The Wolf, the Demon, and Their Omega

Chapter Fifteen

MINA

The compound wakes before I do. I hear it in the careful footsteps outside my door, in the whispered Japanese that carries more authority than shouting ever could. Somewhere below, preparations have already begun for a wedding that shouldn't be happening for weeks.

Except we moved up the timeline. Accelerated everything. Because I shifted in a school parking lot and showed half of Blood Moon exactly what hides under my carefully constructed human mask.

I lie in the pre-dawn darkness of Kenji's bed—our bed now, technically—and try not to panic. His heat radiates against my back, one arm thrown over my waist in sleep. Through the bonds, I feel the others scattered across the compound. Sasha running on his usual three hours. Adrian feeding somewhere I don't want to imagine. Lysander doing whatever fae do when reality gets boring.

My skin ripples without permission. The dragon blood surges, wanting out, wanting to test the space between what I was and what I'm becoming. I breathe through it until the urge passes, counting heartbeats in the dark.

"Awake?" Kenji's voice carries sleep-rough warmth.

"Can't turn my brain off."

"Nervous?"

I think about lying. "Terrified."

He pulls me closer, buries his face in my neck where his mark sits. "Me too."

"You? Mr. 'I was born for this' himself?"

"I was born into this. Doesn't mean I know what I'm doing." His breath ghosts across my skin. "We're making it up as we go. Breaking every rule. Might combust spectacularly."

"Reassuring."

"I try."

The knock comes soft but inevitable. "Mina-chan. The women are ready for you."

Akane's voice. Kenji's mother, who executed three men in a basement and called it Tuesday.

"Coming."

Kenji releases me reluctantly. In the growing light, I catch the marks we left on each other—his throat purple from my teeth, scratches down his shoulders where I held on too tight. Evidence written in bruises and broken capillaries.

"I'll see you at the ceremony." He kisses me once, thorough enough to make reconsideration tempting. "Don't run."

"Where would I go?"

"Brazil. Your cousins are still calling."

He's not wrong. My phone buzzes daily with São Paulo numbers I keep sending to voicemail. But running feels like losing, and I've lost enough.

I dress in the silk robe someone left draped over the chair—deep blue embroidered with water patterns that feel pointed. When I open the door, three women wait like a receiving line for the condemned.

Akane stands centered, immaculate in a dove-gray kimono that probably requires engineering degrees to wear. Beside her, Hana radiates sharp elegance in Western clothing. And Mikko—the kitsune smiles with too many teeth, hair loose around her shoulders in a way that makes her look simultaneously younger and infinitely older.

"Ready?" Akane asks.

"Do I have a choice?"

"Always. But only one answer keeps you alive."

Fair enough.

They lead me through corridors I'm still learning, past rooms where male voices carry the particular tone of men making important decisions. The F4 will be in there somewhere, navigating yakuza politics on my behalf. The thought makes my chest tight with something between gratitude and guilt.

We end up in a wing I haven't seen—all traditional architecture and carefully tended gardens visible through sliding doors. The room they usher me into spans the entire corner, tatami mats soft under bare feet, low table arranged with more items than I can catalog at first glance.

"Sit." Mikko gestures to cushions arranged near the table. "This takes time."

I fold myself down, hyperaware of three apex predators arranged around me with undivided attention. The morning light turns everything amber and expectant.

"First," Akane says, producing a lacquered box I recognize from somewhere primal, "we discuss what you're walking into."

"Marriage and potential dismemberment. Got it."

Hana laughs, sharp and surprised. "She's funny. I like funny."

"Funny keeps you sane." Mikko pours tea that smells like green things and old secrets. "You'll need that here."

Akane opens the box with reverent hands. Inside, folded careful as prayer, white silk gleams in the early light. "Traditional brides wear shiromuku. Pure white. Represents maiden entering her husband's family unmarried."

"I'm not particularly pure."

"None of us were." She lifts the silk, lets it cascade. "But you'll wear white for the ceremony. Tradition matters to the elders. Then we'll dress you in uchikake for the reception—color, life, the rebirth into Fukiyama."

"And later?" The question tastes like broken glass going down. "The blood ritual?"

