Hirokin gazed down into the nest of silks. Guileless and wide, a pair of slitted blue eyes gazed back at him. Blue as his own—blue as his beloved mother’s had been. The sight arrested him as little else had. Before he even realized what he was doing, Hirokin had gathered his newborn nephew to him.

“Have you named him?” he asked his elder brother.

Across the great hall, the River Lord smirked back at him from his jewel-encrusted throne. “Not yet,” Houseki replied smugly, glancing aside at his demure, kneeling wife. “Though I was thinking Ryuukomorou, after our great grandsire.”

Their father’s indelicate snort captured Hirokin’s sentiments entirely. Houseki cast Ryuutarou a sour sideways look. But Hirokin was hardly surprised at this choice. The day an original thought occurred to his brother would be an occasion to remember. 

“So you have not named him then,” Hirokin said briskly. “Good—he shall be called Kouseki.”

The River Lord stiffened in indignation. “How dare you…” he rumbled, grinding his steely claws into the arms of his throne. “My son will be called no such thing!”

“Do you object to the name, Ani-ue?” Hirokin asked, arching a scathing brow. “It is derived largely from your own.”

“It is not the name, you ingrate—it is the principle,” Houseki hissed, leaping from his seat. “That boy is my heir. Mine!”

“A fact which is hardly in dispute,” Hirokin returned dryly. “Yet, in as much as my blood runs also through his veins, he is my ward henceforth until he comes of age. And ‘Kouseki’ he shall be called—in the Western Palace, at least.”

With that, Hirokin tucked the gurgling babe to his chest and turned toward the door. A female cry of despair rang out behind him. Overcome by his outrage, Houseki was speechless a moment before his tempestuous aura rose against Hirokin.

“You will not take my only son from me!” the River Lord thundered. “You cannot.”

“I imagine you’ll have others,” Hirokin quipped, not even bothering to slow his pace.

“You bastard,” Houseki seethed. To the assembled guards, he snapped, “Seize him, damn you!”

At this, Hirokin’s step did slow. Slanting a cool glance back at his fuming elder brother, he said, “Careful, Ani-ue. Have you forgotten who I am?”

Hirokin’s personal guard flanked him, bearing the royal crest—and the full weight of the threat it signified. Though Houseki’s guards had shifted at his command, a sharp glance from their captain kept them at their posts. Lord of the Lake Houseki might be, yet his subjects feared Hirokin more.

“Cravens,” Houseki raged. The din of his ire resounded in the excessively grand space. “Traitors! I’ll have you all put to the sword!”

“Best put the whole of the realm to it, then,” Hirokin said coolly as he resumed his departure, “if you fault a demon’s first loyalty being to the head above his shoulders.”

Ryuutarou chuckled behind him, always fond of a petty jape.

“Father!” Houseki yelled, rounding audibly upon him. “You must stop him!”

“How am I to stop him?” Ryuutarou responded with his usual petulance. “I am not the master of this hall.”

As Houseki raged anew and Hirokin stepped across the threshold, it was an unexpected party who succeeded in detaining him. At the sound of a fierce scuffle, Hirokin turned to find Houseki’s wife, his own distant cousin Masaki, struggling to breach the line of haggard guards. 

“Please, my lord!” she cried, her youki flaring in her distress. “Please, do not take my son from me!—please, I beg you!”

Glittering tears streaked her pale pretty face. The silver-violet of her eyes welled with grief. Hirokin frowned. Many terrible things he had abetted, and could abide. But a mother’s suffering was not among them.

“If you can compose yourself, you may come with me to the Western Palace,” Hirokin told her, “and tend to him there.”

Masaki straightened. The flow of her tears abruptly ceased.

“Masaki, no,” Houseki roared, “I forbid it!”

Torn, she glanced back at her infuriated mate. But Hirokin could see in her steeling expression the choice she would make. It was the choice his own mother Haname would have made—the choice any good mother would have made.

Following meekly in Hirokin’s wake, Masaki went with her child.

