A/N: I actually wrote this like a year and half ago, just found it again! I might continue it, but for now, this all I have.

She hated her life.

At seventeen, hate was the only emotion she felt free to feel. At fifteen, a rival warlord had overrun her father's estate, she'd watched as her younger brothers were slaughtered while her mother wept. As her mother was too old to be useful, they killed her as well.

And Izayoi hated them.

At sixteen, she was sold to a brothel and learned that all men were to be hated. She despised the rough hands that touched her, the stink of their dirty bodies. She hated the way they grunted and groaned when they used her, made her as dirty as them.

Three times the brothel's mistress had given her herbs. Three times she'd lain alone in her tiny room and sobbed as the blood trickled from between her legs. Izayoi prayed each time that the bleeding would never stop, that she'd be found cold and stiff in the morning. Her heart had died some time ago, only her body was too foolish to stop living.

At seventeen, she'd lost all hope of escaping. She'd tried several times to run away, only to be caught and beaten for her disobedience. They never marked her face, but her body had been covered in livid bruises for weeks. As punishment, she'd been given to the worst customers, the ones that liked to hear a woman cry.

Izayoi cried when they hurt her and begged them to stop. But they never did.

So it was in hate and pain she went to him that first time, kneeling with downcast eyes as a rough, clawed hand touched her hair. She shivered, wished that a kindly god would strike her down before she was forced to endure this. He was a demon and Izayoi's stomach burned with fear and disgust.

"Pretty child," he said in a lazy, deep voice that held no pity. "This night will be long for you, but I promise if you please me I will buy you and take you away from this brothel."

Izayoi resolved not to please him. She glanced up and saw the demon had eyes of gold, bright as the sun. He was beautiful, but she already knew he wasn't a gentle creature, or a kind one. His armor looked well used and the scent of blood and death clung to him. She knew better than to resist. They liked it when she fought.

Silently, she slipped her kimono from her shoulders and closed her eyes. She heard the rustle of cloth and knew he was undressing, but she didn't want to look at him. A hard hand pushed her back, pressed her knees apart.

"What is your name, girl?" he asked, a claw tracing her cheekbone.

Izayoi turned her face away as the demon's mouth descended to her throat. "What does it matter?" she whispered.