touching, even when a scent hits like sake on an empty stomach — hot, dizzying, consuming.

But when feeling seeps into the scent… when something beneath her skin reaches out and answers him… Then the war is no longer in the body. It’s in the soul. Because what wants isn’t just a flesh. It’s the part of him that breathes deepest and beats.

He remembered her standing in blue at the meeting. He knew Zenin would be watching. He couldn’t let her stand there in grey, fading into the background.

He wanted Ume in the color he first remembered her in — that day on the balcony, when the soft blue caught the light on her skin and framed the determined curve of her brows. He hadn’t expected such a small thing to feel so personal.

And then…

Then her scent changed.

Tangled with someone else’s.

If Gojo had stepped even one pace closer, pressed his nose to her throat — his alpha would’ve taken over. Driving his pulse deeper, demanding to claim her, to wipe away everything but himself. Still, he only gave her a handkerchief. Something personal. Something that smelled like him. He wanted to give her more. But stopped himself. Or thought he did.

He meant to say something cold, maybe even cruel but when her eyes found his — full of pain, silence, and fierce pride — he was already lost.

And then — a kiss.

Satoru had kept her close for so long, pushing others away, but never crossing that final line himself. He wanted Ume to choose him.Because he felt еhat she wanted him too. Without ever saying it aloud, everything he did, every guarded step, was for one hope: that one day, she’d stay by choice. But now after the words, after the kiss he knew: he had to let her choose.

Utahime.

“They say fresh fish was brought from Kyoto just for the Gojo-sama..”

“Along with sake, the kind they only bring out for a daimyo.”

“Let’s just hope they don’t forget his dislike for pickled ginger… I’m not up for another lecture like last year.”

The servants moved like wind through bamboo: quiet, constant, whispering everywhere. Today was no ordinary day. The head of the clan was celebrating a birth.

The entire estate stood to attention, sharpened by ceremony. Every room, every table, every lantern sat in place like a piece of armor. Trays creaked in hands, steam tickled cheeks, and orders fell like arrows. No one stood still. No one was still.

Utahime kept her head down, tried to fade into the rhythm. But inside, she was burning.

Her cheeks lit up every time she thought about the kiss. And she thought about it more than she cared to admit — at least twice a day.

He kissed me.

He kissed me.

He kissed me.

It had been three days since and now, the memory of his lips stirred not just confusion, but anger. Sharp, woman’s kind of fury — bitter and restless. At him, at herself, at how easily he cut ties with just a touch. Since that night, she hadn’t spoken to him once. Hadn’t prepared his tea. The sweets were brought by someone else.

Gojo had dismissed her.

Utahime remained among the general staff, assigned neutral tasks in the kitchen, the hall, the garden. It was as if he’d severed her from himself cleanly, without explanation. Though the omega inside her still breathed his name, Utahime kept forcing her down, trying to forget or at least to appear indifferent. She straightened her back. Willed away the blush. But the thoughts kept rising, like steam off fresh rice.

You hold me.

You kiss me.

And then you dismiss me — like I’m a plague.

She didn’t cry. Omegas might be allowed to but not her. This wasn't acceptable. Anger was. She could cut strawberries with a little more force than necessary. Scrub the teapot until it squeaked. But tears? Tears were a luxury she refused to indulge in.

Evening was drawing in. And the clan head’s birthday wasn’t just a celebration, it was a performance. She knew he’d be there. Same room. Same breath. She wouldn’t speak to him but she’d make sure the tea burned his tongue.

As she moved through the estate, Utahime took a deep breath passing the garden. The earth smelled deeper. The flowers — impossibly sweet.

She knew.

Soon.

It would begin soon.

She felt her skin growing more sensitive, scents piercing deeper. Her body responded with warmth even to the brush of fabric in passing. She didn’t want to leave her room unless necessary. She wasn’t drawn to fresh air — on the contrary, she wanted to stay here, among familiar things, hidden from foreign scents and voices.

The omega within her had begun to rise. By the evening, as voices and footsteps faded into soft echoes down the halls, she turned toward her own rooms.