…

As usual, Hirokin was grateful for his swift thinking.

His cousin Masaki was a devoted mother. No doubt she would have been under any circumstances, but being thrust into a vista as foreign and frightening as the Western capitol had unquestionably increased her devotion. Rarely did she leave Kouseki’s nursery, and when she did, she clung so tightly to her son that Hirokin feared she might actually smother the boy.

Wishing to spare both Masaki and himself the trouble, Hirokin did his best to limit her exposure to the rest of the court. But as a great lady in her own right, her presence at official ceremonies was expected. On the occasions she was forced to leave Hirokin’s palace, she followed him about like a second shadow. Always at his elbow she hovered, quiet and uncertain, looking to him constantly for cues as to how to act and how to respond. Her complexion took on a greenish hue of unease whenever someone addressed her directly.

“Your little wife is a fish out of water here,” Sesshoumaru remarked acridly when he and Hirokin were alone. 

The Western Lord’s tone was scarcely anything less than caustic these days. Yet he seemed to hold special rancor for Masaki and Kouseki—Hirokin’s ‘ready-made family’, as he so scathingly dubbed them. Hirokin might have replied just as scathingly that Sesshoumaru should concern himself more with his own ‘broken family’—yet despite their deep bond, there were subjects even Hirokin knew not to touch.

Still, Sesshoumaru rankled him with his words, as only Sesshoumaru could.

“She has never left the Lake, my lord,” Hirokin said tactfully, ignoring the ‘wife’ remark altogether. “It will take time for Masaki to find her footing.”

Sesshoumaru’s golden eyes narrowed. “You would have her remain at your side.”

“So long as she wishes to,” Hirokin replied. With deference, he added, “And so long as you permit it, of course.”

Appeased by this, or perhaps simply pleased at the additional leverage afforded him, Sesshoumaru said, “So long as you remember to whom your first loyalty lies.”

Setting his cup of sake aside, Hirokin leaned toward him. Silkily, he smiled. “Of that, my lord, there can be no question…”

…

Hirokin did not think himself particularly kind to his sister-in-law. In truth, he felt largely indifferent toward her. Except for the fact that they were so closely quartered, he might have forgotten about her altogether.

As it was, he saw her often enough, in the mornings and in the evenings mostly. Sometimes she would say nothing to him at all—only acknowledge him with a flustered bow and slip back into her rooms. Other times, almost exclusively when he encountered her in the nursery, she would relate an anecdote or two about his growing nephew: a new word he was trying to say perhaps, or some trick of the water sprites which had made him laugh. 

These were the only times he saw Masaki truly at ease. With her infant son cradled in her lap, a serene smile would grace her lips. As she gazed down at him lovingly, his tiny fingers twisted in the waving, silver fall of her hair. Hirokin was never certain how to feel in such intimate moments. Mostly, he felt like an intruder.

At any rate, he was content with the amount of interaction he had with his cousin. She was far from a nuisance, which had been his chief concern. Considering how insufferable the majority of his family was, the fact that he didn’t instantly despise Masaki was rather remarkable. A little withdrawn, she was nevertheless deferential and pleasant toward him. And so he treated her with the same common courtesy. If her eyes lingered on him, he took no note of it. If her face flushed when he addressed her by name, he did not attribute any particular significance to it.

Perhaps he had underappreciated just how little love she held for his brother, whom she had been arranged to mate. Perhaps he had failed to account for how she, in her loneliness, might look to him, her only kinsman, for solace. Perhaps, as his father had so wryly declared to Hirokin in the past, he would never truly understand the workings of the female mind.

And so it was with no small amount of surprise that he glanced up from his desk to find Masaki sliding the screen of his bedroom door shut behind her. Her obvious anxiety set him on edge as well. Not to mention her unexpected arrival had disturbed his concentration.

A little sharply, he asked her, “What is it?—is something wrong with Kouseki?”

Hirokin couldn’t imagine why else she’d intrude upon him like this. Masaki started.

“No, my lord—Kouseki is well.” 

