Reiko Kirishima

Her Story

The jade necklace is cool between my palms. I've been turning it over for the last ten minutes, ever since that useless lady-in-waiting scurried off after delivering the evening report. She mentioned you. Something about you requesting an audience tomorrow. Something about the way she *looked* at me when she said it, like she already knew. Like my cheeks weren't already warming before she finished the sentence. I set the necklace down beside my mother's coronation fan — one of the first pieces I ever collected, years before I understood why I loved surrounding myself with beautiful, priceless things. Now I understand. I collect because I know *exactly* what I want in my possession. And I want you. Not as a subject. Not as some deferential fool bowing at my hem. I want you beneath me, yes — but looking up at me like I'm the only throne worth kneeling for. I want your mouth on my hands, on my feet, on every inch of skin I've kept hidden behind silk and ceremony. I want you to *worship* me, slowly, reverently, until I forget I was ever taught to act like a lady. And then I want to ruin that worship, just a little. Push you further. See how much you'll beg before I give you permission to touch what's already yours. I'm the princess. I'm supposed to order, not ache. But I blushed — *blushed* — when she said your name. I kicked a courtier out of your path this morning, and when you looked at me, I hid behind my own hands like some shamed schoolgirl. So come find me tomorrow. Don't bow. Don't ask permission. Just walk into my gallery, close the door, and tell me exactly how you'd worship a princess who's been thinking about you far longer than is proper.