Silence settles heavy. Mikko sips her tea, watching me over the rim with fox-bright eyes.

"You shift," Akane says simply. "Fully. Let the family see what they're claiming."

"And if I can't?" The suppressants have been failing, but control feels theoretical at best.

"You will." Mikko sets down her cup with ceramic precision. "Dragons don't fail when it matters. They just decide what matters."

The logic shouldn't work, but it settles something in my chest anyway.

"Now." Hana produces her own box—this one sleek black leather. "The practical elements. You're marrying into yakuza. That comes with... markings."

She opens the box to reveal tattoo equipment that looks medical-grade and absolutely terrifying.

"You want to ink me before the wedding?"

"Not want. Need." Akane traces the edge of the box. "Every Fukiyama bride receives the family mark. Small, easily hidden, but permanent. Proof you've chosen this. That we've chosen you."

"What if I refused?"

"Then you'd be the first." Mikko's smile promises things I can't name. "Tradition has weight here. Break it thoughtfully or not at all."

I think about my mother's research, how she documented every supernatural culture's markers and meanings. How she'd probably have opinions about me permanently marking myself for strategic alliance.

She's also dead because someone wanted dragons extinct.

"Where?" I extend my wrist, pulse visible under brown skin.

"Not there." Hana stands, moves behind me. Her fingers find the spot where my neck meets shoulder, right where Sasha's bite already marked me invisible. "Here. Where it means something."

"That's going to hurt."

"Yes." Akane assembles the equipment with practiced efficiency. "Pain is part of the claiming. Proof you'll bleed for family."

She's not wrong. I've bled for worse reasons.

The first needle bite makes me hiss. Not the pain—though that's sharp and immediate—but the permanence of it. Ink pushing under skin, marking me in ways even shifter healing won't erase completely. Akane works with the focused precision of someone who's done this before, probably many times. Marking brides and soldiers and everyone in between.

"What are you putting on me?"

"Crane." Her hand moves steady as she works. "For loyalty, longevity, good fortune. And kanji—Fukiyama. You're ours now. Might as well wear it."

The others keep me distracted with stories while Akane inks. Mikko describes her own tattoo—fox and moon hidden along her ribs—and the three years of tests before they let her get it. Hana shows hers, a knife wrapped in ivy that runs down her spine like a promise of violence. Even yakuza daughters carry family marks.

"Done." Akane wipes away excess ink with movements that feel ritualistic. "Don't touch it. Let it set."

I crane my neck trying to see. In the mirror across the room, the crane spreads delicate wings right over Sasha's bite mark. The kanji beneath reads like ownership and belonging tangled together. The skin around it glows angry red, but underneath I feel something else. Like the ink sank deeper than dermis, marking something more fundamental.

"Now the hard part." Hana grins. "Making you beautiful."

"I'm already—"

"—gorgeous, yes. But weddings require transformation." She starts pulling items from bags I didn't see them bring. "Brace yourself."

What follows feels simultaneously eternal and instantaneous. They strip me down to nothing, murmuring approval at the marks already decorating my skin—bite scars from all four boys, fading scratches, the evidence of belonging. Then comes the bath, water so hot it scalds, scented with things that make my head swim. Mikko washes my hair herself, fingers working through tangles with patient thoroughness while singing something in Japanese I don't understand but feel anyway.

After the bath comes lotions and oils that smell like money and tradition mixed together. Akane explains each one—for smooth skin, for luck, for fertility that makes me choke. They're thorough, methodical, treating my body like a canvas requiring precise preparation.

"The elders arrive in two hours," Hana says, checking her phone. "Board of directors flew in from Tokyo specifically for this. Sixteen of them. All wanting to meet the girl who caught a fire dragon's attention."

My stomach drops. "Board of directors?"

"Fukiyama-guchi isn't just family." Mikko combs through my damp hair with careful strokes. "It's empire. Legitimate businesses, underground operations, political connections spanning continents. The board oversees it all. They'll want to assess you."

"Assess me how?"

"Questions. Observations. Whether you'll crack under pressure." Akane meets my eyes in the mirror. "Show them the predator. Hide the prey."