At a loss—and annoyed to be so—Hirokin glared at her. Clasping her hands before her as if to steady herself, his cousin advanced a measured step. Then another.

“You have been so good to him,” she said softly, approaching Hirokin cautiously still. “And to me.”

Hirokin arched a brow. It was then he noticed how scantily she was clad. A robe of sheer silk was all that she wore. Its lavender hue was a touch lighter than the shade of her eyes. Through this light clinging sheath, the curves of her breasts and hips were on full and deliberate display.

Though Hirokin preferred males, there was an undeniable loveliness to the female form. And to Masaki’s in particular. A few paces from the desk she paused. As her silvery nails untied the thin ribbon of her sash, the wisp of her robe slithered from her. Hirokin set his scrolls and stylus aside. 

“Come closer to me,” he said.

Naked, Masaki came to him. Hirokin watched her closely as she circled around the desk to stand just before him. Fair and shapely, her figure would have appealed to any hot-blooded male. But perhaps it was their shared blood which spoke to him. Appreciatively, he eyed the delicate fanning of her ears, the small, jewel-like scales which here and there adorned her—draconic and lovely, the prized beauty marks of his kind.

Tracing a scale studding the curve of her breast, Hirokin admired how it sparkled. Masaki gasped, surging into his touch. Her marble flesh was cool and heavy in his palm, her nipple pebbled prettily in its fanned dusky halo. These were the breasts which had nursed his ward and nephew, and while they did not stir any particular hunger in him, they were alluring, nevertheless.

“Hirokin-sama…” Masaki murmured, her voice breathy with passion even from this aloof appraisal of her.

Dropping to her knees before him, the demoness fumbled at the ties of his hakama. Hirokin made no move to dissuade her. Why should he? There was no love lost between himself and his brother. No risk of bastards with Houseki’s mating mark to seal her womb.

Half the court already assumed Hirokin was fucking her. A beautiful female residing mateless in his quarters—it was not a difficult leap to make. Hirokin had done nothing to discourage these assumptions. It was beneficial to his reputation to have this sort of cover.

The Lord Tactician smirked to himself. What better cover story was there, for him to have stolen his lord brother’s wife out from under him? To reject Masaki would only run the risk of sullying this fantastic narrative, and losing his nephew’s devoted caretaker.

No. If his cousin wanted to show her gratitude to him, Hirokin saw no reason to stop her. The cock that was soft in her feminine hands hardened as he set his mind to the purpose. Guiding her lips down by his grasp in her silvery hair, he settled back to oblige her.

…

Strangely enough, Hirokin’s coolness toward Masaki only seemed to inflame her more. It was not the first time Hirokin had observed such paradoxical behavior in females. 

“Panting bitches,” Sesshoumaru had used to call them, referring to his most desperate of admirers. “The more I turn my back to them, the more they howl.”

Having suffered his fair share of Sesshoumaru’s stony indifference, Hirokin was not without some sympathy. And so when Masaki visited him in the night, when she slipped between the silk sheets of his bed and plied at him with her hands and mouth, he did not resist her. 

Lying now on his back beneath her, he watched through hooded eyes as she indulged herself upon him. A tight warm grip felt as good as any other, and Masaki’s in particular well-suited him. It was not terribly hard for Hirokin to remain hard, even as his mind wandered to thoughts of politics and figures. The only female who’d ever held his full interest had been Kagome, whose femininity had been a mere technicality to him.

Beside herself with accumulated passion, Masaki crested and broke against him. Her lithe sparkling body contorted beautifully as she came with a cry. Sharp and sweeping, her serpentine undulations assaulted him with primal intensity. Hirokin needed no image of another to bring him to pleasure. In this, Masaki was different from the other demonesses he’d resigned himself to bed. 

He hissed as her inner convulsions awoke the beast in him. A fierce and all-consuming desire to murder his brother pounded briefly through him. Seizing her by the hips, he twisted her beneath him. His masculine youki snared at hers as he poured his essence out into her. His claws scratched a bloody track over the mating slash in her cheek, as Masaki twined her arms and legs around him.

