PAIGE
The voice was low, familiar, and dripping with that specific brand of sarcastic smugness that was Reomen Daki's signature. It came from so close, so unexpectedly, that I jolted violently.
The water I'd just swallowed went down the wrong way.
A sharp, painful spasm seized my chest. I doubled over, the crystal glass slipping from my hand and shattering on the marble floor with a sound like a gunshot.
I was coughing, choking, my eyes streaming tears as I fought to drag air into my starved lungs. The elegant nightshirt was now speckled with water, clinging to my skin.
He stepped out of the shadows near the entrance to the kitchen, a tall, dark silhouette against the moonlit living area.
He was wearing dark lounge pants and a simple t-shirt that did nothing to diminish his imposing presence. He didn't move to help me. He just watched my struggle with detached amusement.
When I finally managed to gasp in a ragged breath, my body still shuddering with the aftershocks of the cough, he gave a soft, dark chuckle.
"I'd ask if you always make such a mess of things," he said, his gaze flicking from my tear-streaked face to the glittering shards of glass at my feet. "But I believe I already know the answer."
I straightened up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, my face burning with a mixture of physical distress and pure humiliation. He'd been standing there, watching me the whole time.
"What are you doing?" I rasped, my voice hoarse from the choking.
"It's my kitchen," he replied, as if that explained everything. He took a few slow steps closer, his eyes never leaving mine. "I heard you prowling around. I thought I should investigate. Make sure my investment wasn't trying to steal the silverware."
He stopped just a few feet away, well clear of the broken glass. The moonlight caught the sharp planes of his face, highlighting the smirk that seemed permanently etched there.
The air between us crackled, thick with unspoken tension and the memory of his earlier, unbidden thought in the car.
"Or perhaps you were just thirsty," he mused, his voice a low purr. "A simple need, for once."
The word was out of my mouth before I could stop it, a sharp, defiant bullet fired through my ragged breaths. "Damn it, Tanuki!"
The second the old childhood nickname left my lips, the air in the kitchen shifted. The smirk vanished from his face.
For a heartbeat, he looked genuinely, utterly stunned. The mask of cool amusement slipped, revealing something underneath—raw, unguarded surprise. He hadn't heard that name in years. No one had.
Then his expression hardened, the surprise morphing into something sharper, more intense. He took a single step closer, ignoring the broken glass between us. The space felt suddenly smaller, charged.
"Tanuki," he repeated, the word a low, dangerous whisper on his tongue. He seemed to taste it, to test its weight.
His dark eyes locked on mine, and for the first time all night, there was no trace of mockery in them. Only a searing, focused intensity.
"Where was that fire tonight?" he asked, his voice dropping, becoming lethally quiet. "Where was that sharp little tongue when your airhead sister struck? I saw you. I saw you freeze. You let her pour cheap wine on a dress that costs more than her entire personality and then you just… stood there."
He took another step, now close enough that I could see the flecks of silver in his gaze in the moonlight.
"You call me a trickster spirit," he said, his voice a low, challenging hum. "But you're the one playing a con, Paige. You're pretending you don't have the claws to fight back. So I'll ask again. Where was the Black Cat? Or did I just overpay for a house pet?"
The question hung in the air, a direct hit. He wasn't just teasing anymore. He was demanding an answer.
And for the life of me, I couldn't form one. I could only stand there, trapped by his gaze and the devastating truth in his words.
Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing barefoot amidst the shattered glass and the chilling silence of his judgment.
He stopped at the kitchen's entrance, a dark silhouette against the moonlit living room. He didn't turn back, but his voice cut through the silence, clear and cold.
"You want to burn down a forest, but you're trying to do it with a single match," he said, his tone devoid of its earlier mockery, replaced by a blunt, analytical edge. "You don't have the resources to fund this little goal of yours. Not on your own."
I could feel my nails digging into my palms. He was right, and I hated him for it.
He finally glanced over his shoulder, his profile sharp in the dim light. "You should try asking for help. You're so used to being the brilliant, independent outcast that it hasn't occurred to you that you're not the only one who wants to see the Rimestones burn."
The words landed with the force of a physical blow. My breath caught.
"You have no idea how many people would line up to hand you the gasoline, Paige," he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper that was somehow more intimidating than a shout. "All you have to do is ask."
And with that, he was gone, his footsteps silent on the polished concrete, leaving me alone in the wreckage of the kitchen with a shattered glass at my feet and a universe of terrifying, tantalizing possibilities cracking open in my mind.
He wasn't just offering his resources. He was offering an army. And the scariest part was, part of me wanted to take it.
The rest of the night was a long, silent torture. I crawled back into the foreign bed, but sleep was impossible. His words echoed in the vast, dark space, each one a stone dropped into the still water of my mind, sending out ripples of chaotic thought.
You're not the only one who wants to see the Rimestones burn.
All you have to do is ask.
I stared at the ceiling, the moon tracing its slow path across the sky. The idea was a seductive poison. An alliance. Not just his money, but his knowledge, his influence. A network of enemies I never knew my family had. It was everything I needed. And it wouldn't come free, nothing did with him.
My independence, my solitary quest for vengeance—the very things that defined me—would be gone. I'd be indebted to him in a way that made the 1.8 million dollars look like a petty loan. This would be a bond that could never be repaid, only serviced.
I tossed and turned, the expensive sheets tangling around my legs.
One moment, I saw the triumph on his smug face as I finally broke down and asked for his help.
The next, I saw my family's empire crumbling to ash, their horrified faces as they realized I hadn't been working alone.
The two images warred in my head until dawn began to bleed a pale, gray light through the enormous windows. I was exhausted, my eyes gritty, my mind still racing in frantic, useless circles.
He had offered me the keys to my revenge. And I had never felt more trapped. The question wasn't just about winning anymore. It was about what I was willing to become to do it. And I had no answer.