I Stole the Villain's Cat, and Now He Thinks I'm His Wife

I didn’t sleep a single wink.

How could I? Every time I closed my eyes, my mind insisted on replaying the image of a pink-haired warlord calling me his fated wife while a dozen heavily armed men debated whether I was an assassin.

By the time the morning sun began to filter through the paper shoji screens, painting the tatami mats in pale gold, I was sitting perfectly still in the center of the room. I hadn’t moved in hours.

Yuki, however, had slept wonderfully.

The fluffy menace was currently sprawled on his back across the midnight blue kosode Akira had given me. He was snoring softly, his little red bow rising and falling with every breath.

"Off the treason dress," I whispered, nudging the cat lightly with my toe.

Jingle. Yuki cracked one turquoise eye open, regarded my foot with clear displeasure, and promptly went back to sleep.

I sighed, drawing my knees to my chest. I reached out and gently brushed my fingers over the silk of the dress. The fabric was unimaginably soft. It felt like cool water against my skin, the silver embroidery of the northern pines shimmering in the morning light.

I had never worn anything this fine. For my entire life, my wardrobe had consisted of coarse hemp and scratchy, second-hand cotton.

Touching the beautiful silk made my chest tighten. It reminded me exactly why I was in this situation.

I closed my eyes, and the opulent room vanished. Suddenly, I was back in the damp, freezing basement of the Bureau of Divination.

Scrub harder, you useless rats! The sharp crack of a bamboo practice sword struck the stone wall, inches from my head. I flinched, instinctively throwing my body over my little sister, Rin.

Uncle Kenji stood over us, his face flushed with cheap plum wine. He was a mid-ranking onmyoji, a man who had clawed his way to a comfortable position by taking the inheritance our parents left behind when they died. Spirit-ash does not cleanse itself! Kenji spat, kicking the wooden bucket of dirty water over. It soaked into Rin’s frayed dress. She let out a weak, rattling cough, her tiny frame trembling violently. The ash we were forced to clean was the toxic residue of high-level onmyodo spells. Without spiritual protection, breathing it in slowly poisoned the blood. It was a death sentence for someone with weak spiritual energy like Rin.

"Uncle, please," I begged, my throat raw. I held Rin tighter. Her forehead burned beneath my touch. "She is ill. She needs a physician. She needs the cleansing medicine."

"Medicine costs coin," he sneered, adjusting his pristine court robes. "Coin your worthless parents failed to leave behind. Her blood is weak. Let the yokai take her—it will spare me the cost of feeding you both."

He turned on his heel and walked up the stairs, locking the heavy wooden door behind him. I held Rin in the dark, listening to her uneven breathing. She looked up at me with glassy, fever-bright eyes.

"Kitsune," she whispered, her small hand clutching my sleeve. "Does it hurt to become a ghost?"

"You will not become a ghost," I told her, my voice unsteady. I wiped the soot from her pale cheek, tears stinging my eyes. "I will fix this. I will get the medicine, Rin. I promise. No matter the cost."

I snapped my eyes open, dragging in a sharp breath in Akira’s lavish guest room.

My heart pounded against my ribs. I pressed my hand over my chest, over the faintly glowing crest hidden beneath my robes.

"I made a promise," I whispered into the stillness.

I could not afford panic. I could not afford weakness. If I confessed to Akira now, he would cast me out—or worse—and Rin would die in that freezing basement alone.

But if I endured this... if I played the role of the Demon Prince’s wife... I would gain access to the most powerful onmyoji in the empire. I could save her.

"Very well," I murmured, my resolve hardening. I rose and crossed the room, lifting Yuki and depositing him rather unceremoniously onto a cushion.

The cat gave an indignant hiss.

"You led me into this, troublesome creature," I replied, slipping out of my worn gray robes. "You will see me through it."

I pulled the midnight blue kosode on. It fit perfectly, which was both convenient and faintly unsettling. Had Akira used magic to size it, or was his perception truly that precise? I decided I did not wish to know.

I tied the silver obi firmly around my waist, suppressing a small wince as it pressed against the crest on my chest. I brushed out my light gray hair, tying it half-up with my simple black ribbon—the only piece of my old life I refused to discard.

I looked at my reflection in the polished bronze mirror.

The woman staring back did not resemble a basement rat. She looked like a composed, distant noblewoman. She looked like she belonged beside the Lord of the Northern Marches.

Slide.

The heavy wooden doors parted.

Akira stood in the doorway, and all the breath left my lungs.