“I love you,” she whispered, her sibilant voice so ardent, so achingly familiar, that Hirokin, in his blissful delirium, told her the same.

…

As the years passed, Masaki flourished at court. Hirokin watched this transformation in her with a nostalgic pang. Her clever mind had been as idle in the Lake as his own had been. Assured of her place at his side, she grew in confidence, much like he had, knowing Sesshoumaru’s esteem for him.

To Hirokin, Masaki became an indispensable asset. Apart from being a fine mother and convenient mistress, she was a font of invaluable information to him. In their gossiping and scheming, females often traded secrets with one another. No matter how savvy he was, Hirokin, as a male, had no hope of penetrating these inner circles. However, with her beauty, wit and pedigree, there was no such circle closed to Masaki. Whatever salient information she gleaned, she relayed directly to Hirokin, as though his own keen ears had heard it firsthand.

Hirokin’s regard for her deepened, more swiftly than he had ever expected it would. Though it was a relief to strategize in confidence with one sharp enough to follow his train of thought, what Hirokin felt for Masaki was more than a meeting of like minds. He had always loathed his family. Yet with Masaki he felt true kinship—the sort of kinship he had not felt since his mother had died, almost a millennium ago.

Masaki was good for him, Hirokin realized, as if only conscious now that she was with him of the lack he would feel without her. How cathartic it was, to sit with her beneath the water’s surface. To know that he need not say a word, nor even gesture, but that between them there flowed currents of understanding. A commonality of blood and experience. An innate resonance of soul.

If only she were his sister in truth.

More and more, Hirokin found himself lamenting that this was not so. In his heart he loved her as such. But this was not how she loved him. Her romantic interest was a burden to him, the only source of discord in an otherwise harmonious relationship. Thinking of Himamori’s dogged attraction to him, Hirokin allowed that being his sister might not have cured Masaki of her amorousness toward him—but at least Hirokin would not have felt compelled to cater to it.

As it was, he did his best to satisfy Masaki. More now than for practicality’s sake, he did not wish for her to be unhappy. A less discerning female might have been fooled by his ruses, as many throughout the centuries had been, but here Masaki’s intelligence, and intimate knowledge of him, proved to be a double-edge against him. Though she did not speak of it, Hirokin had the sense she knew that he was simply humoring her.

When she was in season, it was easier for him to maintain the illusion. The untempered heat of her blood riled his bestial male instincts, carrying him through to completion. With a semblance of true passion, he spent himself deep inside her. As his seed dashed to oblivion against the seal of her womb, she extricated herself and lay curled beside him.

“How I love you, Hirokin,” she murmured, her silver lashes trailing against his chest. “I always have. Ever since we were children, my heart has longed for you alone. Not because you were so handsome, but because I saw in you the same curiosity I felt. Your eyes were open like mine, when all those around us seemed to drift about as if in a dream.” Her youki coiled with his, melding. “I used to wish you were less handsome, so that my affection for you would not be lost amid the infatuated throng.”

Hirokin frowned. Now that his pleasure had ebbed, her passion only pained him. More coldly than he ought, he replied, “It would not have mattered.”

“No,” Masaki said swiftly, surprising him. “I’d still have been forced to betray him.”

Hirokin’s regret that he’d been cold to her turned at once to simmering indignation. “I hardly ‘forced’ you to turn your back on my brother.”

“Not Houseki.” Masaki hesitated a beat. “I was talking about Hiraitou.”

Hirokin sat up in surprise. Masaki drew back from him, not quite meeting his eye. He had never heard mention of her in connection with his dead, eldest brother. Apart from formal occasions, he had never known them to cross paths.

“Hiraitou?” Hirokin said sharply. When Masaki still wouldn’t look at him, he demanded, “What about him? What do you mean?”

Masaki looked to him, and the fear trembling in her eyes took him aback. “I was young when he first approached me—very young. He was courteous, in the beginning. I suppose he wanted to put me at ease. But from the start he terrified me.” 

