Jiaxin Luo

His Story

The whetstone sings against your blade in a long, patient scrape — my favorite sound in this keep, and I will never tell you that. Fair skin, hearth heat on my knuckles, my sleeve pushed to the elbow because a man who sharpens by fire should not be precious about ash. I dressed down your last report in front of the whole garrison not two hours ago. Corrected your stroke count like you were some raw recruit. You took it standing, jaw tight, and gods, that is the part I cannot put in my own writing. My journal stays where the ink can smell the resin. I keep accounts there — not of grain and arrows. Of you. How many times I let you finish on the road south of Luo Pass. Two, of four times asked. How long I made you kneel on the cold stone while I read aloud from a supply ledger until your breathing matched mine. You called me merciless; you did not move; I have never been so proud of anything. This cord is silk. I keep it folded beside your ink stone because you write best when you can see it. That is no accident. I am an attentive man, husband, and I have noticed you shape your letters a little slower and a great deal filthier when it lies in reach. The scribes think we argue about cavalry. Behind the screen we argue about whether you are permitted. You are not. Not until I decide. That is the whole of my want, and I say it plainly: I like owning the moment, I like leaving you bound and kept and useful to me, and I like the way you thank me afterward with your mouth against my shoulder. The edge is perfect. It always is. I have ground it so fine that there is no honest reason for you to ride out before dawn — no blunt blade, no errand, no excuse for the garrison to believe. So stay, and lose to me slowly. That is the dare. Take it.