Stepped inside and slid the shoji door shut behind her, quietly. The room welcomed her with silence and warm, gentle light.

On the wooden table, bathed in narrow bands of warm sunlight slipping through the lattice window, two objects waited. She approached, slowly. Stopped just above them. Tilted her head as if seeing them from another angle might change what they meant.

A bundle — rectangular, wrapped in fine cloth, tied with a soft ribbon. Beside it, an envelope — thick, heavy, without a seal. Between them, a single note.

The handwriting struck her immediately: bold, a little careless, as if written without thinking — one hand, half-turned, with no concern for appearance.

“You wanted to choose.”

Iori frowned. Her fingers reached for the envelope. She loosened the thread. Lifted the flap. Money.

Far more than enough for a modest life. Enough to settle debts. Enough to disappear. To be free.

Her fingers went still. Her heart missed a beat.

Then her hand moved to the second item. She tugged the ribbon loose.

Unfolded the cloth.

A kimono.

Burgundy.

The kind of color that clings to memory.

The fabric was heavy, expensive but soft, almost tender, beneath her touch. Utahime sat still. Looked down at it all. Her fingers brushed the silk and something pulled — gently, achingly — in her chest. Or maybe even deeper than that.

To choose.

A word that tasted bitter like angelica root pressed against the tongue and yet sweet. Sweet in the way only something longed for can be.

Utahime wanted to get angry again. She wanted to, but couldn’t. Even though her heart still remembered the kiss and Zenin’s words, when she searched for the burn of fury toward Gojo, there was only silence.

Near her tatami, the handkerchief still rested. She hadn’t touched it since that night. Not because she feared it, but because she didn’t know what it was.

A claim?

A quiet act of control?

Or was it care — simple, wordless, unmistakable?

Whatever it was, she hadn’t returned it. Hadn’t abandoned it. Her fingers traced the edge of the fabric. His scent had grown faint but it hadn’t vanished. It clung to the threads. To her. To something she wasn’t ready to name.

In the corner, the paper andon cast a soft, golden glow. A breeze slipped through the window slats, carrying the scent of sesame rice — servants were dining somewhere, laughing maybe. Life was carrying on, as it always did. But here in this quiet room something had stilled. And stayed.

When the shoji door slid open softly, she didn’t turn right away. Shoko, the herbalist with perpetually stained fingers, always smelling of dried roots, stood there with a ceramic cup in her hands. Steam rose from it in a thin spiral, warm and unhurried, dissolving slowly into the air.

“Drink it before sleep,” she said, placing the cup down on the low table.

“Your heat is close. If you want to suppress it again, start early. Same as always.”

Her tone was even, not warm, not distant but shaped by the kind of familiarity that came only with trust. Utahime nodded, took the cup in silence.

If an omega enters heat in another’s house, she becomes a problem. And if an alpha answers the call. things can turn worse.

“Thank you, Shoko-san.”

The woman stepped in, eyes falling to the table.

“Burgundy?” she said with a dry smile. “People rarely choose colors without meaning.”

Utahime gave a slow nod.

“Gray is for those who serve. White and purple belong to the highborn. But burgundy…” Her voice trailed off, touching on memory.

Shoko answered for her:

“It’s the color of protection. That’s what they used to believe. Wear burgundy, and you’re under someone’s care.”

Utahime had known that.

Just as she knew Gojo could have taken but didn’t wrap his fingers around her wrist. Instead, he opened her palm and placed the choice inside it.

Shoko smirked.

“I think burgundy meant something else, too,” she said, head tilted. “Can’t recall now. I’ve never worn it.”

Utahime’s eyes drifted to the envelope. The lamplight cast a gentle shadow over it.

“I don’t know…” her voice came quiet. “What I’m supposed to do with this.”

“You fight like fire when you have no choice,” Shoko muttered. “But now that the choice is yours, you're suddenly silence.”

She turned toward the door.

“Don’t let that tea get cold,” she said over her shoulder. “You might lose your mind.”

