Shadows
Saruhiko isn’t afraid of shadows when he walks through the city on missions he despises, climbing Jungle ranks like it comes easy. (It does come easy. He had a thorough training in malice and sadistic behavior before he ever encountered the clans.)
He has nothing to fear from the members of the Green Clan or the King he knows he will come to meet. He’d been afraid of the Red King once, all flame and power, but he’s not afraid of shadows, not anymore.
That guy had occupied the shadows, malicious, sadistic. He’s dead, and now it’s Saruhiko owning them.
His mouth went dry, as if he were suddenly parched.
Saruhiko had seen Misaki without his shirts before, had yanked the collar down himself to see what was going on with the mark of Mikoto’s aura, but this was the first time since they’d reconciled that Misaki had tossed off all the layers aimlessly, complaining of summer heat, and padded barefoot into the kitchen to make dinner.
Saruhiko watched as he had always watched his friend, but there was definitely something different than just “summer” heat making him flushed and thirsty.
“What do you want?” Misaki asked.
Saruhiko shrugged. You.