Chapter Text
Chapter One: Tradition
You can hear them talking about you in the next room.
It's muffled through the walls but you can make out the voice of your father, using a tone you don’t easily recognize. Fear, maybe? Or just the performance of it. You’re not sure.
He says nice things about you. That you're obedient. Healthy. Never question authority, never cause any trouble. How you keep a tidy home and know how to cook. Every point he makes is like a verbal transaction. A narrated commercial made to sell.
You know what this is about. You just turned twenty five. The age where daughters become investments. Where family pride is measured by alliances and signatures.
It was called The Covenant. Something poetic, something romantic. A word that promises devotion. A vow that binds you to someone else for the rest of eternity. All of the ancient families in Japan took part in it. A tradition, they say. A legacy. A long chain of Covenantal Bonds that dates back generations.
You had been preparing for this your entire life. You knew how to be respectful and to be a good wife. It was a high honor to give to your family and you bore the responsibility without hesitation. Your mother, your grandmother, your grandmother’s mother, a long line of ancestral history that was connected by this sacred bond.
But that didn’t mean you weren’t nervous. You were allowed to be that.
Your heart pounds in your throat as you press your ear to the wall. Your Covenant partner, or your so-called future husband, could be on the other side.
You can only hear your father’s voice. Your mother stays silent, probably sitting on the sofa with a small cup of tea balanced in her lap, pretending like this is fine, like they weren’t about to send off their only daughter to a complete stranger.
In modern times, this was highly frowned upon. In fact, it was nearly outlawed at the turn of the century. But there were still some families across Japan who carried out the practice. Secretly, of course. Yours included. Yours and apparently… this man’s.
Minutes stretch and you’re not exactly sure how long this conversation has been happening. But when you hear your father start to become more animated, more desperate, joy rises in your chest. You can't stop it because even though you've been conditioned and trained for this, you’re anxious. Hell, who wouldn’t be? This was your life they’re discussing. Your future.
He starts to talk in a tone that he only uses when a business deal is about to go south. Like when he feels it slipping through his fingers and he knows he can’t do anything about it.
He talks louder. Tries to laugh, tries to make a joke. He even throws your name in a few times. Compliments your dainty appearance, your gentle temperament. How polite and disciplined you are. Says that you would make a fine wife. That any man would be lucky to have you.
But whoever he is talking to, whoever he is trying to charm with his rehearsed speech, keeps quiet. Eerily quiet. Like the sound of someone who doesn’t have to speak his thoughts to be in control. Who doesn’t waste time on sentiment or wasted words. Maybe a wealthy government leader or a CEO of a major company.
You continue to listen to your father ramble and the air through the walls turns suffocating. Thick with tension you can’t read. You can almost feel the presence of the mystery man on the other side. Steady and unbothered. Unimpressed. Like somebody who has already made up his mind and no amount of begging or charm from your father could change it.
Relief comes to your features. The feeling in your fingers finds its way back from where you were gripping the hem of your dress too tightly. A nervous tic that you don’t show anyone else.
Maybe The Covenant wouldn’t happen today. Maybe your father’s deal would fall through. Maybe your parents would have to wait. Would need to look somewhere else, choose a different suitor. Maybe from a different region or a different—
A voice rumbles through the wall. So low and gruff that the sound of it alone makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and a chill sliver down your spine.
Not your mother’s. Not your father’s.
His.
You press your ear against the drywall but it does no good. The voice is gone just as fast as it came. Like it only said one or two words before it decided there was nothing more worth saying.
Footsteps come next. Heavy and spaced out like they were in a hurry. Down the hall and to the left. Straight to your room.
Shit.
You shove away from the wall and scramble over to your desk. You drop down in the chair and clasp your hands in your lap. Sit up straight. Lift your chin. Just like you were always taught to do.
As the footsteps get closer, a thrill runs through you and you’re not sure why. Could be the fact that you are potentially about to meet your Covenant partner, one that you’ve always imagined having thick yellow hair and golden eyes that light up every time he sees you. But you brush away the thought. You’re not some high school teenager. You were a poised and proper young woman. You had more control than that. Then to get carried away by childish fantasies when your entire future was being sold behind a wall.