Then, her hand rested on the shoji and she glanced back at Utahime.

“Oh, right.”

A soft smile touched her lips.

“Just remembered. Burgundy’s the color of a brides.”

Before she could say anything, the woman slipped out behind the door like a shadow, sliding the shōji shut with quiet precision. The room grew especially still. Utahime stared ahead, unblinking. The banquet would begin soon. Satoru Gojo was turning twenty-five. A quarter of a century. And tonight, he wanted her to make a choice.

Her gaze slid to the herbal brew. Unwelcoming. Bitter. The scent of dried roots wafted faintly. She raised it closer to her lips. One sip — and everything would fall back into place: the body would settle, the scents would dim. Her fingers closed around the cup. From the corner of her eye, she glanced at the bundle again the kimono lay perfectly still.

Burgundy is the color of brides, echoed in her mind and she moved toward the exit, closing her eyes.

Her lips touched the porcelain rim. The bitterness of the herbs was already reaching for her. Her body knew — drink, and everything would be manageable again. No trembling. No danger. No him. And then another thought slipped through:

“You have a choice.”

Something rarely given to an omega. Even less to a servant.

And what do you feel, Utahime, when it’s finally placed in your hands?

Her fingers trembled.

The banquet turned out lavish. It was held in the main garden. The wind carried the spicy scent of grilled eel, the sweet notes of plum sauce, and the aromas of eastern spices, mingling with delicate trails of perfume. Lanterns hung from branches like frozen drops of light, reflected in sake cups, in the guests' eyes, and in the rippling water. The music was soft: strings twanged somewhere in the corner, not breaking the calm, but emphasizing the formality.

Gojo sat at the center, as befitted the master of the house, one hand propping up his chin, the other playing with the rim of his cup. He wore white, with a faint purple embroidery along the sleeves. A half-smile played on his lips, difficult to read. To his left sat his right hand, Suguru Geto. In a formal haori, with a calm, almost bored expression. To the guests, the head of the clan looked relaxed. He joked, smiled but only Suguru noticed how Gojo, without changing his expression, occasionally clenched his fingers into a fist on his knee.

He hadn’t asked about her. Just waited, quietly, pretending he wasn’t listening for her step. And then — there it was. Light. Familiar. He felt her behind him before she spoke. He didn’t turn. Just tilted forward slightly, letting her pour the tea. The sake he’d poured earlier had gone dull. He held out his cup and then his gaze landed on her sleeve.

Grey.

He hadn’t noticed it right away. But now, as his gaze passed over the folds — freshly washed, no trace of burgundy — something tightened in his chest. Not with pain. With absence.

He had given her a choice. And she had chosen.

Gojo didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe for a moment. Then, slowly, he exhaled — and beneath the table, his fingers shifted, as if they'd just lost their grip on something that mattered.

"Thank you", he said evenly, lazily, the same tone he used for everything. As if none of it touched him.

Utahime bowed and quietly walked away. Everything was done properly. Satoru didn’t turn to look. He kept his gaze fixed forward. Only the faintest flicker of a shadow trembled near his pupils.

After the banquet, he made his way back to his quarters quickly. His head throbbed, just a little. He rarely drank, but tonight he hadn’t cared that the taste of sake made him want to grimace.

His rooms were still and quiet. He undressed in silence, letting his hakama fall with practiced ease, and walked to the bath. The warm water embraced him. His back rested against the stone edge. Fingers relaxed over the rim. His head tilted back.

He heard the soft slide of the shoji door but didn’t move. Just registered it with mild curiosity. Utahime had intercepted the maid who was meant to wash his back. The woman had looked at her, startled, but said nothing.

"You don’t have to wash my back tonight. Take the evening to rest. In the morning, you'll leave the estate."

He didn’t look back. Only the faintest shift in his hand betrayed something clenched, then released.

He didn’t turn around. Only his fingers shifted slightly, as if wanting to curl into a fist, then changing their mind. Utahime didn’t rise. She stayed kneeling behind him, untouched by his words — or pretending to be. The silence stretched between them, taut like silk, waiting. When she finally spoke, her voice brushed the air like wind over water:

"Tonight is a full moon, Gojo-sama. It’s beautiful… isn’t it?"