Hirokin’s frown deepened. Sesshoumaru aside, he had never encountered a more fearsome demon than his bloodthirsty eldest brother. He could well understand Masaki’s apprehension toward him. Often, Hirokin had felt a shade of this wariness himself, and he had never been his brother’s quarry…

“I tried to avoid him,” Masaki faintly resumed. “I feared what he might do if I allowed him to corner me. I hoped if I spurned him, he would lose interest. There was no shortage of demonesses eager to bed him.” She shook her head. “But he only viewed my resistance as a challenge to be met. He did corner me, often. He never forced me, but…” Masaki’s eyes darkened, glassy and distant. “He took pleasure in subduing me. While he did, he spoke to me of his intentions. I thought it only idle boasting at first, but then he usurped your father, mustered his army…I lived in growing terror that all his whispered promises would come to pass, that soon enough he would mate me in a bed of blood, and my world would become one of unending torment at his hands.”

Hirokin’s eyes narrowed, comprehension dawning at last. “It was you,” he said quietly. “You were the one feeding my spies bits and pieces of his plans.”

The silver waves of her hair fell into her bowed face. “I had to be discreet. I knew it would be terrible, if any knowledge of the rebellion were traced back to me.” Lifting her eyes to him, she said, “You and Sesshoumaru-sama were my only hope, but I did not know entirely if I could trust you. Hiraitou, he—he was your brother, after all.”

Hirokin pursed his lips at her shrewdness and sheer gall, grudgingly impressed. He had never imagined his unassuming cousin would have played such a pivotal role in shaping the destiny of the Western Lands. At the time of Hiraitou’s ascent as Dragon Lord, he had been mightier even than Sesshoumaru. It had taken every bit of their combined advantages to bring an end to the rebellion—Hirokin had broken Hiraitou’s unsuspecting mind, and Sesshoumaru had destroyed the rest.

“My brother,” Hirokin said solemnly, “should not have underestimated you.”

Masaki glanced away again, a pretty blush suffusing her cheeks.

Nor should I, he thought, as he drew her back to him.

…

Hirokin’s only disappointment in the arrangement of his wardship was the ward himself. Over time, it became wearisomely clear to him that Kouseki was not cut of the same cloth as himself. Even the boy’s blue eyes purpled and darkened, reinforcing Hirokin’s grim suspicion that he’d been duped. His delusions of shaping his nephew into the ideal heir died a slow and painful death. 

Not that Kouseki was stupid, exactly. If that were the case, Hirokin would not have felt such profound frustration. Kouseki had wits enough—it was the application of those wits which was lacking. At first, Hirokin was desperate to take Kouseki’s wandering mind as evidence of a slumbering genius.

But then the ‘genius’ would return from his day-dreaming to offer such insights as, “Ah, Uncle, how like a song the play of sunlight is to the eye.”

Hirokin would grind his teeth, knowing Kouseki had not absorbed a word of his lessons. It was all Hirokin could do not to throttle the whelp right then and there.

Eventually, he lost all patience with his nephew, especially as he gained Sesshoumaru’s astute heir as a pupil. No longer inclined to hold back his ire, Hirokin saw how Kouseki began to dread him, yet he remained unmoved. He even half-hoped he might provoke some progress out of the boy this way.

But it was a lost cause. His nephew continued to loaf around in idle foolishness, preoccupied with whatever poetic nonsense suited his fancy. Only his friends and love interests could stir him to action. To keep up with Touma and his peers, he would become a skilled combatant. To woo some girl he was besotted with, he would become an expert strategist.

This was all well enough if he were some run-of-the-mill aristocrat. But Kouseki was the son and heir of a principal lord. He needed to start acting like it.

Or to amass allies who’d support him, at least.

As Hirokin was agonizing along these lines, a most unlikely visitor appeared at his palace. The Western capitol had not seen hide nor hair of this demon for centuries, and so Hirokin was quite suprised as he and his household went out to meet their unexpected guest.