The door opens and you brace yourself, breath caught halfway in your throat and your heart slamming against your ribs.
But it’s only your father.
Except… he looks strange. Frazzled, almost. With his tie too loose and his collar crooked. There was a sheen of sweat that glistened along his hairline and his eyes were wide.
He meets your gaze and just stares at you. With one hand still on the doorknob and one foot hesitantly planted inside. Like he doesn’t know what to say. Like he can’t decide if he should continue with whatever he was about to do or retreat away completely.
“It’s done,” he finally says, looking away. “We’ve signed The Covenant.”
You blink, more surprised than anything.
“It’s official. You are to take up residence with your Covenant partner immediately."
You actually choke on the words. “I-Immediately? But I thought the tradition was—”
“A week, I know. But he’s paid double for what we’ve listed. We have no choice but to agree.”
The room spins around you and you can’t even think straight. Tradition was tradition. Sign The Covenant, wait the week, prepare yourself for the life ahead, say your goodbyes. That week was supposed to be yours. To breathe, to think, to run if you had to. But now it’s gone. Ripped away in a single transaction.
Why? Who did this man think he is to break tradition like that? Were you just that desired? Did your father do that good of a job selling your life that the man couldn't wait?
“It’s a good match,” your father continues as he senses your unease. “He’s a wealthy man. You’ll be provided for. You’ll be safe.”
God. The way he says safe makes your stomach twist. Why? Was that normal?
“Come on. Get up. Don’t make him wait.”
You blink yourself back into reality, the panic now nearly crushing you. You dart your eyes around the room, at the belongings you’ve cherished your entire life. “But what about my stuff? I haven't even packed anything. My clothes? My—”
“He doesn’t want you to bring anything. He said he’ll give you everything you need.”
You stare at him. “Everything?” Your shampoo, your toothpaste, your shoes, your clothes, your… bra and panties?
“It’s better this way. Clean slate, new beginning.”
A clean slate. That was what people said when they were trying to make something ugly sound merciful.
You can feel your throat closing with nausea. “Can I at least—”
“No. No packing, no changing clothes.” Your father looks down the hallway like he's being watched, or maybe he is, because something flashes across his face. “Come on. Get up. Before he changes his mind.”
You obey. “Yes, sir.” Not because you are okay with it but because you are a good listener. You’ve always done what you’re told.
You rise from your chair with a slight tremble to your legs that you quickly hide. You smooth the wrinkle out of your purple dress and run a hand through your hair.
Your father doesn’t wait. He turns down the hallway and you follow as expected.
You don’t even look back at your room. You’re not sure that you can. You knew this day would come, knew that one day you would be asked to leave everything behind and live with another.
It’s easier to block it out. So you do.
The hallway looks longer as you follow your father’s footsteps. Like a tunnel with only one way out. The sound of your feet bounces off the narrow walls but you can hardly hear it from the pounding in your ears. You swallow. Straighten your posture. Lift your chin.
You imagine him waiting somewhere beyond the corridor. Your future, the man who would ‘provide for you.’
In your mind, he’s tall. With clean and polished hair and warm, affectionate eyes. Eyes that soften when they meet yours for the first time. The kind of man who would shed his coat for you when you're cold or take your hand without hesitation.
You cling to that image as you move closer to the end of the hall. It’s easier to pretend you’re walking toward something beautiful instead of being led away from everything you’ve ever known.
And maybe you were. Maybe this was just the start of a new chapter. Something your father and mother always promised. Something that people liked to call destiny or fate.
Yeah. You didn't need to be nervous. Your parents would never sign The Covenant to just anybody. They wouldn't have agreed to seal your fate to this man if they thought it wouldn't be good for you.
... Right?
The hallway opens up to the living room. You see your mother right where you thought she’d be, on the sofa with a tea cup in her lap. She doesn’t look at you as you cross the final threshold. Or maybe she did, you just didn’t notice as your eyes quickly fix straight ahead, trying to catch sight of the groom to be.
