Emperor of Rage: Chapter 33

Cool night air filters in through the large floor-to-ceiling windows, the moon casting a soft silver glow across the room. I lean back against Mal’s chest, resting my head on his shoulder as we sit on the couch in the guesthouse.

Outside, the trees sway in the strong wind, their branches whispering against the glass. Mal’s just explained to me that monsoon season in Japan is approaching, bringing with it typhoons and other huge winds.

We got a taste of it earlier, with black clouds and whipping, raw gusts chasing over the hills above Kyoto, but it’s quiet now.

The peaceful silence is a welcome contrast to the chaos that’s been swirling for days now. His arm is draped over my shoulders, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the skin near my collarbone and down my breast, sending little electric shocks through me. I tilt my head back, looking up at him. His face is cast in shadows, his strong jawline lit only by the moonlight.

There’s something about these quiet moments with Mal that makes me feel like the world could end, and I wouldn’t care—as long as I was here, in his arms.

“You never told me about it,” he says suddenly, his voice cutting through the stillness.

I blink up at him, confused. “About what?”

His hand brushes over my ribs, fingers hovering over the tattoo etched into my skin just below my left breast.

Memento Mori

“Memento Mori,” he murmurs. “Why that?”

My breath hitches.

“Just a thing I got when I was younger.”

He doesn’t reply. When I glance back up at him, he’s looking at me with an intensity that honestly freaks me out a little.

“What?” I mumble.

Mal shakes his head. “You can be impulsive. But this wasn’t. You planned this. You picked exactly where you wanted it, the font…”

I shiver. Goddammit, he’s too good at digging into people’s heads to get at the truth.

But he’s not going to get it from me. Not all of it, at least.

He doesn’t need to know about the time-bomb inside of me.

“It means⁠—”

“Remember you must die, I know,” Mal says patiently. “Which is why I want to know why you’ve got this of all phrases tattooed near your heart.”

I swallow hard, suddenly feeling the full meaning of the words on my skin. “It’s just…a reminder,” I say softly, trying to brush it off. “To live with purpose. To remember that life is short.”

Of course, the truth is much heavier than that. It sits deep in my chest like a lead weight, the knowledge that I’ll never grow old, never experience life in all the ways I want to. I’d accepted it—at least, I told myself I had—but now, having Mal, feeling this connection with him… I want more time.

And I’m heartbroken I won’t get it.

He doesn’t push or ask for more, but I can feel the weight of his gaze on me, waiting for me to share something deeper.

I want to, but I can’t.

Not yet.

So I change the subject. My eyes drift over the dark ink that covers Mal’s body, tracing the intricate patterns and shapes. There’s one tattoo in particular that’s always caught my eye—the large piece that curls across his upper arm and shoulder, a copy of the iconic Japanese wood block print by Hokusai called “The Great Wave off Kanagawa.” I’ve seen it on posters or wallpaper a hundred different times—the swirling ocean wave crashing down, frozen in time. But on Mal’s skin, it looks almost alive.

“What about this?” I ask, my fingers brushing over the tattoo. “Why The Great Wave?”

Mal looks down at me, a slight smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “You know what it is?”

“Of course,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I just don’t get it. Why this? Love for Japan?”

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes flickering away, as if he’s debating whether to answer. Mal’s not one to share easily—he holds everything close to his chest, every word a secret he can’t afford to let slip. Tonight, though, something feels different.

“I surf,” he says finally, almost hesitantly.

I blink. “I’m sorry, you? Surfing?”

He chuckles softly. “Is that so hard to imagine?”

“I mean, the lack of puka shell necklaces and overuse of the words ‘gnarly’ and ‘bruh’ sort of make it difficult.”

I glance up at him again, trying to picture him on a surfboard, cutting through waves. It’s hard to imagine—no, actually, it’s not. There’s something wild about Mal, something untamable, like the ocean itself.

Surfing has always seemed like freedom to me—wild and exhilarating, like flying across the water. “Must be nice,” I say quietly, trying to keep my voice light. “I’ve never surfed.”

Mal’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Why not?”

I shrug. “The sun?”

“That’s the only thing stopping you?”

I snort. “The threat of crippling agony and burning is a definite turnoff.”

“I could teach you,” he says, his voice low and steady.

I look up at him, startled. “What?”

“At night,” he says, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I could teach you. No sunlight, no crowds. Just us.”

For a moment, I can’t breathe. The idea of surfing, of feeling that kind of freedom, with Mal… It sends a thrill through me, a spark of something wild and reckless.

But fear is there too, dampening my excitement.

“I don’t know,” I murmur. “I can’t⁠—”

“You can,” he interrupts, his voice firm.

There’s a blazing certainty in his voice that makes me want to throw caution to the wind and just…live. For once, I want to forget about the Huntington’s, about the ticking bomb that’s inside me. I want to be free. I want to be reckless.

But the fear is still there, whispering in the back of my mind.

My gaze drags back to his Kanagawa tattoo. Then it slides down to the scar that cuts through the bottom of the piece. It’s jagged and rough, like something that wasn’t meant to be there, and it stands out against the smooth lines of the ink. But it also looks much older than the tattoo around it. In fact, the artist who did this tattoo has clearly gone out of their way to work around it, since tattooing scar tissue is so tricky. So it’s older than the tattoo.

I’ve noticed it before, but I’ve never asked about it. Now, though, with the darkness blanketing us and the quiet intimacy of the moment, I feel emboldened to ask.

“How did you get that?” I ask softly, tracing the scar with my fingers.

Mal tenses beneath my touch. For a moment, I think he’s going to brush off the question like he always does when anything feels too personal. But then he sighs, his eyes flicking away.

“It happened when I was young,” he says, his voice hollow and distant. “That’s all.”

I frown, guessing there’s more to the story, but I don’t push. We all have our scars, visible and invisible, and some are too painful to share.

Silence settles over us again, but it’s comfortable, like we’ve said all that needs to be said for now. I lean back against his chest again, closing my eyes as I let the rhythm of his breathing lull me into a sense of calm.

The storm outside may have passed, but the storm inside me rages on, a constant battle between wanting more and knowing I can never have it.

I haven’t told Mal about the Huntington’s, that I’m living on borrowed time. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell him.

But for now, I’ll take this moment, with his arms around me, and his heart beating against mine, and I’ll hold onto it as tightly as I can.

Later that night, as the moon rises higher in the sky and the world outside the windows fades into darkness, I find myself staring at the ink on my skin again.

Memento Mori.

I trace the letters with my fingers, feeling the weight of them in my chest. It’s a mantra that I’ve lived by for years. But there’s another half to that phrase, one that I’ve never given much thought to.

Memento Vivere.

Remember to live.

Maybe… Maybe that’s the part I need to focus on.