Page 20 of Brutal Union
I dig through the penthouse with one good hand until I find a charger, then jam it into the outlet beside the marble coffee table and plug in my phone.
Now I wait.
I throw myself onto the leather couch—the same one he desecrated me on—and glare at the phone like I can will it back to life. The belt lies limp across my lap, still looped around my left wrist, soaked with blood and sweat.
I lean back, dragging my fingers through my hair and wincing when they catch on a knot. My thighs are still sticky, my pulse still too high, and my mouth still tastes like him. And theworst part? He kissed me on the cheek.
That smug little bastard had theaudacityto kiss me like a lover before leaving me tied up and wrecked. Like what he was doing was not a complete declaration of war.
“I’m going to kill him,” I whisper, voice shaking with fury. “I am going to carve my name into his ribcage and burn that fucking smirk off his face.”
I look over at the phone and tap the screen -- still black, becauseof course it is.
I shove off the couch and stalk toward the bathroom, each step leaving a smear of blood across the pristine floors—abreadcrumb trail soaked in fury. Revenge drips from me, literal and figurative.
The light hums to life as I flick the switch, cool and sterile against the sweat still clinging to my skin. My reflection stares back, a portrait of aftermath—mascara smudged into the hollows beneath my eyes, lipstick smeared like a bruise, hair a wild, tangled crown of chaos. I look wrecked.
Sho would say I lookbeautiful. That I lookruinedin the way he likes. That I learned my lesson well.
I bare my teeth at the mirror, hatred and humiliation burning behind my eyes.
Then I rip open the cabinet beneath the sink. Of course. A first aid kit—meticulously stocked. Bandages organized, alcohol wipes unopened, the thread wound tight. Predictable.
This is one of Sho’s safe houses. His little playground. His fucking trap.
Good.
I dump the kit onto the marble countertop with my good hand, my palm sticky with blood, my patience hanging on by a thread. Thread. Needle. Wipes. Gauze. Sho’s probably stitched himself up here multiple times, and now I am sitting on the cold marble counter, knees up, prepared to fucking stitch back my own hand. Next time I see Sho, I am going tohurthim.
I wash my hand in the sink, watching the blood dilute and spiral down the drain. The cut stings under the water, sharp and immediate, but manageable. I’ve had worse.
With one steadying breath, I grab the alcohol and sterilize the needle, fingers shaking more from exhaustion than anything else. The smell burns my nose, and for a second, I just breathe.
Then I brace my injured hand on the edge of the sink. The porcelain is slick with blood, streaked in uneven lines that smear when I shift. I bite down on a rolled towel and get to work.
The first stitch bites. So does the second.
I pull the thread through slowly, carefully. Clean edges. Even spacing. It’s not pretty, but it’s enough. Each tug sends a jolt up my arm, makes my eyes blur a little—but I keep going. The pain is blinding. My vision pulses at the edges. I feel sweat bead on my temple, breath ragged through my nose. But I don’t stop. I don’t cry. And I don’t fucking wince.
Right when I make the final knot with my teeth I hear the familiar ring of my phone from the living room. My feet pad against the heated floors as I rush back to the coffee table. Practically falling on the floor as I answer the phone.
“Yes?” I huff.
“We have a meeting at nine a.m. with the Yakuza and a flight back to New York at three p.m. It is approximately four in the morning and you have been unresponsive for five hours.” Aleksandr, my only full brother, his disappointed voice rings through the phone.
I roll my eyes and lean against the couch, looking at my stitched hand leaning against my knee. “You are not supposed to be keeping tabs on your superior.”
“Correct,” he grumbles. “But you are my sister and the Bratva Queen, meaning your disappearance after an hour should have required a slew of soldiers to hunt you and Sho down.”
“Sho is mine,” I snap, immediately regretting it when Aleksandr chuckles. “To hunt and kill. He is mine to kill.”
“Of course yours tokill,” Aleksandr mocks in the chill monotone I have come to realize was his humor. “You know you have a habit of beating up the men you have crushes on.”
“I do not have a crush,” I hiss, rolling onto my feet and searching for his bedroom, because there is no way I am walking the streets of Tokyo at five in the morning in my dress and heels.
“Right, you have a searing need for vengeance for releasing our father, that just so happens to end in making out,” Aleksandr mocks, and I roll my eyes. He is a blunt bastard that doesn’t truly hide anything he is thinking or feeling.
“You’re just saying that because I took you away from Lily,” I counter as I roam into a bedroom that looks so pristine I doubt Sho has ever slept in there.