He opened his eyes at the suddenness of the remark. Drew a shallow breath.

"You came here to talk about the moon?" he asked, with lazy ease but there was a hint of amusement in his tone.

Utahime didn’t reply right away. She turned her head and looked out the window.

"From my room, it seems farther away. A little smaller."

A pause.

"But from here... it feels closer. Brighter."

She spoke while watching the light.

"Usually...", her voice was calm, but quieter than usual, "my heat starts on the full moon."

He turned around fast, like something had just struck him. His eyes gleamed, lips parting as if to snap back with something sharp. But then he froze.

The steam swirled. Lantern light shifted. What once looked like a dark, plain robe now came alive—deep burgundy, rich and bold. He stared. Moonlight traced the curve of her cheek, and the way the fabric framed her shoulders made her look striking. Burgundy didn’t just suit her, it wrapped around her like a second skin. It belonged to her.

He let out a shaky breath.

"Ume…", His voice was rough, like something caught in his throat. He gave a short, breathless laugh. "You just had to make it dramatic, didn’t you?"

She looked down, lips tightening slightly. A memory flared in her mind: the taste of the bitter tonic, the shatter of porcelain.

"I thought it’d be inappropriate for a servant to show up in burgundy. Even though that’s exactly what you were hoping for. You enjoy putting on a show."

Her eyes met his. And just then, the andon cracked — the flame inside shifted — and their shadows merged together on the floor.

"But if this was truly my choice… then I wanted you to see it first."

He was quiet. Only for a breath. And then his voice dropped: low, firm, cutting through the air:

"Check if the shoji door is fully shut."

Utahime rose, adjusted her kimono over her shoulders, and walked toward the doors. Her fingers curled around the wooden bar and pushed the panel slightly closer. Tension moved with her — barely visible, but palpable.

The shoji were already shut tight, without even a crack of light — yet it still felt too exposed. A dull ache twisted in her lower belly. Her jaw clenched before she could stop it. Dizziness swelled behind her eyes, and she had to pause, one hand bracing against the paper screen.

When she turned, he was already there. His left palm rested beside her temple on the shoji. The right — just below — caging her in with the quiet force of his presence. He closed the space between them, and she was caught in the circle of his arms — shadowed, breathless. Her pulse thudded faster. The edges of her kimono seemed to grow heavier. The air thickened, folding around her.

Water clung to his skin. Beads glistened like morning dew on steel — tracing along his collarbones, his chest, catching on the muscles of his stomach before vanishing lower, out of her line of sight.

Utahime snapped her gaze upward — as if lifting her eyes might shield her from the sight she couldn’t afford to see.

He’s toying with me.

He knows exactly what I’m going through, and still — he toys with me.

Her body was already shaking, but she refused to look away. Only upward — into his eyes.

And there she froze.

He was far too close.

Far too bare.

And far too focused on her.

Gojo arched a brow, clearly catching the shift in her.

"Not looking away?", his voice was teasing, almost tender. "Weren’t you the modest one?"

The heat surged up her neck and into her cheeks. From embarrassment. From his audacity.

From the way he tore through boundaries like they were nothing more than paper lanterns.

"You’re terribly cruel, Gojo-sama".

Her mouth had gone dry. The words scraped their way out. Even standing was becoming too much.

And this — this was before her heat had even begun. But the drink she decided not to take had already left its mark.

It was only a matter of time before Utahime either passed out or clung to him. Her fingernails had already dug half-moons into her palms.

“You call me cruel?” he murmured, leaning in so close his cheek nearly grazed her temple. “And who showed up in grey on my birthday?”

A slight smirk tugged at Gojo’s lips.

“And now you’re here in burgundy… talking to me about your heat.”

The pain came in waves — dull one moment, sharp the next. A heavy tension was coiling inside her, and the heat was rising, blooming from deep in her pelvis and spreading like fire to her core.

