The soothing scent of wisteria permeated his dreams.
Osamu had been fighting for his life only moments before, legs kicking against the floor of the den as fangs flashed in the soft light that filtered through the entrance. His fur stood perfectly on end, a bristling mass of rage and barely-restrained violence as his unconscious form struggled against enemies unseen, and then suddenly it was as if all at once a great calm settled over him and the man lay still.
Izumi's influence extended far, far into the deepest reaches of his psyche, even in sleep.
Her voice pulled him back to the waking world.
Hmm... Izumi?
Osamu rumbled, disheveled head lifting from the crook of his forelimb. I mean - Empress?
Oh, hells, what did he call her now?
Everything had changed.
Everything was different.
He had deflowered her. Defiled her. He would have liked to blame the incident on drink alone, but the Samurai knew in his heart that he had long suppressed his burning desire for her - their innocent spars in the cove, his efforts to train her in the ways of self-defense, bodies brushing against each other, her scent so strong he could taste it. Taste her.
And he finally had. Gods, he had.
Although he vividly remembered some parts of that night, others had been obscured by the heady haze of alcohol, most particularly the bits leading up to their ultimate consummation. It ate him alive from the inside, the not knowing - not recalling. Had he pressured her? Had she truly wanted it? Osamu could still hear Izumi keening beneath him, her lithe form writhing like a pale serpent as he claimed her over and over again, her quickened breaths and soft moans filling the air like the most beautiful song.
And now she was here to - what? Banish him, perhaps? Order his demise?
Gladly, he thought remorsefully. The guilt hung over him like a shroud; disappointed in himself, in his lack of control.
He was no Samurai any longer.
... Of course.
Osamu swallowed, his throat bone-dry.
He sat up with the resignation of a man sentenced to die.