Page 34 of Brutal Union
Her abdomen is torn wide open. A deep wound—red and glistening, leaking in heavy pulses down her thighs. Her shirt is saturated, sticking to her skin like wet paper.
I lean back and yank my shirt over my head in one swift motion, the fabric sticking to the blood already drying on my ribs. The alley air hits my bare skin, sharp with smoke and ash, but I barely feel it. All I can feel is the waning heat coming off of Nadia’s shaking body.
Her gaze lifts to me, slow and unsteady. She blinks once, twice—eyes glazed but locked on me.
“Are you picking now to strip for me?” she slurs as I rip my shirt into makeshift bandages.
I smirk despite the adrenaline crashing through my veins. “What can I say? Thought I’d give you something pretty to look at in case I die.”
Her eyes drift down my torso, slow and shameless despite the blood in her mouth. “I’ve seen you more naked than this, Sho.”
“Yeah, but not while heroically wrapping your wounds. That has to be worth a few points.”
I twist the shirt into a knot and hold it between my teeth. The flames are close enough to lick up my backside, but I ignore the burn and try to make eye contact with Nadia as her head droops off to the side. My hand cups underneath her chin, while my other hand pinches her chin. “Come on, Nadia. Stay up for me.”
The wound is gushing like some divine wine—dark and relentless—coating my thighs, drenching the shredded remains of her white t-shirt, and staining my bare chest with each trembling breath she takes. Blood pulses between my fingers, warm and slick, running through the cracks in my hands like she’s spilling out faster than I can hold her in.
Around us, the building groans like a dying beast. The fire roars louder.
But it's the sound behind it all that tightens like a wire around my throat—thevoices.
Sharp, clipped commands in Korean, thrown out in a rhythm that suggests impatience, irritation,certainty. Debris crashes to the floor inside the apartment we just fled. Walls buckle under the force of bodies tearing through them. They’re getting closer.Fast.
Too fucking fast.
“Shit—fuck—” My voice is nothing more than a whisper choked by smoke. I glance down. The blood is still coming. Not slowing. My hand presses harder into her stomach.
Nadia arches violently at the pressure, a strangled, wordless scream ripping up her throat. Her back bows off the brick wall, her head snapping backward as her entire body convulses under my grip.
And then she exhales.
Fast. Sharp. Like her lungs are trying to claw the air out of her chest instead of take it in.
I slap a hand over her mouth.
“Quiet, baby. Quiet. You’re okay. You’re okay.” I whisper.
But she’s not. I can see it in her eyes—wide, wild, rimmed in red. She’s riding the knife’s edge between consciousness and collapse. Her pupils twitch. Her throat works like she wants to cry but refuses. My Nadia doesn’t cry. She bleeds. She fights. She survives.
But she won't if I don't act.
My eyes dart around the alley. Smoke curls down the brick walls like oil slicks. The sounds of boots echo closer—louder, clearer. They’re almost on us.
My eyes land on a jagged strip of metal half-buried beneath the rubble. Twisted, scorched.Sharp.Still glowing faintly on one end. Part of the exterior signage of the Italian restaurant next door , warped by the blast and ripped free like a blade waiting to be used.
I press a kiss to her forehead—fast, desperate. Her eyes flutter. My heart cracks.
“Hime,” I let go of the pressure and grab the strip of metal. “Keep your eyes open and locked on me.”
It’s blistering in my grip. The heat surges instantly through my skin, branding my palm, but I don’t let go.
Nadia’s body jerks as blood rushes from the wound again, soaking my lap, pooling beneath her hips.
I glance back—shadows flicker across the broken alley door. They're here.Seconds.
I brace the metal against the lip of a dumpster, force it flat, and press it into the trash fire at its base. Flames lap around it, dancing, crackling with glee.
I take my knotted shirt and stuff it into her mouth, ignoring the bright white of her eyes questioning my every move. Once the shirt is inside I press my palm over her mouth, my fingertips pressing into the soft flesh of her cheeks. Her eyes dart to the metal burning in my hands and she starts to shake