He was dressed for the Imperial Court. His robes were stark black, trimmed in deep indigo and silver. His pink hair was drawn back into a severe, elegant topknot, secured with a jade pin. Without the softness of moonlight, he looked every inch the ruthless warlord the rumors claimed him to be. The air around him hummed faintly with restrained spiritual power.

Then his amber eyes found me.

The oppressive aura vanished at once. His breath caught softly, his gaze widening as it moved over me clad in his clan’s colors. He looked at me as though I were something precious beyond measure.

"You..." His voice was low, stripped of its usual control. "You are radiant."

"Thank you," I replied, heat rising to my face. I lowered my gaze, unable to endure the intensity of his stare. "The fabric... is exquisite."

How inelegant. I sound like a trader, not a consort.

If he noticed, he gave no sign. He stepped forward, closing the distance between us. Yuki trotted over, bell jingling, and leapt effortlessly onto Akira’s shoulders, draping himself there like a self-satisfied ornament.

Akira extended his hand.

"Are you prepared, my wife?" he asked softly. "The court is a nest of vipers. Yet none will bare their fangs while I still draw breath."

I looked at his hand. This was the moment from which there would be no retreat.

I thought of Rin’s burning forehead, her fragile voice.

I placed my trembling hand into his. His fingers closed around mine—warm, steady, impossibly gentle.

"I am," I said quietly.

A lie.

The carriage ride to the Imperial Palace was an exercise in quiet torment.

The carriage was not drawn by ordinary oxen, but by two massive spectral wolves with glowing blue eyes—yokai bound to Akira’s bloodline. Every commoner along the street threw themselves to the ground as we passed, terrified of both beasts and master.

Inside, it was silent. Uncomfortably so.

Akira sat beside me, still holding my hand. His thumb traced slow, steady circles over my knuckles. It was... distracting.

"You are trembling," he observed, his voice low over the rumble of the wheels.

"I am merely... uneasy with crowds," I replied. It was not entirely untrue. Especially when those crowds held the authority to order my death.

"You will not be required to speak," Akira said, his gaze darkening with quiet protectiveness. "The Emperor will probe. The Ministers will search for weakness. Let them. They will address me."

"...Yes," I answered softly.

The carriage slowed, then came to a heavy halt.

Outside, a servant struck a great bronze gong. GONG. GONG. GONG. "Lord Kurogane Akira, Third Prince of the Blood, Lord of the Northern Marches!" the herald cried, his voice edged with fear.

The carriage doors opened, revealing the brilliance of the morning sun.

We stood within the main courtyard of the Imperial Palace. Towering red pillars upheld green-tiled roofs. Cherry blossoms drifted down like pale snow upon the pristine white gravel.

And before the hall stood hundreds of nobles, ministers, and high-ranking onmyoji—the entire Imperial Court.

Silence fell. Every gaze fixed upon the carriage.

Akira stepped out first. A visible ripple passed through the crowd. He did not spare them a glance. Instead, he turned and extended his hand to me.

I drew a slow breath, gathered my skirts, and stepped into the light.

A collective gasp followed.

Whispers rose at once, sharp and restless. Who is she? She wears his colors... Her aura—completely hidden. A master of concealment? (Not hidden. Simply weak.)

Akira’s hand came to rest lightly at my back, guiding me forward. Yuki, still perched on his shoulders, gave a long, bored yawn.

We took three steps toward the Emperor’s hall.

Then—

A voice cut through the murmurs like a jagged blade.

"Kitsune?!"

I froze. My blood turned cold.

A man forced his way to the front of the lesser nobles, clad in pristine white and purple robes. His face was flushed, his eyes wide with shock—and fury.

Uncle Kenji.

"You worthless little rat!" he spat, all decorum forgotten. He pointed at me with a trembling hand. "What do you think you are doing? Did you steal those robes? Come here at once before I have you whipped!"

A wave of stunned silence swept the courtyard. Such vulgarity, spoken in the Emperor’s presence, bordered on treason.

I could not breathe. The ground seemed to tilt beneath me. I opened my mouth, but no sound came.

Beside me, the air grew deathly cold. The falling cherry blossoms froze midair.

Akira turned his head slowly. His pink hair stirred in the wind. His amber eyes settled upon my uncle, glowing with a quiet, murderous light that made the great spirit-wolves bare their teeth.

"Who," Akira asked, his voice a soft, lethal whisper that carried across the silent court, "is this man to you, my wife?"