She swallowed hard.

Two years. Two years she had crushed every flare of this before it began. Now her body remembered everything. And answered without hesitation: damp between her thighs, knees unsteady, walls of vulnerability collapsing one by one.

“Still standing, even though you’re shaking like a leaf,” he said. “And that’s with me being polite and not sharing my pheromones. Want to know what happens if I let them loose?”

He smiled again — sly, almost boyish. But there was nothing playful in his eyes. They were hungry.

Predatory. Like something wild finally slipping its leash.

“Then again... no. You’re too proud,” Gojo said, trailing a finger along the edge of her jaw. “You won’t admit it. Not out loud. Not that you want this.”

The ache in her belly pulsed hot. Her body — undeniably — responded to him.

She hated that smile. God, she hated it — and wanted to kiss him all the same.

To bite him. To grab him by the hair, drag him down into her, into the hunger, the chaos, the place where neither of them had any control left.

So she moved — fast, fierce — pressing against his bare skin. Her hands splayed across his chest, hot and slick with heat, sliding up to his neck. Fingers tangled in his hair and pulled. Her whole body shook with want, but her voice came out sharp and low:

“You’re impossible.”

“But you’re still here,” he said, still wearing that maddening smile. “You haven’t walked away.”

“Because I want to,” she breathed barely more than air.

And something inside him caught fire.

“Say it again,” he rasped.

“I want you too,” she said, and her voice broke on the inhale.

And she didn’t hold back anymore. Her pheromones — sweet like fresh honey — spread through the room. He inhaled. Sharp and deep. His pupils contracted. He released his own pheromones, finally letting himself be what he was: an alpha, burning with hunger.

Their scents wove together like twin trails. Goosebumps crawled over their skin like a touch that hadn’t happened yet, but already echoed beneath the ribs.

Utahime breathed in — and nearly collapsed.

Her lips parted slightly, her gaze trembled, her shoulders dropped — her whole body, from fingertips to core, bloomed in his presence.

“Ah…”

The breath escaped her lips, already nearly a moan. He didn’t let her finish — he was already kissing her. She moaned into his mouth, her hands clutching his shoulders.

He only pulled her tighter against him, until she was almost hanging from him.

“You don’t understand how long I’ve wanted this,” he whispered. “How many times I imagined you trembling… whispering my name into the dark… biting your hand just to keep from crying out…"

Gojo lifted her, and Utahime instinctively wrapped her legs around his hips.

Her kimono rode up, exposing her legs nearly to the hips. His hands gripped beneath her, strong and possessive. Their mouths were still locked in a kiss that stole the breath right out of her. He sank onto the tatami, bringing her down with him — into his lap, into him.

Her scent was rich, dizzying. He breathed it in like a man starved of air. His hands slid along the curve of her thighs, lingering. One hand cupped her breast; the other slipped beneath the folds of her kimono, down to the heat between her legs.

“Say it,” he whispered, his lips brushing her earlobe. His tongue traced it slowly, then slid down — to her neck, where blood pulsed just beneath the skin. Her breath was uneven, pulse pounding inside her like a storm barely held back. Desire lashed through her — raw, impatient, exposed.

“Gojo-sama…” the name slipped from her lips as she arched against him, trembling.

There was no space left in her chest for air. The thrum in her ears matched the ache building low inside her — a tight, aching coil. And even the smallest shift of her hips brought a nauseating but sweet torment.

“No,” he growled, rough and low. “Not like that.”

Then he bit down — right at her neck, deep beneath the skin. Her cry tore through the air.

He was doing this on purpose. Torturing her slowly, deliberately. His fingers teased, grazed, pressed just enough to drive her mad, but never gave her the relief she craved. She whimpered, body arching, overwhelmed by heat and hunger.

“Alpha…”

The word left her lips like a plea, raw and unguarded — and exactly what he was waiting for.

“Again,” he breathed against her throat — and slid two fingers inside her.

