The fabric was expertly made, youki running through the fibres, but his eyes were drawn to the ivory thread in the shape of plum blossoms adorning her shoulders. The hexagons were slightly lopsided, but only to the trained eye, and desire hit him in the gut.
She'd made it herself.
On purpose.
For him.
The red had been necessary for battle. A way to intimidate his enemies and forewarn them of their demise. He'd had no need for it lately, resorting to softer hues of purple, as was his birthright.
It was the same shade the miko wore now.
His jaw tightened as he mentally shook his head. No, she was no mere miko. Every fibre of his being screamed in denial of such a paltry title. She was his—and was blatantly proclaiming it as such.
He stalked toward her, arms stiff, almost faltering as her pupils dilated. She stared up at him, unblinking, heartbeat increasing, though if it was from nerves or anticipation, he couldn't say.
The words he wanted to say wouldn't form, his arm snaking around her waist and pulling her flush with his chest. She gasped, the spell breaking, but she didn't push him away, didn't deny him.
And then they were gone.