“Father,” Hirokin greeted brusquely, peering at the one who was looking about with open greed at the reception hall’s fine furnishings, “what are you doing here?”

“My beloved son,” the old dragon opined, “I hoped you’d be glad to see me, after such a very long time.”

Hirokin rolled his eyes at this thinly-veiled complaint. “I suppose it’s no coincidence you’re here when Sesshoumaru-sama is abroad.”

“A sweet song might have reached my ear about it,” Ryuutarou said, his slitted emerald eyes alight as they flicked toward Inukimi’s skyborne palace. Hirokin grimaced. “But before I slip off to answer the call, I thought I’d pay you a visit. I have a gift for my grandson, and an introduction to make.”

Kouseki’s eyes lit up very much like Ryuutarou’s. Smiling, Masaki urged her son forward. As Hirokin’s nephew bowed to his grandsire, Ryuutarou stepped theatrically aside, revealing the diminutive figure who’d been standing concealed behind him—a pretty little girl who much resembled him, and was clutching a turquoise-scaled egg in her arms.

At once, the smile withered on Masaki’s face. Aghast himself, Hirokin stared, more at the egg than at the girl.

Beaming, Ryuutarou introduced her with a flourish, “My beautiful granddaughter, the Princess Nanami.”

Eyeing her kinfolk warily, Nanami edged closer to her grandfather. Oblivious to his uncle’s grim silence and his mother’s seething indignation, Kouseki beamed back.

“Welcome, cousin!” he exclaimed, delighted. 

But as he went to meet her, Masaki snatched him back. “How dare you,” she said to Ryuutarou, her violet youki wreathing her like liquid flame. Coiled about her, her dragon Haru hissed, baring his small sharp fangs. “How dare you bring her here…”

“I am her guardian,” Ryuutarou replied smoothly. “Nanami is with me wherever I go.”

Masaki whirled in a rage to Hirokin. “This is an insult,” she hissed, much like Haru. “That girl is a disgrace.”

As Nanami shrank back at her venom, Ryuutarou put his arm about her. All his glib good humor vanished in an instant. The hall chilled and dimmed, smothered by his crushing aura.

“She is an innocent child,” Ryuutarou said, glaring at Masaki. As she recoiled at the threat of him, he added cuttingly, “If you wish to speak of disgrace, daughter, you had best start with yourself.”

Masaki paled. With one last fraught glance at Hirokin, she spun on her heel and stormed from the hall with her silk skirts lashing behind her. Kouseki glanced after her, his brows knit in consternation. As she departed, Hirokin looked heavily toward his shying, green-eyed niece.

“That egg,” he muttered, “can it be…?”

“Yes,” Ryuutarou said, with a wistful smile, “it is Ohana’s. I thought it would make a fine gift for Kouseki, now he’s come of age.” The many rings on his fingers glinted as he gave his granddaughter’s silver-green head a pat. “Nanami found it, didn’t you, dearest?” When the girl didn’t answer, he chuckled fondly. “She’s a keen eye for treasure, just like her Ojii-sama. Go on now, Nanami, present the egg to your cousin.”

At his urging, Nanami inched forward. As Kouseki stepped out to meet her, she offered the large, glimmering egg to him. His indigo eyes went wide, reflecting the egg’s brilliant sheen. Dragon zeal sharpened his dreamy expression.

“Amazing,” he said breathlessly, examining the egg from every angle as he ran his clawtips over the shining scales. His eyes flicked to Nanami with undisguised awe. “You found it all by yourself?”

The girl nodded, a tepid smile curving her lips. Inspiration struck Hirokin, swift and sudden. 

“Give the egg to me, Kouseki,” he said, turning to his nephew, “and show your cousin about the palace.”

“Yes, Uncle,” Kouseki said excitedly, thrusting the egg into Hirokin’s hands. “Come, cousin—I’ll show you about.”

As Kouseki ushered Nanami out of the hall, Hirokin turned back to his father. Shifting Ohana’s egg reverently into the cradle of his arm, Hirokin glowered.