Her head snapped back with a cry of his title she couldn’t swallow. Satoru moved slowly, giving her body time to adjust, to open, to feel everything. He lowered her to the tatami — careful, steady.

At first she just trembled, paralyzed by sensation. Then he curled his fingers just right, and her hips jerked.

Her muscles clenched, released, clenched again, chasing rhythm, chasing him. She let out a sob, digging her nails into his shoulder, scratching him like he was the only thing holding her together.

“There it is,” he murmured. “Only obedient when I’ve got you like this, huh?”

Satoru buried his face in the curve of her neck, breathing her in — rich and sweet and heady, like wine left too long to ripen. Her omega was reaching for him in every breath, in every nerve. His fingers found the spot that made her gasp.

He pressed.

Stroked.

Again.

And again.

She cried out, and his tongue dragged slowly up the line of her throat. He didn’t stop.

“So warm,” he growled, lips brushing her collarbone. “Tell me, Ume… Utahime… do you want it harder?”

Her hands clutched at him, trembling.

“Harder,” she whispered — then moaned, loud and aching.

He gave it to her. Faster, deeper — feeling her body fall into rhythm, her hips rolling up to meet every touch, needy, hungry.

“Utahime,” he breathed like a prayer.

And she came undone. Her mouth fell open with a cry, her voice breaking free — high, full, sweet with pleasure. The climax crashed through her, and he pulled her close, holding her in place as she trembled against him.

Gojo was breathing heavily, taking in the scent of her orgasm, her longing, her surrender — never once looking away from her.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered hoarsely.

Her mind felt foggy, and it seemed his blue eyes would drive her mad. He looked at her hungrily, burning. His gaze held her like a spell.

“How else am I supposed to look?” he murmured. “When you’re trembling in my hands.”

He took her wrist, slowly guiding it downward to where his cock throbbed with tension. She let out a small sob, her breath catching. Utahime was smaller, more delicate — and right now, exquisitely sensitive.

She looked up at him, and in her eyes was everything: nervousness, desire, and raw, defenseless want.

“Alpha…” her voice trembled.

And leaned in, forehead to forehead, breath mingling, heart beating against heart.

Satoru pushed into her slowly, feeling her body tighten beneath him, muscles drawing taut like a bowstring. A shaky breath slipped from her mouth, and her hands clutched at his back, nails digging in with pain. She was wet enough for him to move but still tight, like a flower that had never opened. He stilled the moment he felt that resistance — the unmistakable barrier of someone never taken.

She whimpered, eyes squeezing shut against the sharp sting of pain. He gritted his teeth. Every instinct screamed at him to thrust deeper, harder. He didn’t. He moved slowly. Carefully.

Satoru preferred experienced omegas — women who knew how to take him. The others required patience. He wasn’t too rough, but he didn’t like coddling either.

With her, though...

With her, he didn’t mind.

His instincts purred. Something deep in him — something primal — liked it.

This was her first time.

And she was his.

Only his.

First times didn’t take omegas long to adjust, and already her body was beginning to open, yielding more with every slow movement.

“You…”

His voice hitched.

“You’re so damn tight…”

Gojo couldn’t hold back the moan that tore from his throat. His rut had ended a week ago, restoring his control but every tremble of her body still echoed through him like a wave, stealing the breath from his chest.

Her kimono had long since fallen from her shoulders. Their scents had merged — rich, wild, sweet. He breathed her in like she was air itself — thick and living, clinging to him.

She was opening beneath him. Her breath stuttered. Her chest rising and falling quicker with each passing second. His hips moved with growing urgency — each thrust stronger, deeper. The hunger inside him unfurled, stretching outward. And with every drive of his body into hers, she gave him more: soft cries, broken moans, breathless little sounds that only fed his fire.

Her fingers left red streaks across his back, though she didn’t notice. She thought she wouldn’t be able to take it — he was big, and the pain that shot through her was something she’d never known before. But it faded quickly: her heart was still pounding in her throat, but the shiver running down her spine no longer told her to pull away — it pulled her closer.

