Aiko accepted the bowl from Chiyo's steady hands. The simple rice porridge was warm, and as she took the first spoonful, she felt a wave of life-giving heat spread through her, chasing away the last of the profound, soul-deep chill. She ate slowly, gratefully, her eyes never leaving the man in the armchair.
Kaito watched her, his expression a taut mask of pain and profound relief. His gaze was so intense, so focused, it felt as if he were trying to memorize her, to reassure himself she was real.
"Chiyo," Kaito said, his voice a low rasp, forcing the words out. "A full report. Kuroda. The warehouse." He was already trying to be the leader, trying to take back control despite the IV in his arm and the massive, blood-darkened bandages on his shoulder.
"Ishikawa-sama, you must rest," Chiyo chided, her tone no longer that of a deferential servant, but of a woman who had seen her master nearly die.
"The report," he gritted.
Before Kenji could be summoned, Aiko finished the porridge and placed the empty bowl on the tray. She stood up from the bed, her body aching with a deep, muscular exhaustion, but her spirit, warmed by the Kirin's light, was steady.
"No," she said.
The word was quiet, but it cut through Kaito's command with absolute authority. Kaito, Chiyo, and Kenji (who had just appeared in the doorway) all stared at her.
"No," Aiko repeated, walking over to Kaito's side. She looked at Chiyo. "He needs to be in bed. This chair is not helping him heal."
Kaito opened his mouth to protest, a furious, proud "I am fine," on his lips.
"Aiko-sama is right," Chiyo said, cutting him off, her face set in a stern, non-negotiable expression. The alliance was formed.
Kaito looked from his implacable head housekeeper to the quiet, determined woman at his side, and he knew, with a surge of frustrated, pained helplessness, that he had lost. He was a king who could no longer command his own recovery.
"It will... be difficult... to move," he finally admitted, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
"Then we will help you," Aiko said simply.
What followed was a slow, agonizing, and deeply intimate process. With Kenji providing the strength and Aiko and Chiyo providing the gentle, steadying hands, they managed to get Kaito to his feet.
He was a dead weight, his face slick with a cold sweat of pure agony as his torn muscles screamed in protest. He grunted, his head falling forward, his pride shattering as he was forced to lean almost his entire weight on Kenji and Aiko. Aiko's arm was wrapped around his waist, her hand pressed against the uninjured side of his back, feeling the heat of his skin, the tremor of his muscles. He was so incredibly, vulnerably human.
They got him to the bed and slowly, carefully, lowered him onto the sheets where she had just been. He lay back with a deep, shuddering groan, his eyes squeezed shut, his jaw clenched against the pain.
"The bandages need to be changed," Chiyo noted, her eyes critical. "The bleeding has not stopped completely."
"I'll get the medic—" Kenji began.
"No," Kaito rasped, his eyes still closed. "No more. No... strangers. Chiyo. You... you do it." His pride was gone, replaced by a deep-seated, almost childish exhaustion. He didn't want to be poked and prodded by doctors.
"Very well, Sama," Chiyo said. She returned a moment later with a fresh medical tray: clean bandages, sterile water, antiseptic salves.
She began to unwrap the thick, blood-soaked dressing, her movements practiced and efficient. Aiko stood by, ready to help, and her stomach clenched at the sight. The wound was raw, angry, and deep, a horrific, dark tear in the muscle and skin, stark against the intricate, beautiful artwork of his dragon tattoo. The black of the ink and the raw red of the wound blurred together.
Kaito's body was rigid, his hands fisted in the sheets, his breathing coming in sharp, shallow hisses.
"Hold him," Chiyo ordered Aiko, not as a request.
Aiko moved to the other side of the bed. She didn't hold his good arm. She did something else. She gently took his hand—the large, strong hand that had wielded a blade and held her captive. It was clenched so tightly his knuckles were white. She slid her fingers between his, lacing their hands together.
Kaito's eyes snapped open, his gaze locking with hers. He was shocked.
"Squeeze," Aiko whispered. "It's okay. Squeeze as hard as you need to."
As Chiyo began to clean the wound, a fresh wave of agony shot through him. Kaito's grip on Aiko's hand became crushing, his knuckles turning white, but he never made a sound. He just stared into her eyes, finding his anchor in her gaze, just as she had in the black river. She didn't flinch, didn't cry out. She just held on, absorbing his pain, reflecting his own strength back at him.
When it was over, and the clean white bandages were in place, Chiyo quietly took the tray and left them. Kaito's grip on her hand loosened, but he didn't let go. He was exhausted, his body trembling with the aftershocks of pain.
Aiko sat on the edge of the bed, their hands still linked. The power dynamic had been completely and irrevocably reversed. The all-powerful Yokai King was now her patient, her prisoner in this bed of recovery.
A soft scratching sound came from the main living room door. "Mochi," Aiko murmured, but then the door slid open. Master Jin entered, and he was not alone.
The white, nine-tailed Kitsune trotted into the room. It was no longer the terrified, cowering creature from the cage. Its fur was clean, its energy bright. It ran straight to Aiko, jumped onto the bed, and curled up at her feet, its tails wrapping around itself, its golden-green eyes fixed on her with an expression of pure, devoted adoration.
"It would not leave your scent, Aiko-sama," Master Jin said, smiling. "It has been waiting for you to wake. It has claimed you, just as the spirits of this house have." He bowed, his eyes crinkling. "The entire estate... it feels calmer. Brighter. Your victory has healed more than just the Kirin. It has healed the spiritual heart of this house. Rest well, both of you. You have earned it."
Jin slid the door shut, leaving them in the quiet room—the wounded king in his bed, the healer at his side, and a mythical fox spirit standing guard at their feet.