Your heart pounds even louder as you breathe in the change of air. You were right. It was thick and heavy. Coated with something along the lines of him. Sharp and clean, a scent that shouldn’t pull at you the way it does.
You can’t see him yet as your father is still in front of you, but you see the shadow of him cast on the floor. Board shoulders, tall frame. The silhouette of someone who controls a room without even trying.
He already looked intimidating. Already looked like he was stern and tough-faced.
Your father leads you to the middle of the room and finally steps out of your field of view. Your eyes fall upon your suitor and your lungs seize.
He isn’t anything like you imagined. No golden hair or warm eyes. No gentle smile that might make this easier.
The man before you is draped in solid black, except for a white scarf that is looped around his neck. His long hair is just as dark as his clothes. It’s long and unkempt. It frames his stubbled jawline and falls carelessly down his shoulders. His eyes are… even darker. Half-lidded and unreadable, but god, they pin you in place.
Because he doesn’t look at you the way a groom would look at his bride. No welcome or warmth. He’s looking at you like he’s judging you. Like he’s analyzing whether you’ll be a problem to manage rather than a woman to marry.
This was it. Your future. The man who you would belong to. Who would own your days and shape your life. The man who you’re expected to get to know. To fall in love with. To bear children for.
It isn’t as romantic as you thought. Isn’t the magical storybook encounter where you thought love would spark between you the first moment your eyes meet. It’s… silent. Almost bleak. Empty with nothing other than obligation between you.
Yet… his eyes. They feel dangerous. Dark enough to warn you away but compelling enough to pull you in. Like a moth to a flame. Like metal to a magnet.
… Why? Why did this man have this kind of effect—
You hear your father clear his throat, a signal for you to snap out of it. To stop acting like a dumbstruck schoolgirl.
You shake your head and curtsy. “Pleasure to meet you. My name is—”
“I already know your name.”
His deep voice rolls through you like thunder caught in your ribcage and for a moment, you swear your heart forgets how to beat. That voice could have ordered you to do anything. And you’re terrified by how easily you might have obeyed.
You start to ask him his name. But the second you open your mouth, he cuts you off.
“Get your shoes. We’re leaving.”
You blink, stunned at his impudence, but reply anyway.
“Yes, sir.”
It was a trained response, one that you said often to your father in the form of respect. Just two little words that offered recognition and discipline.
But as you straighten back up, you catch the slightest shift in this man’s eyes. Something that makes his pupils dilate. Something that makes him draw in just the slightest pull of air.
He holds his gaze like that until your knees buckle and you quickly cut your gaze away. You’re not sure why. Maybe from the nerves in your stomach or the fact that heat floods up your neck.
Your legs take you to the corner where your shoes are kept. You hear him mutter something to your father as you slide them on, too low and quiet for you to hear. Even if you could hear it, you stay focused on your shoes. On the basic act of sliding them on.
You can feel his gaze on you even when you’re not looking. Too strong. Too aware. It makes you swallow hard. Makes your pulse kick too high.
Who was this man? What did he do for a living? Was he some kind of war veteran? Or maybe a police officer? Or maybe… an executioner?
When you stand, he’s already at the door. He doesn’t look back to check if you’re following or not. He doesn’t ask if you’re ready. He opens it and walks out, expecting you to come.
And you do.
You resist the urge to look back at your parents as you close the door behind you. It’s tradition. Not to look back. Not to show doubt. Once you’ve stepped across the threshold, your old life no longer belongs to you.
The man is already paces in front of you. He walks with a slouch and has his hands tucked deep into his pockets. Like he’s trying to hide from the rest of the world or maybe just doesn’t care enough to pretend he belongs to it.
You take your place beside him and match his speed. It isn’t really that fast. He walks with weight to his steps and a silent strength that draws your focus, whether you want it to or not.
It’s at this point that you realize you haven’t said more than two words to him. That didn’t make for a very good impression. You were supposed to be polite and personable and caring. And right now, you weren’t being any of those things. The least you could do is try to get to know him.
You struggle more than you originally planned, but after another block of silent walking, you manage to find your voice.
“It’s a nice day, isn’t it?”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even glance your way.