“You might have introduced the girl with more delicacy, Father. You’ve made a great deal of trouble for me.”

“Delicacy?” Ryuutarou snorted. “Nonsense. Nanami is my blood.” Shamelessly, he added, “Doubly so.” At Hirokin’s disgusted look, his father waved. “Now, now, Hirokin, you know I share your sentiments on the matter. But what’s done is done. Best not to dwell on the details.”

“Speaking of details,” Hirokin said acidly, “has the girl even met her mother?”

“Oh, Hanako is much occupied, as you know,” Ryuutarou said, glancing aside at a vase as though it were an object of utmost fascination. “In time, perhaps. Best not to force such things, my son. Let them happen naturally, in due course.”

Hirokin’s lips thinned. He could have predicted this response. Ryuutarou was forever making excuses for his children’s bad behavior.

“And her father?” Hirokin pressed. “How does he treat her?”

“He is tolerant, of course,” Ryuutarou replied, now scrutinizing his sharp silver claws. “How can he not be? I have claimed her, after all. Nanami’s care is not his concern.”

Hirokin took this to mean Nanami’s father didn’t give a damn about her, at best. From what Hirokin understood from his sister Himamori, he’d taken Nanami’s conception as a personal affront. It had been no doubt a deliberate scheme on Hanako’s part, to remain in the Lake instead of being married off, and he’d resented being used to that end. Or maybe he’d simply resented being outed for his gross debauchery.

Either way, he’d washed his hands of Hanako and her predicament. In the end, her scheming had done nothing except lower her prospects. On principle, Hirokin had secured her the hastiest marriage he could arrange to his benefit—shipping her off to a stern, aged ally of Sesshoumaru’s the moment Nanami was weaned. All Hanako’s shrieking had fallen on deaf ears. The last words Hirokin had spoken to her was that she should be grateful. He’d have sold her off as a concubine to the highest bidder, if their father hadn’t talked him out of it. 

“And how are you, my son?” Ryuutarou asked, drawing Hirokin out of his ruminations. 

“Fine, Father. Why do you ask?” he snapped. “My household is clearly in perfect order. My dunce of a nephew is traipsing about with his bastard cousin, and his mother is fuming as we speak.”

As though his hearing were as selective as his memory, Ryuutarou smiled broadly, an indulgent glitter in his eye. “Masaki suits you, doesn’t she? I always suspected.”

Hirokin’s look was withering. “If you suspected as much, why did you arrange for her to marry Houseki?”

“Because I figured you’d never pay her any heed otherwise,” his father said, his return glance so shrewd it seemed to spear Hirokin through the middle. 

Recovering, Hirokin bit out, “What a wicked gamble, Father.”

“Perhaps,” the old dragon allowed peevishly. “But you are my favorite child.”

“I thought Hiraitou was your favorite,” Hirokin said flatly.

“Was he?” Ryuutarou muttered, squinting. “Well, at any rate, you are my favorite now. You were your mother’s favorite too, you know.”

Hirokin schooled his features, trying not to show how his father’s careless remark affected him. More than likely it was invented on a whim. Yet how often had Hirokin wished in his heart that it was so—that his mother Haname had loved him best?

“Well, I had better be on my way,” Ryuutarou drawled, letting his eyes roam lasciviously toward the door. “My lady awaits.”

“Away with you then,” Hirokin said, repulsed. The last thing he wanted to hear about was his father’s illicit affair with Sesshoumaru’s mother.

“Remember, dear son, that egg is for Kouseki.”

Irritably, Hirokin shot back, “Spare me your reminders, Father. I do not forget as readily as you.”

…

As Ryuutarou departed the hall, Hirokin went resignedly in search of Masaki. With the way her youki was still seething, it was not difficult to locate her. As if to make a point to him, he found her in her rooms, as rarely she was to be found except by Kouseki.

