Was he worth dying for? The answer was yes. Ryuu was her only family, and she loved him with everything in her. It didn't matter if that love wasn't reciprocated every moment of the day; it was in her heart – and his. He was her only family and the only person in the world she had. She couldn't live with herself if she didn't try to save him. On the other hand, she couldn't murder a good man to trade for her brother's life.
So that led her to this moment. She needed to know she'd done at least one of the things important to her. She wanted to feel beautiful. Just once. One time. From the moment Osamu had shown her the books with her mother as a rope model portraying all kinds of rope art from simple to bondage and suspension, she had studied that art. She knew the history. She'd gone to demonstrations. She had found herself moved by the various rope masters and how they treated their models – as if their partner were the only person in their world. Osamu's taunts had backfired. Just once, even if it wasn't real, she wanted to feel as if a man saw only her. No one else. For those moments, she was his world. His canvas. He saw beauty in her.
She began to remove her clothes in front of the mirror. She didn't have the slender, beautiful body the other women in her household had had. She was all curves. Full, firm breasts; wide, curving hips; she even had a butt. How many times had Osamu made fun of her butt, saying they could serve tea on her bottom. For one moment, in defiance, she considered going to Ricco in a bra and those indecent panties, but she couldn't make herself do it. It was bad enough to go with no underwear, even covered by the one-piece thing he wanted her to wear. There were three of them – red, black and white.
Mariko forced herself to pull on the black catsuit. It was tight, the nearly sheer, stretch lace material molding to every curve and emphasizing her narrower rib cage and waist. She could barely look at herself in it. It showed every single flaw she had, and that was her entire body. She nearly ripped it off and sank to the floor in a flood of tears, but that wasn't allowed in her world. She took a deep breath and forced herself to continue.
She was very aware of time passing. Ricco had said they didn't have much time. What did that mean? He didn't call out to her or try to hurry her in any way. She used the bathroom and spent time on her makeup. She'd learned from another shadow rider, a young sixteen-year-old girl from England. The girl had taught her in secret, because if Osamu had found her with makeup, there would have been hell to pay.
Again, she stared at herself in the mirror, afraid to move. Her inclination was to run. To just disappear into the night. Never see Ricco or his family again. Never think about this moment of utter terror. She was attracted to him and she didn't want him to see her as weak or ugly. She didn't want him to know she'd come there with the thought to kill him. She had so many secrets to hide.
It would be so easy to leave, but she couldn't pass up this one moment in her life. Face herself. She wanted truth. She'd been seeking the truth of her past, the truth about herself. Squaring her shoulders, head up, she turned away from the mirror. She was one of the best riders in Japan. She knew she was and had confidence that she could kill a man.
Could she find the confidence to look into her own soul? To be a woman and feel like a woman just once? She'd chosen this path because her mother had thought the art form beautiful. In studying the history and learning about each rope discipline, she had come to find beauty in it. She wanted to be a part of that before she died. She would become part of both her father's and mother's history and culture. She loved that idea. She just had to find the courage to do it.
Ricco was waiting in the studio. Lights were muted, which surprised her, and there was music playing, something soft and easy. The room, like all the rooms in his home, was spacious. Mirrors went from floor to ceiling on one wall. Cameras were in cases and there was an open closet full of props. Her heart pounded when she saw the rigging overhead that told her he might at some point want to suspend her from the ceiling.
He had his back to her, his hands moving over the coils of rope on the wall. There were all types of materials in various colors and he seemed to absorb the textures of each as his hand moved over the bundles. She was mesmerized by the way he touched them, almost a caress she could feel on her own skin. There were far more ropes here than in his room.
She shivered and rubbed at her arms, wishing she could hide her breasts and the way her nipples pushed against the material of the skintight suit. It wasn't the cold, although the studio was cool. Her body had reacted to the way he smoothed his palm over the ropes. She held her breath as he turned, watching his eyes, needing to see that first expression, afraid it would be disgust and she would be humiliated all over again. She steeled herself. She was used to humiliation. She could handle it. But not from him.