You can’t tell if he's ignoring you or just doesn’t see the need to respond. It was a pretty dumb thing to ask. Either way, it makes your stomach knot tighter.
“Do you live far from here?” you try again. “In the city? Or maybe another?”
Your words fall unacknowledged. There is no expression to his face or even a subtle shift in muscle movement. The questions hang between the two of you like a confession in an empty courtroom. With no one there to hear it, no one there to decide if it was ever worth saying at all.
This wasn’t how you imagined it. Your first time alone with your Covenant partner. Silently walking side by side, no eye contact, no shared words between you.
You steal a glance at him from the corner of your eye. His jawline is strong and sharp and you wonder if he keeps it permanently clenched. He looks weathered up close. Like he’s lived too long and seen too much.
You know he is at most thirty. Those were the rules of The Covenant. If he were any older, then the tradition would take different measures. Would be called something else. Still, something about him feels older than numbers on a page. Like time and life itself had already worn him down to silence.
Maybe… you should ask him how old he is?
No. Definitely not.
You swallow. Try again to engage.
“I know you already know my name, but may I ask yours?”
He finally makes a noise but it sounds more like a scoff than anything else. Like you were wasting air. Like you were asking the stupidest question in the history of questions. Like you were not worthy of knowing his name.
A blush comes to your cheeks. One that you can’t decide stems from embarrassment or from the fact that this man, who doesn’t even seem interested in you, has already stripped you of every ounce of composure you thought you had.
It should have been irritating. Should have made anger prickle your skin. You’re not a fool and you're not furniture to be pushed around.
But you press your lips together and direct your gaze to the street ahead. You don’t say or ask anything else. You were not brought up to talk back. Not to your father. And certainly not to the man you now belong to.
He walks you through the nicest part of the city. You pass by tall buildings and extravagant homes. You wonder what kind of place he has. If he is as wealthy as your father said he was or if it was all just for a bid. There’s so much mystery to him that you just catalog that unknown detail on the mental list that you’ve been secretly creating. Along with things like what his favorite food is and whether he has any hobbies. If he has family nearby or any family left at all.
Crowds of people pass you by as you walk. He doesn’t acknowledge any of them, not even when they nod or mutter a polite greeting. He just drifts through the masses with you beside him like he was somebody the city already knew by name but dared not to speak to.
He walks you to a train station and for the first time throughout your twenty minute walk, you hear his voice.
But it isn’t directed to you. It’s for the person behind the counter.
“Two tickets. Tokyo.”
His voice vibrates your chest and you swear you can feel it reach behind your sternum. It’s gruff and dark and withdrawn but every syllable is laced with something you can’t explain. Gravity, or something. Something that reaches for you. Confuses warmth with fear until they feel the same.
You’re still not sure what to make of him. You have nothing but his appearance and these few words to go off of. You don’t dare wonder what he thinks of you. He’s already made his decision to sign The Covenant, after all. So his impression must be good. It has to. Otherwise, what’s the point of all this?
He leads you on board and walks you to an empty cart. He stops near the back and turns to face you. He doesn’t meet your eyes or even motion his hand for you to take a seat, but his body language tells you that he wants you to sit down.
So you do.
You take the spot by the window and sit with your back perfectly straight in the plastic chair. You fold your dainty hands in your lap and keep your gaze fixed to the space in front of you.
He sits down and the second his body settles beside yours, your lungs do that stupid thing again where they forget how to breathe.
He’s much taller than you. Almost by a foot. Even with the slouch in his posture, he towers over your small frame. Like he takes up more of the world than he should. And when the train jolts forward, his sleeve brushes against the side of your arm. It sends a ripple through your body that you can’t quite smother out.
Why? Were you really just that nervous around him? Like a scared little bird who couldn’t tell if this man would help it fly or cage it forever?
You try to breathe normally. Try to focus on the city as it passes you by. But all you can feel is him. The warmth of his shoulder that’s so close it might as well be touching yours. The soft sound of his breathing. The dull smell of whatever soap he uses or detergent in his clothes.
You can’t even shift in your seat. Any little extra movement feels like it might break whatever fragile balance exists between you.
