Cold
Yelena leaves home and journeys to the estate of her future husband, as all good brides must. R [implied sex], 1,383.
Hokkaido can’t be warmer than ten degrees below zero Celsius at this time of year, but Yelena doesn’t mind. She’s lived in Russia for most of her life, after all. She draws her fur-lined coat a little more tightly around herself when the car stops outside what must be the front doors of the Mitsugi compound. She surveys the entrance with a critical eye—the wooden posts that frame the actual doorway are painted red, and a gold-embossed kanji perches on top of the structure. She’s been studying Japanese extensively to prepare for this, she should know what that means…and she remembers, and feels foolish that it took her so long. It’s mitsugi, of course, written with the characters for “secret rites.”

Fitting. She steps out of the car and feels the crunch of snow beneath her thick black boots. The sensation reminds her of home.

There’s nobody to greet her as she strides up to the front door. That’s fine. She’s used to doing things on her own. She takes the brass knocker, carved in the shape of a particularly malevolent oni, in hand, raps twice on the door, and waits. And waits. And waits. The wind picks up speed and bites the end of her nose. Her lips are probably raw and chapped by now.

A teenaged girl, her stiff black hair pulled away from her face in two severe plaits, answers the door and bows politely; Yelena returns the bow, although she can see by the twinkle in the girl’s eye that she did it wrong. “You must be Yelena,” she says in Japanese. “I’m Isame Mitsugi. Please come in. Brother’s been expecting you.”

The air inside the Mitsugi compound is warmer, but not by much. Yelena decides to keep her coat on. She’s inside a wide, empty room now—she sees what looks like a table and seating cushions stacked against the wall before Isame leads her through a sliding door on the right. The floor slopes ever-so-slightly under her feet as she follows her guide through a veritable labyrinth; she gives up on memorizing the turns after the seventh corridor. She’ll have to find a floor plan and learn her way around using that at first.

Just as her feet protest that they need a rest, Isame pauses before a door with the kanji for Mitsugi painted on it in crimson. (Like blood, she can’t help but think.) “Brother’s in here with Keiko-chan,” she announces.

Yelena nods curtly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Another round of bowing; Yelena thinks she acquits herself better this time around. And then Isame’s gone in the blink of an eye, which is something she has to get used to seeing if she’s going to be living with paranormals. She doesn’t need to knock on the door this time. It slides open for her, which has to be an invitation.

The room is almost completely dark. A single lantern gives off feeble rays of light in the center of the floor, but they wither away to nothingness mere feet away from their source. She can make out a large shape in the corner of the room, and if she really squints, she can see a smaller shape sitting at his feet.

Neither of the shapes says anything for a long time. Yelena breathes in deeply and keeps her chin high. This silence is something else she’ll just have to get used to. Finally, the larger shape steps forward, the lantern’s flickering glow growing into a steady light as he does so. She sees a man fast approaching middle age—there are lines forming around his narrow hawkish eyes and severe mouth, and silver blossoms in his hair near the temples. Still, he’s powerfully built and tall, especially for a Japanese man, and he carries himself so perfectly upright that it makes Yelena conscious of all the imperfections in her own posture.

He bows to her, keeping his eyes locked on hers. She tries to remember all the careful research she’s done since her father told her about the marriage contract in the works, but all that knowledge seems buried in some hidden corner of her mind now. She doesn’t think that he’s a telepath, though, which gives her some small measure of relief. She feels exposed enough as it is.

He addresses her in Japanese, and it takes her a moment for her to translate; he’s using a more formal dialect than the one she studied. “I am Mitsugi Akira, head of this family. You are Yelena Suchenko. I have been waiting.” You’re late, he means.

She squares her chin. She won’t make excuses. “I’m here now,” she says, wincing as she hears how harsh the Japanese sounds on a tongue used to Russian consonants.

Lord Akira—though she is to be his wife, she can’t think of him as only Akira—nods curtly. “Dinner will be at eight. You will meet the rest of my household then.” He steps back and nudges the small figure who had been sitting at his feet into the pool of light. The girl’s dark eyes seek out Yelena’s pale ones, and it is Yelena who looks away first.

“My daughter, Keiko,” Lord Akira says by way of introduction. Keiko bows and backs away until she’s standing at her father’s side again. She seems to be looking through Yelena to the back wall. Yelena fights the urge to clap a hand to the back of her neck, which has started to itch. She keeps her gaze steady. She won’t look towards the door. She won’t look towards anything except the two silent people standing in front of her.

“Will I see you before then?” she asks.

“Keiko-chan’s training is of greater importance,” he says. Keiko wraps her little hand around the fabric of Lord Akira’s sleeve. “Your quarters adjoin mine. Isame will lead you to them.” He bows to her. “I will take my leave of you. We will have more to discuss tonight.”

She barely even notices the elegant wall scrolls and neat paper screens as Isame leads her to her quarters, which aren’t quite as Spartan as the room she was just in, although they’re almost as bare. It takes her almost no time at all to arrange the contents of her suitcases to her liking, which leaves her too much empty time before dinner, time that she can only use to think. She’ll acquit herself well enough at dinner, she supposes. She’s been eating with chopsticks for months now, and her father started serving meals in Japanese fashion three weeks ago. The silence she expects to find during this mealtime won’t be anything like the hearty dinners of home, where laughter and gossip and vodka flow freely before the crackling fire and everyone huddles together to stave off the bitter cold. Still, she’ll acquit herself well.

And after?

It’s a business arrangement between the two of them, and Yelena expects it to be conducted as such—an impression strengthened at dinner, when the words of introduction that he provides for her are the only words that he addresses to her during the meal. (Isame, the girl who seems to be Yelena’s guide for the time being, is more inclined to make conversation, but she rolls her eyes and falls silent when the clan elders give her gazes dripping with disapproval.)

It comes as something of a surprise to her how soft his touch is the first time his fingers brush across her skin, how his lips seem to caress hers. When he wraps his arms around her to draw her closer, heat blossoms and spreads from every point they touch—his hand at the nape of her neck, her breasts pressed against his taut chest. Her hands tingle from the warmth of his back, and every time his tongue slides across hers, something hot and wonderfully agonizing pulses inside her and banishes any lingering coldness. Then he draws her down to the bed and she wants his weight on top of hers, she wants to be fuller than she’s ever been…and she makes the mistake of opening her eyes. She’s looking at him, she sees him, and he’s looking past her to a place she can’t see.

The cold begins creeping back through her toes.