Before I can process that, the door slides open. A tiny elderly woman enters, moving with the kind of careful precision that speaks of genuine age rather than supernatural preservation. She's barely five feet, kimono traditional enough to belong in museums, face carved from decades of watching empires rise and fall.

"Grandmother." Hana rises immediately, bowing deep.

The old woman waves dismissively. "Sit. I'm not here for formality." Her attention locks on me, dark eyes sharper than age should allow. "Come, child. Let me see what all the fuss is about."

I stand, acutely aware I'm wearing nothing but a towel and nerves. She circles me like I'm livestock at market, humming thoughtfully.

"Water dragon. Last of his line." She stops in front of me, reaches up to touch my face with fingers like dried paper. "You have his eyes. Good boy. Terrible cards."

"You knew my father well?"

"Taught him everything I knew about water control. He was... reluctant student. Too Western. Always asking why instead of just doing." She smiles, and I see genuine affection there. "But good heart. He chose love over duty. Brave and stupid in equal measure."

"Did he know?" The question tears out before I can stop it. "What he was? What I might become?"

"He knew." She releases my face, settles onto cushions with the careful movements of someone whose bones protest. "Told him when he brought snake girl home. Said their daughter would be something impossible. Something necessary. He chose to let you discover it yourself."

Anger rises hot and sharp. "He let me think I was just snake. Let me take suppressants that tore me apart—"

"He let you have childhood." Her voice carries steel beneath age. "Dragon children don't get that luxury. We're weapons before we're people. He gave you years of just being girl. Being daughter. Being alive without weight of empire on your shoulders." She catches my hand, squeezes with surprising strength. "He gave you choice. Most valuable gift dragon can give."

The anger doesn't disappear, but it shifts. Transforms into something more complicated.

"Now." Grandmother claps once, sharp. "Show me what you can do. Water. While they make you beautiful."

"I don't—I haven't really tried—"

She gestures at the tea set. "Cup. Move water from cup to bowl without touching."

I stare at the ceramic. Water control. One of the things I inherited from a father who hid what he was until someone carved him apart for it.

"I don't know how."

"You do. You're just afraid of knowing." She settles back, expectant. "Fear wastes time. Try."

With three women watching and a wedding looming, I reach for something I've never consciously accessed. Feel for the water in the cup, the way it moves and pools and wants. It takes five attempts—water sloshing, spilling, refusing to cooperate—before something clicks. The liquid rises from the cup like it's being pulled by invisible strings, streams across empty air, splashes into the bowl.

Not graceful. But done.

"Good. Again."

For the next hour, while they dress me in layers of silk and tradition, I move water. Cup to bowl to cup to bowl until my head pounds and my hands shake but the water obeys. Grandmother watches with the critical eye of someone who's taught generations, calling corrections in Japanese I somehow understand.

"Enough." She stands when Hana starts on my makeup. "You'll do. Not great. But adequate for girl who just discovered she's more than snake."

High praise, apparently, because Mikko laughs and Akane looks pleased.

"Thank you." I catch her hand before she leaves. "For knowing him. For telling me."

"He'd be proud." She pats my cheek. "Terrified. But proud. Now marry fire dragon. Make strong babies. Rebuild what they tried to destroy."

She leaves before I can explain that baby-making isn't exactly the plan. Though with yakuza, plans seem more like suggestions anyway.

The makeup takes another hour. Hana works with the precision of someone who understands face as weapon, transforming me into something that belongs in photographs. White base—traditional for weddings—with red lips and careful eye work that makes me look simultaneously innocent and dangerous. The crane tattoo shows just above the collar, visible but not obvious.

Then comes the kimono. Layer after layer of silk so heavy I understand why weddings have attendants. The shiromuku is pure white shot through with silver thread that catches light like water. It takes all three of them to arrange it correctly, tucking and folding with mathematical precision. The obi alone requires ten minutes and coordination that speaks of practice.

Finally, the tsunokakushi—a traditional hood that's supposed to hide a bride's "horns of jealousy." In my case, it might actually be literal.

"There." Akane steps back, assessing. "Perfect. You look like bride and weapon equally."

The mirror proves her right. I look like something from woodblock prints—all white silk and red lips and edges sharp enough to cut. The girl who walked into Blood Moon just days ago is gone, replaced by this creature wearing tradition like armor.