He still doesn’t say anything to you and you know better than to try to speak to him again. He just sits there with his arms crossed and his head pointed in the same direction as yours. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t shuffle around in the seat. And for a while, you start to question if he’s fallen asleep sitting upright like that. With his back curved and chin tipped down.
You risk a glance.
His raven locks hang like a curtain surrounding his face. It’s hard to tell whether it’s black or the deepest brown, but either way, it suits him. Shadowed and unruly.
Beyond his frame of hair, you see that he is, in fact, asleep. Or close enough to it that you can’t tell the difference.
His eyes are half-lidded, almost completely closed. There are shadows under them. Long cast below from where his lashes fan out, lashes that are also dark and tired. There’s a haunting stillness to his face. Like rest is a strange thing that he only meets in passing.
His lips are relaxed and pull in the softest sound of air. You try not to spend much time lingering on those, but your eyes disobey. Because you just can’t help it. You wonder what it would look like if he smiles. If that rigid line of his mouth will ever curve into warmth. And if it could, would it ever be directed at you.
His chest rises and falls with something human. Something that doesn’t look so dark or intimidating. There is a subtle tug from the fabric of his shirt near his collarbone. Like his muscles were larger than what they seemed. Like there was more to him underneath all that grunge and mess of hair.
A flush kisses your face.
The thought is ridiculous. Dangerous, even. You shouldn’t be watching him like this, shouldn’t be thinking about him like this. He’s a stranger. A man bound to you by ink and paper. Not affection. Not partnership. He has no interest in getting to know you.
Or at least you don’t think he does. Not right now, not publicly. Maybe that will change. Behind closed doors and away from the watching world.
The train lurches at a stop and he lifts his head on instinct.
You turn away quickly, probably too quickly that he notices anyway, but your face is the worst part. Because it’s burning red. With a heat that rushes to your cheeks before you can think of a single reason why.
The train hisses its doors open and a waft of cool air floods inside. He stands up first but then pauses, just long enough for you to realize that he’s waiting for you.
You do as expected and rise to your feet. He leads you off the cart and you step into new air.
Tokyo.
It’s… different. With a lot more people and taller buildings. Brighter lights and louder noise.
He cuts through the maze of it like he’s unbothered by the chaos. He keeps his same pace, which is significantly slower than those around you, but no one dares to get in his way. No one dares to brush shoulders with him or even look him in the eye.
You feel oddly safe by being by his side. Protected, almost. Like if anyone tried to reach toward you, he would make sure their hand would pull away broken.
It's a foolish, romanticized thought. One that you can't connect to the strange flutter of fear in your stomach. Because at the same time… you are now completely at his will. At his mercy. At least in your hometown city you knew basic landmarks and directions. Knew the streets and the corners.
Now you’re… just completely lost. You have no choice but to follow him.
Eventually, the city noise begins to quiet and smaller streets stretch out in front of you. Your feet feel like they start to blister from how long you’ve been walking, but at least you're out of the city now.
It’s a small development with a one lane road. He takes you to the furthest end of it and turns toward a house.
Like everything else about him, it isn’t what you imagined. Nothing like what a wealthy man would live in.
It’s only one story and looks rather small. The walkway that leads to the front is lined with shrubs and a few trees that stretch to the side yard. It’s quaint but not on purpose. There are no flowers or decorations. No color or warmth, or added signs of life. No sign of anyone trying to make it feel like a home. It has order and trimmed hedges and clean lines. Nothing that suggests laughter or visiting company has ever crossed the threshold.
He pushes the gate open, waits for you to follow, and then locks it behind you. Your chest gives a nervous jolt as he brushes past you again. It isn’t enough to actually touch you but for some reason, it makes your shoulders stiffen. A reflex that feels as much like curiosity as it does unease.
He pulls out his keys, still not looking at you, still not even acknowledging your existence, and opens the door to your new life.
Your feet move before your mind does and you step in. Two steps inside and then you just stand there, unsure of what to do, unsure if this is really your home now or just a pitstop before the next decision is made. You resist the urge to fist the fabric of your dress. To curl your fingers along the hem and squeeze until you lose feeling. You don’t want him to know you do that.
