Page 108 of Brutal Union
Her hair falls loose across her shoulders, curling slightly at the ends, not styled or pinned, but worn like a choice. It softens the sharpness of her presence without dulling it. Over her face, a lacquered mask conceals everything from the bridge of her nose up. It’s shaped in the style of akitsune—a legendary fox spirit from Japanese folklore - a supernatural shapeshifter known for its intelligence and magical powers.It’s deep red with delicate gold lines, hiding her identity while commanding all attention. With each step, she glides—not too fast, not too slow. Her movements are deliberate, controlled, absent of fear.
She walks to the center of the stage and stops with perfect precision. One hand rests lightly against her hip, the other hanging by her side. The robe sways, and the soft rustle of fabric across wood is the only sound in the room.
She’s the most dangerous thing in this building, and not a single bastard here knows it.
Except me, Bhon and Aoi.
In my ear, Aoi exhales, her voice sharp and low. “I did her makeup twice. Red eyeshadow, contour, lined lips—the works. And now they cover it with a fucking mask. Idiots.”
The auctioneer grins wider as he circles the edge of the stage like a wolf pretending to be a gentleman.
“Some of you may have heard whispers,” he says, his voice lifting theatrically. “Rumors. Hints of fire behind a pretty face. But I assure you… this is no rumor. This,” he gestures toward her with a flourish, “is trained. Disciplined. Loyal. A gift unlike any other. We call her… the Crimson Widow.”
A ripple of desire moves through the room, dark and palpable. It isn't just lust—they're looking at her the way animals eye something they believe they can tame. Low mutters escape lips. A few men exchange glances, hungry and calculating. Nadia does not return their gaze. Her chin remains high, her face impassive save for the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth—a smile that saysI dare you.
“She is obedient,” the auctioneer continues, and I feel the bile rise in my throat. “But not broken. We don’t sell ruins here, gentlemen. We sellrefined fire. Controlled chaos. Power you can own.”
He slows, milking the silence between his words like a sermon. “And tonight, that power can belong to one of you.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides. I know it’s an act. I know she volunteered. But hearing them talk about her like this—like she’s a possession, a trained beast on a leash—makes something ancient twist in my chest.
“Bidding will begin at two hundred million U.S. dollars,” the auctioneer announces. “Do I hear an opening?—?”
“Two-fifty,” someone calls from the front row. He sounds like he is foaming at the mouth, already leaning forward with excitement and need.
“Three hundred,” a woman with a crisp English accent says from across the room.
“Four,” comes a third, already smirking as he lifts his crystal glass, in Nadia’s direction.
Aoi’s voice cuts through the chatter in my ear, calm and clipped. “Five hundred million,” and then she turns her head and whispers into her inner ear, “I didn’t think they would start her off so fucking high.”
I smirk, despite the growing nausea in the pit of my stomach. “Of course they would. It’s my girl.”
The auctioneer beams, stretching out the moment. “We have five hundred million—do I hear six?”
Blood is already rushing in my ears, as the number is pushed higher and higher until my gaze lands on my father. He hasn’t lifted a hand or opened his mouth. He sits completely still, his body poised like a sculpture, but it’s his eyes that won’t let go of her. They never blink, never waver, following every small shift inNadia’s posture. There’s no lust in his expression, no interest in ownership. Only scrutiny. Deep, surgical focus, like he’s trying to decide whether she’s a threat or a tool, or maybe both. That’s what sets my pulse racing, not the other bidders or the price tags—but him.
As the auctioneer opens his mouth to close the deal, my father rises from his seat without a word. In the same motion, he draws a blade from inside his coat, a slender, bone-handled knife I recognize from his ceremonial collection. He doesn’t hesitate or posture. He throws it like it’s part of his breath, fluid and clean.
The blade cuts through the air in a tight spiral. I lurch forward from my place near the back wall, instinct already taking over. My body surges toward the stage, but I don’t make it far. Bhon grabs my arm with an iron grip, pulling me back before I can even reach the aisle. His other hand braces against my chest, holding me still.
“Don’t,” he says in a low voice near my ear. “He’s not aiming to kill. If you rush the stage, everything falls apart.”
I struggle against him for a beat, but he doesn’t budge. His grip is exact and brutal, and he knows me well enough to brace for the backlash. I don’t speak, don’t curse, because the second the blade makes contact, all the breath is ripped out of the room.
The knife strikes just beneath her left eye. It doesn’t pierce deeply, just enough to slice the skin in a single line that glows red against the pale canvas of her face. Blood trails slowly, along her cheekbone from the shallow cut. Her body doesn’t move, not an inch. She doesn’t startle or cry out. There’s no flinch, no shock in her expression—only the same poised calm she walked in with, as if she expected it.
The ribbon holding the mask together falls off from the precise slit of the knife, and drops to the stage floor with a soft clatter of lacquered wood against polished oak.
She’s fully visible now.
Every inch of makeup that Aoi layered with obsessive detail is perfectly intact—deep red lips, sculpted brows, sharp eyeliner and glittering shadow—but none of that holds the attention of the room anymore. What arrests them, what stops every whisper cold, is the face beneath the paint. The mask is gone, and there is no illusion left.
“Ah,” my father’s aged voice echoes throughout the space. “Such an unforgettable beauty.”
Nadia looks up at the corner of the room, like she senses me from the shadows before looking at my father with a demure smile. “Master Matsumoto, it’s an honor.”
“No,” my father clicks his tongue, a tinge of humor in his tone. “Do not lie to me and use words you don’t understand.”
