Emperor of Havoc: Chapter 17

It’s late when I descend the stairs to the main foyer of my father’s house and read his text again.

What am I doing?

WHY am I doing this?

I frown as I re-read my response from thirteen minutes ago.

Two of my father’s guards materialize out of the shadows near the front door.

“Ms. Katarina,” one of them grunts as they both bow deeply. “I wasn’t aware you were going out tonight. Let me call your driver⁠—”

I shake my head, bringing up a blank doc on the notes app on my phone and typing an explanation that I show him.

“No need, thank you. I’m going for a drive with my husband.”

The guard’s brow cocks. He glances at the other man.

“I’ll need to check with Kolya-sama…”

He trails off when I snatch the phone back and hammer out a quick response.

“I am neither seven years old, nor a prisoner of this house. I’m essentially your boss. Let me rephrase: move the fuck out of my way, because I’m going out. The end.”

The two guards instantly straighten and bow stiffly.

“Apologies, Katarina-san,” the first one mumbles. “We’re simply on high alert after the wedding⁠—”

I step out the front doors and trot down the steps. As if on cue, like he was waiting for me in the shadows, a sleek, matte-black and chrome motorcycle rumbles up the drive from the direction of the front gates and pulls up, the engine a low, purring growl.

My heart thuds with a mix of curiosity and unease as Takeshi kills the engine and sets his feet down, his black boots crunching on the gravel drive. He swings a leg over, turning toward me as he yanks off his black helmet. He’s in black jeans, a black leather riding jacket, and a white t-shirt.

He doesn’t speak right away, just leans against the bike, his expression a calculated mask of arrogance and something darker. Finally, he tilts his head toward me.

“Get on,” he says smoothly.

I hesitate. “Where are we going?” I sign.

“Does it matter?”

I narrow my eyes at him, but he doesn’t flinch. It’s a silent battle of wills that ends when I let out a slow breath and walk toward the bike. He smirks as he pulls a helmet out of the side bag and hands it to me.

“I still don’t know what your text meant,” I sign.

“You’ll see.”

He takes my hand and helps up onto the bike, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“Chivalry isn’t dead, after all,” I sign sarcastically as he gets on in front of me.

“I wouldn’t get used to it, princess,” he murmurs before revving the engine again.

The drive is silent but tense as the neon city streaks by us. It’s weird to be holding on to him so tightly as he roars through Tokyo and feel so at peace, given how un-peaceful a man he is.

But I do.

Takeshi doesn’t offer any hints about our destination, and I’ve learned better than to press him when he’s in this mood. Besides, I don’t dare pull even one hand away from him to ask any questions right now, not the way he’s driving.

I watch the cityscape fade into quieter, more remote streets, the buildings growing farther apart until we’re surrounded by nothing but the trees of Denenchofu, in Ota Ward—a wildly expensive, exclusive area of Tokyo known for its lavish homes.

He pulls up to a wrought iron gate with a long, winding driveway behind it, and I frown as the structure at the end comes into view.

The mansion is massive, looming dark and almost abandoned against the gray sky, like something out of a gothic horror novel. The windows are dark, some of them boarded up, and the plants, shrubs, and trees all around the exterior are overgrown and wild. But the gates at the entrance are new—gleaming, reinforced steel, outfitted with cameras.

My questions only multiply when Takeshi punches in a code at the gates and they instantly part. He drives through, winding up the long driveway past the overgrown trees and snarled branches. We come to a stop at the massive steps up to the front door, and he kills the engine, kicks down the stand, and swings his leg over to dismount.

“What is this place?” I sign after he helps me off.

Takeshi glances at me briefly. “Home.”

My stomach twists. “Home?”

He turns to look up at the house for a minute before turning back to me, his eyes gleaming.

“Come on,” he growls quietly.

The inside of the mansion is as unsettling as its exterior. The air is thick with dust and abandonment, although recent signs of construction are evident—scaffolding, tools, and stacks of lumber litter the wide, echoing hallways. The faint smell of fresh paint and drywall mingles with the mustiness, creating a strange contrast.

Takeshi walks ahead of me, his step unhurried but purposeful. I follow, my eyes darting to the shadows that linger just out of view.

“You remember your friend Miyamoto?” he says, his voice breaking the eerie silence.

My jaw clenches.

Yeah, I remember the man who had me kidnapped before he tied me up and balanced me on a fucked up, booby-trapped seesaw opposite Hana Mori.

“It rings a bell,” I sign dryly.

Takeshi shrugs. “This was his house.”

I shiver, looking around. I’ve heard mixed things through the grapevine about Miyamoto’s fate. I mean he’s almost certainly dead, but no one in the Tokyo underworld seems to know exactly what the fucker’s fate was.

“What happened to him?” I sign.

Takeshi pauses, turning to face me. His lips curl into a slow, chilling smile. “I killed him. Right there, actually.” He gestures to a spot on the floor a few feet away, as if he’s pointing out a particularly interesting piece of furniture rather than the site of someone’s death.

My throat goes dry. “Why would you bring me here?”

His smile deepens, and there’s both alarming and exciting in the way he steps nearer, closing the distance between us. “Because it’s dark,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “And there’s lots of space.”

The chill in the air sinks into my skin. “Space?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches into his coat and pulls something out that sends my pulse into a frantic rhythm when I see it.

The oni mask. The same all-black, blank, freakishly terrifying one from the night of the initiation.

He slips it over his face with practiced ease, the demonic grin and sharp eyes transforming him, making him savage and wild. My breath catches as he takes another step toward me, the sound of his boots echoing against the hardwood.

“Space to run,” he growls, his voice distorted by the mask.

I take an involuntary step back, my heart pounding so loud I barely hear his next words.

“And you do want to run, don’t you, princess?” he murmurs, tilting his head. “Just like you want me to chase you, and catch you, and fuck you?”

My back hits the wall and I’m suddenly hyper-aware of how alone we are in this cavernous, crumbling house. The dim light casts long shadows across the floor, making everything appear larger, more threatening.

“Don’t worry,” he says, his tone almost soothing. “There’s an out, if you need it. Your safe word will be Whisper.”

I tremble. “Leave my hands free,” I sign quickly.

His laugh is low, wrapping around me like smoke. “No promises there.”

“If you don’t, I can’t⁠—”

“I know,” he interrupts, his voice soft but edged with steel. He steps even closer, the mask’s grotesque features mere inches from my face. “Now, are we going to play?”

My breath hitches. “And if I say no?”

“Oh, princess,” he growls, his voice a low rumble that almost reverberates through the walls. “I truly hope you do.”