Everything smells like cedar. It’s dark and doesn’t have very many windows. There’s a living room that is connected to what looks like an office area and a hallway that leads to a kitchen. You can see three other rooms down the hall. A bathroom, one room with a closed door and the other that opens to a bedroom.
Your pulse kicks hard at the sight of the bed and you quickly cut your eyes away from it.
The Covenant had rules. Rules about closeness. About what it meant to share a home, to join two people. Bodies were to become symbols of loyalty. Intimacy was an obligation and inevitable.
But it didn’t have to happen right away. That sacred bond didn’t have to be forged until the full moon of the new season. If it doesn't happen by then, if the bond isn’t sealed under the turn of the season, then The Covenant can be dissolved without disgrace. No shame, no questions. Both families walk away as though it never happened at all. That was tradition. Which meant you had a few months to prepare.
At least… if he chooses to follow that tradition.
You guess that… if he really wanted too… he could forge the bond whenever he wanted. Could claim you whenever he felt like it.
Like… right now.
Your throat bobs slowly with a swallow you hope he doesn’t see. You weren’t a stranger to sexual pleasure. Or to desire or even lust. But it feels different when the one who might claim you is a stranger, one you’ve known for less than an hour.
The door locks shut behind you and the sound of the mechanism sliding into place is louder than anything else in the room. Like a finality you can’t argue with. Like a waxed seal pressed into paper. Irreversible and impossible to undo.
This… is your home now. This is where you would spend the rest of your life, with a man that you know nothing about. With a man who hasn’t looked at you once since joining him. Who hasn’t made any effort to get to know you or flatter you. And the one time you try to offer the same, he shuts you down immediately.
Despite the uncomfortable knot in your stomach, you attempt to try again and risk speaking.
“Your place is nice. Small, but I like it. Have you always lived h—”
He’s in front of you before you can even blink. With his tall frame blocking out what little light there is and his dark eyes cutting and harsh. He moves so fast you flinch and stumble back a step until your spine hits the door. He cages you with one hand braced on the wall by your face and the other out of sight.
One second he was walking toward the kitchen. And now he’s blocking your path.
It's threatening. Like danger. Like power.
Everything narrows to him. Your attention, your senses. Your pulse, your body. Like a compass locked to a single point, no matter how bad your instincts want you to turn away.
At first he just glares at you. Like he’s considering his next move. Whether or not he wants to show you this side of him.
But then he leans down, close enough that you can see the velvet-dark specks in his eyes. Close enough that his breath replaces yours. And when he speaks, it’s so deep and husky that every inch of your body trembles.
“Let me make myself very clear. You’re here because of The Covenant. Nothing more. You don’t speak unless spoken to. You don’t ask questions, you don’t make opinionated comments.”
The authority in his tone steals what little air is left in your chest. You squeak out a sound so small it barely counts. One that you try to stop but it leaves your throat without permission.
It seems to please him.
“You stay inside. You don’t open the door for anyone. You don’t wander the house. You don’t ask questions about what I do or where I go. And you don’t touch anything that doesn’t belong to you. Do you understand?”
You should be afraid. You should be cowering. Because it still feels threatening. Like danger. Like power.
You nod. “Yes, sir.”
His pupils dilate like they did before and it makes a fascinating, almost forbidden heat rise in your stomach. He stares down at you with his jaw clenching and for a second, you panic. Because you can’t tell if you’ve made him angry again or if this is just what he looks like when he’s holding something back.
Either way, the silence that follows is dangerous. He looms over you like a shadow that’s cast too wide to step out of. One that requires stillness just to survive in it.
You should be afraid. You should be cowering.
But you hold his gaze through it all. Whether you’re completely frozen or just plain stupid for doing so, you’re not sure. But your eyes don’t waver. They hold his steady, making both of you locked in a silent standoff, neither willing to be the first to look away.
You can't tell if he likes that or not.
He finally pulls back and allows you to breathe. The first gulp of air rushes down your throat like a mercy you didn’t earn.
He turns toward the hallway and doesn’t look at you again.
“Follow.”
And you do.