Page 22 of Brutal Union
I step under the spray and the first hit of heat makes me suck in a sharp breath.
The water is almost scalding, and I don’t turn it down. I let it beat against my chest, my back, pouring over the places he touched. My fingers scrub hard—too hard—over my skin, as if I can erase the evidence of what we did, his mouth, the way he left me undone, but I don’t want to erase him. Phantom heat curls over my skin with every drag of the washcloth, and I let the scent of jasmine give me some semblance of peace before I do what I have to do.
My father, Boris Petrov—once called the Demon of New York and head of the Bratva’s American division—is free because of Sho, and he should never be free. I spent my life trying to earn his approval, thinking if I killed enough, fought hard enough, he’d see me as worthy. But Boris never believed women could lead. He murdered my mother for infidelity, then tormented Aleksandr, Nik, and me by sending us pieces of her body. And still, back then, I wanted his respect. Now that I know the truth, all I want is for him to suffer—for what he did to her, for the lies he fed us, and for everything he took.
Sho didn’t mean to set all of this in motion. He was chasing his own revenge against the Yakuza, blinded by it, and in the process, helped Boris escape. Because of him, the man who hates me most is now free—a man who would rather see me dead than see me as Queen of the Bratva. That can’t go unanswered.
Aleksandr and I are meeting with the head of the Yakuza to demand Boris’s return or the location of his hiding place. Sho may never forgive me for making that kind of deal, but what we have was never meant to last. He’s the heir to the Yakuza. I’m a Bratva princess trying to take the throne. Us being together would mean war. Whatever’s between us was always standing on ice—and I’m about to shatter it for my future.
The water cools slightly and I slip out of the shower, finally clean—every inch of me scrubbed raw, including freshly shampooed and conditioned hair that now smells like jasmine and vanilla, purely expensive. I wrap a sinfully fluffy towel around my body and twist another into a knot at the top of my head.
My skin is pink from heat, scrubbed down to the bone. But I feel…reset. Not calm. Not centered. Just sharper. Like a blade wiped clean, waiting to be drawn again.
I step into the bedroom, steam trailing behind me like a ghost. And there it is—my phone, buzzing softly against the sheets. And beside it, the black garment bag.
With a cautious gaze, I tap my phone and look at the new message from Sho.
UNKNOWN: Your clothes should be there. Can’t have you leaving in that dress.
I roll my eyes changing his contact before I unzip the garment bag with more force than necessary, and the second the zipper drops, I mutter under my breath?—
“?????…” My jaw tightens. Of course the bastard was right.
Inside: a pair of high-waisted leather pants. A cropped white tank top, soft but structured. A matching leather jacket with quilted shoulders and a concealed blade slot in the inner lining. And on the floor are heeled black military boots with silver buckles that look similar to the ones I wear back at home.
I quickly dry off, leaving the towel around my hair. Sho thought of everything but underwear, so I shrug and continue to get dressed
I slide on the pants—they hug my hips with dangerous precision—and tug the tank over my head. It settles into place like it was sewn onto me. I swipe a pair of his socks from the drawer—gray, thick, still warm from the drawer heater.
Even without the boots or the jacket, I already feel lethal again.
I grab my phone off the bed and fire off a message.
NADIA: No underwear?
The reply comes back instantly.
ASSHOLE: I don’t think you will be needing to wear it for the foreseeable future.
I roll my eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of my skull.
“Cocky little shit,” I mutter, but my fingers tighten around the phone, a wicked smile pulling at the edge of my mouth.
He’s not wrong. And that’s the problem.
I pull on the boots, zipping them up, and looking at how perfect they look on my feet. I throw on the leather jacket last. It’s heavier than it looks, like it could be bulletproof, or hold an absurd amount of weapons.
Fucking Sho. He knows me too well.
6
NADIA
“You could’ve letme know you didn’t need clothes,” Aleksandr grumbles, tossing the bag of freshly bought outfits into a trash can as we walk.
Normally, I’d donate them or hand them off to someone unhoused, but we’ve got fifteen minutes to make it to a meeting with the Yakuza—not exactly prime time for charity.
“I didn’t know the clothes were going to bedeliveredto me,” I counter, brushing a wrinkle from my jacket as we step off the curb onto polished stone.