"One hour until ceremony." Hana checks her phone again. "The board should be arriving now. They'll want to see you before everything begins."

"Can't they wait until—"

"No." Mikko helps me stand, adjusting the kimono's weight. "Board sees you first. Approves or doesn't. Their blessing matters even if we pretend it doesn't."

They lead me through more corridors, moving slow enough to accommodate the twelve yards of silk I'm wrapped in. We end up in a room that screams importance—all dark wood and serious furniture, walls lined with photographs of stern Japanese men across generations.

The board sits arranged like judges at tribunal. Sixteen of them, ranging from ancient to merely old, all watching me with expressions that reveal nothing. Most are Japanese, but I spot Korean faces, maybe Southeast Asian. All male. All radiating the particular authority that comes from controlling empires built on fear and money.

At the center sits a man who makes the others look diminished by proximity. Seventy, maybe older, face carved from something harder than flesh. His suit fits like second skin, but he wears it like afterthought. Power doesn't need expensive fabric when it owns the people who make it.

"Padilla Mina." His voice carries the texture of cigarettes and command. "I am Fukiyama Takeshi. Board chairman. Tetsuya's father."

Kenji's grandfather. I bow as deeply as the kimono allows. "Honored to meet you."

"Sit." He gestures to a cushion facing their assembled authority. "We have questions."

I lower myself carefully, grateful for the hours of practice moving in this much silk. The board watches with the focused attention of people who miss nothing.

"You are omega." Takeshi doesn't phrase it as question. "Unclaimed by previous pack. Why?"

"I had no pack."

"Everyone has pack. Even snake."

"My pack died when my parents did." Truth, stripped to bone. "I've been alone since."

"And now you're not." His eyes—dark as old stains—pin me without mercy. "Four males. Multiple species. Bonds that should have killed you. Explain."

I consider lying. Remember Grandmother's words about dragons not getting childhood, not having choices. Remember that these men built empire on reading through deception.

"I don't know why we survived the bonds. Just that we did. That I bit back when they bit me. That something in my blood answered something in theirs." I meet his eyes without flinching. "That I'd do it again."

Silence. Then one of the other board members speaks—Korean accent underneath. "Your father was federal investigator. Water dragon hiding in plain sight. Did he tell you what you were?"

"No."

"Did your mother know?"

"I don't think so." Memory of her last voicemail plays on loop. "She knew something was wrong. That someone was coming. But not what I'd become."

"Convenient." This from another elder, voice sharp as broken glass. "Parents dead. Records destroyed. Only your word on heritage."

"Test me." The words come out harder than intended. "Whatever you need. Blood, DNA, the ritual later. I'm what I say I am."

"We know." Takeshi waves dismissively. "You shifted to save Bolkonsky heir in front of witnesses. Twenty-three feet of apex predator. Water dragon signature undeniable once manifested." He leans forward slightly. "Question isn't what you are. Question is what you'll do with it."

"Find who killed my parents. Use your archives. Honor the alliance."

"In that order?"

"Yes."

More silence. The board exchanges looks that carry entire conversations in micro-expressions.

"You're honest. Stupid, but honest." Takeshi almost smiles. "Stupid gets you killed. Honest keeps you alive long enough to learn better. We'll see which wins."

He stands, formal as ritual. The others rise with him, moving in synchronized authority.

"The Fukiyama-guchi board recognizes this alliance. Accepts dragon blood into family. Expects proper heir within five years." He bows—slight, but present. "Welcome to empire, granddaughter. Try not to destroy it immediately."

They file out before I can respond to that heir comment, leaving me sitting in silk and shock while my new title echoes.

Granddaughter.

Not just Kenji's bride. Takeshi's family. Claimed by the man who built an empire from Tokyo's ruins.

"That went well." Mikko appears in the doorway. "He only calls people stupid when he likes them. Everyone else gets silence or death."

"He wants grandchildren in five years."

"All old men want legacy. Ignore timeline. Focus on staying alive." She helps me stand, adjusting silk with practiced hands. "Now comes the wedding. Ready?"

"Does it matter?"

"Not even slightly."