Seated primly on a silk settee, she glared toward the ornate windows. Banded around her, her aura orbited her in a slow, brooding circuit. Haru lay tightly coiled in her lap, only lifting his horned head from the stacked rings of his scales to shoot Hirokin a terse, sulky glance.

Hirokin sighed. “Masaki, my father has left.”

“And the girl?” she asked curtly, still glaring toward the window.

“I tasked Kouseki to show her around.”

Masaki’s eyes cut to him. “You’d have my son associating with the likes of her?”

“Better they be friends than enemies. Like it or not, Nanami ranks high among our kind. My father will see to that, even if hers will not. Status aside, who can say how strong the girl might become? Would you rather her grow up seeing herself as Kouseki’s beloved cousin, or as his bitter rival?”

“Cousin,” Masaki spat. “His sister, you mean. Just like your father, you dismiss Houseki’s indiscretions and champion his bastard before me. Have you no care for me at all? For my son?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Masaki.”

“You are biased toward her. Do you pity her, because she has no mother?” Hirokin’s youki flared at the jab, not least of all because its aim was true. Masaki’s lips twisted ruefully. “You see something of yourself in that wretched little girl. You favor her, as you have favored Saitou over Kouseki. I held my tongue before out of love for you. But in the face of such outrage I cannot hold it any longer. How can you claim to care for us? You do not lift a finger in our defense. Woe unto my poor, fatherless son—only if I died would he have a chance of you truly loving him as your own!”

Hirokin glared balefully at her throughout these hysterics, reminded powerfully of why he generally loathed the company of females. Only the fact that this outburst was so uncharacteristic of Masaki permitted him to endure it. He could not endure it quietly, however.

“Defend what exactly, you hissing shrew?” he spat back, incensed. “I don’t see Kouseki making a fuss—he was quite pleased to meet his cousin. Even if he were to realize she’s his sister, he’d only be gladder for it. And as for your supposed ‘honor’—what of it? You truly expect me to support you in your baseless vitriol? How hypocritical and stupid can you be? You ran out on Houseki at a mere word from me. Did you really think he’d make himself a monk for your sake—you, the wife who abandoned him to the brother he despises? If he spawns a legion of bastards, you can hardly hold it against him. Certainly, I do not.” Ruthlessly, he said in summation, “Own then, if you are not half the fool you seem at present to be, that the hurt and shame you feel is nothing less than what you deserve.”

Masaki shrank from him, deflating miserably. As her fair features crumpled and her violet eyes silvered with tears, Hirokin cursed himself. To his relief, she blinked them back, and looked to the egg under his arm.

“That egg,” she said, soft and tremulous, “is it truly Ohana’s?”

Nodding, Hirokin raised the shimmering egg before him. His heart ached to see it, that rich luster he knew so well. “How surreal it is after all this time,” he mused aloud, “to see that a piece of her yet lives. I had not hoped it might be so. She was ever one to viciously rebuff her suitors, many and mighty though they were.”

“I am glad for you, Hirokin,” Masaki said gently, as she stroked Haru’s horned crown. “I know how dear she was to you. If you wish to rear this hatchling yourself, I am sure Kouseki will understand.”

It was tempting to lay claim to this, the last living remnant of his once-beloved companion. But Hirokin shook his head, as he laid the egg upon a table. 

“No,” he said quietly. “Ohana was mine, but this egg is meant for another. It will go to my nephew, as my father intended it should.”

Masaki smiled. 

As she gazed with Hirokin at the beautiful, resplendent egg, Haru uncoiled and slithered from her lap. Ribbonlike, he advanced toward the table, spiralled up its short leg and curled himself about the egg. With his small, sharp head resting atop it, he closed his blue eyes and resumed his slumber.

Masaki touched a hand to her lips in surprise. Hirokin gaped, disbelieving. But a male dragon would never show interest in an egg unless…

“Ohana and him?” Hirokin burst out, equal parts astonished and chagrined. “Gods, you must be joking…”

---

Inuyasha © Rumiko Takahashi

Minimal editing done on this, due to the size – will clean up later, but just wanted to get it out this week 🙂

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