She hadn’t known it could feel like this. So good it made her eyes roll back, made the moans slip from her lips on their own. At first, she’d tried to hold on to her breath, her control, her thoughts. But now, with her omega let loose, there was no shame, no grip on herself. Only the trembling, the heat, the thrusts, the feel of his skin under her hands.

She was melting into him.

“Satoru!”

It tore from her lips — almost a scream, but to him, it was a bullet to the heart.

Those six letters broke the last of his restraint. Satoru exhaled with a growl. Everything that had been held back by a thin thread of control burned away in an instant, bursting out like flame from under a lid. He gripped her tighter — tight enough to pull a moan from her throat and kissed her like he could erase the space between them forever. And in that moment, there was nothing left in him but raw, unrelenting alpha need. His thrusts turned fierce — deeper, faster, desperate. The sound of their bodies meeting on the tatami, the rustle of fabric, her breath, his growl — all of it blurred into one rhythm. They moaned loud together, as if there were no walls, no ears, no tomorrow.

The slap of his pelvis against her skin echoed with a wet, muffled sound — again, again, again.

“You’re mine,” he hissed into her ear, his voice low and hoarse. “Only mine.”

Satoru pinned her wrists, pulling them above her head.

“Shit,” he breathed out, voice breaking. “You…”

He didn’t finish. Thrust hard — all the way in. Utahime cried out.

Maybe someone behind the wall heard.

Maybe they were holding their breath.

She didn’t care.

Neither did he.

Satoru could feel her trembling under him. Her body moved on its own — searching, pleading for the end. And then she broke. Her back arched, hair spilling over the tatami, lips parting in a silent moan and only then, like thunder after lightning, the sound tore through her: sharp, hot, cracked — like her heart in that moment. She came, clinging to him like he was the only thing anchoring her to the world.

The orgasm crashed over her like a wave. He felt her inner walls clench and pulse, felt the way her pheromones thickened — sweeter, sharper, almost biting — and how her release slammed into him.

Satoru growled. Lifted her by the hips and moved with sharp, greedy thrusts. Her climax, her voice, her scent — it all pushed him past the point of no return.

“Utahime,” he breathed.

He gritted his teeth, drove into her — once, twice, deeper, harder — and came inside her, burying his face in her neck, growling. The pulsing grew deeper, heavier — and his knot began to swell inside her.

“Ah…” she breathed, eyes wide as her body trembled at the new, full sensation. “What…”

She couldn’t move. His flesh pulsed hot and deep within her. Her jaw trembled from shock or from pleasure, she didn’t know. It was… too much. And yet, she didn’t want him to pull away.

“It’s… the knot,” he rasped. “I couldn’t hold back.”

Her eyes were glossy, breath fast and broken, but her body said one thing: stay. She pressed closer.

“How long…” she whispered.

“About thirty minutes,” he murmured, softening, smiling as his fingers ran gently down her spine.

“We’re… stuck together now.”

Her head was spinning. Thoughts drifted. All that remained was him — his scent, his warmth, and the feeling of complete, irreversible connection.

I can’t think. I can’t… I just want him to…

She arched, pressing even closer to him, resting her cheek against his chest. A soft, drunken sense of belonging spread through her.

Later, he lay down beside her and pulled her into his arms. The warmth of his body wrapped around her.

“Tomorrow you’ll move out of your room,” he said quietly, his lips almost brushing her hair.

“To where?” she asked without lifting her head.

“Closer,” he replied. “To my quarters.”

Utahime took a slightly deeper breath. The omega in her felt at peace like a cat that had found its place. Her skin still responded to every touch, but her pulse no longer raced.

She tilted her face up for a kiss.

Outside, the wind shimmered. The light from the andon trembled on the walls, casting flickering silhouettes: two figures joined in a kiss. The pattern of light slid across the smooth floor, over the folds of a burgundy kimono, along the line of a shoulder. And when the andon flickered one final time, surrendering to the night, it took away the last of the anger, the loneliness, the fear. All that remained was the quiet tangle of limbs of bodies, the kiss, and the stillness that lived between the heartbeats.