Flame in the Mist (Flame in the Mist #1)(48)

“What were you thinking about just now?” the leader of the Black Clan asked. “You disappeared.” Though his words were nonchalant, his look was as sharp as a razor.

“Family,” she said smoothly. “And entitlement.”

Ahead of them, Mariko thought she saw ōkami slow his horse. But he did not look back. Nor did he lean toward their conversation. It was possible she had imagined him easing up on his pace.

Ranmaru continued studying her sidelong. “Interesting that you link the two together.”

“I don’t find it interesting at all. Family can entitle you to many things. It can also feel entitled to much from you in return.”

“Is that why you ran away from yours?”

Mariko swallowed. She’d known all along she could not escape answering questions about her past. Men like Ranmaru—even ones as young as he, with such ready charm—did not rise to positions of power on blind faith alone.

A simple lie—threaded from truth—could be Mariko’s best answer. “My father arranged for me to marry. I wished to do otherwise. When we could not come to an agreement on the matter, I left.” She kept her explanation unembellished. Abrupt.

“You wished to marry someone else?”

“No.”

“So then you are not one of those poor fools enamored by the idea of love?” he teased.

She scowled. “Certainly not.” At least in this, a lie was unnecessary.

“You don’t believe your great love is out there, simply waiting to be found?”

“Do you?” Mariko pitched her voice low. Graveled with disbelief.

Ranmaru’s broad lips spread into an easy smile. “I believe the stars align so that souls can find one another. Whether they are meant to be souls in love or souls in life remains to be seen.”

Mariko found herself momentarily at a loss. It was . . . a lovely sentiment. Were she dressed in the fine silks of a young girl, she would have felt her gaze soften. Her cheeks grow pink.

Beautiful words were beautiful words, even to the most practical of minds.

Instead Mariko focused on the worn fabric of her reins. Coughed with undisguised discomfort.

“There,” Ranmaru pronounced, his tone one of supreme self-satisfaction. “I’ve managed to embarrass Lord Lackbeard simply by talking about love. And not once did I mention anything about women.” He turned toward ōkami, his palm outstretched. “You owe me five ryō.”

Mariko froze in her saddle, her posture rigid. “That—is a lie.”

“Which part?” Ranmaru blinked.

“You mentioned Yumi.” She sniffed. Deepened her speech to a drone. “The most beautiful girl in the empire.”

At that, the Wolf started to laugh. It began softly, like the rumble of a drum. Then it rose to a steadying rain. It wasn’t a rich kind of laughter. Its sound didn’t fill Mariko’s ears with its honeyed resonance. But it was clear and deep, much like the color of his eyes.

And a part of her couldn’t help but think—were he another boy, in another time, in another place—Mariko would have liked to hear ōkami’s laughter.

Would have enjoyed being the cause of it.

But he was a member of the Black Clan. The band of mercenaries who had tried to kill her. Who had slaughtered Chiyo and Nobutada.

She hated this boy and all he stood for.

It was dangerous for her to consider anything else, even for a moment.

Mariko grasped her reins tighter. As though she were taking firm hold of herself. “Do I receive any share of the gold?” She looked to ōkami, her features expectant.

“No.” He didn’t hesitate before responding.

“I saved you money. Shouldn’t I receive at least half of it as a reward?”

“Taking half my money isn’t saving me anything.”

She spurred her horse closer to his. “You thought Ranmaru could embarrass me by talking about love?” A sneer touched the edges of her lips.

“I think it’s remarkably easy to provoke certain reactions from you.”

Mariko flinched. Opened her mouth. Closed it.

ōkami smiled. “It’s better when you say nothing. That way I don’t have to point out how freely you lie.” He rode on, the rope behind him losing its slack.

Mariko gritted her teeth, willing herself silent. Her nose scrunched as a cart filled with manure passed by. Flies buzzed before her face, and she fended them off with a wave of one hand.

She did not care if ōkami found her dishonest. She found him dishonorable.

Which was far worse.

In an attempt to drown out her irritation, Mariko pitched her voice louder. “All matters of love make little sense to me anyway. As do most things that cannot be proved as fact.”

“Why is that?” Ranmaru asked.

“Love is—” She shifted in her saddle, fighting to sit taller, to convey a larger sense of self. “It isn’t something that can be understood or explained. It’s intangible. Like magic. Those who do not possess its power can never fully grasp it.”

Ranmaru inclined his head. “That sounds rather sad.”

“And smells like horseshit,” ōkami said over his shoulder. “Like the words of a boy with a great deal left to learn.”

Once more, Mariko bristled at his judgment. “Only a boy with a great deal left to learn himself would ever think that of someone else.”