Page 35 of Brutal Union
“Breathe in deep, baby,” I whisper against her ear, my voice cracking. “Then bite down.”
Her eyes lock onto mine. Wide. Drenched in pain but defiant. The whites are bloodshot from smoke and tears she refuses to shed, and still—she holds my gaze like it’s the only thing tethering her to this moment.
But her bravery trembles. I feel it in the way her chest quivers as it rises against my arm, in the slight hitch of her inhale, in the tremor that rolls through her thighs.
I swallow hard.
She’s terrified. But she’strusting meto do this.
I want to scream. I want to stall. I want to kiss her until the world stops burning—and kill everyone in sight for the sin of seeing her like this. Vulnerable. Exposed. Mine.
Her screams, her blood, the raw, flickering panic in her eyes—all of it belongs to me. The way her body shakes. The way life growls back up her throat like she’s fighting death itself.
She is mine.And I will burn down everything that forgets that.
With my free hand, I grip the twisted metal—its tip glowing like a dying star, pulsing orange and angry. It radiates heat in waves, and the burn already eating into my palm tells me I’ve got seconds before it brands me too.
I lower it. And press the glowing edge directly to her wound.
The muffled sound is immediate andvile—a sickening, wet sizzle that drowns out everything else. It echoes off the alley walls like a monster hissing in agony. The scent hits next: acrid, putrid, the stench of burning flesh mingling with blood and smoke. It curls into my throat and turns my stomach.
Nadia’s bodyexplodesbeneath me—arching, convulsing, bucking like an animal caught in a trap. Her scream rips through her throat and into my palm, muffled but still feral, stillpure pain. Her eyes blow wide for half a second before they roll back, lashes fluttering like wings crushed in a storm.
Her fingers dig into my arms, nails scraping skin. Her entire body seizes as the fire cauterizes her from the inside out.
And Ihold her there,because I have to.
Even as her body thrashes like it’s trying to escape her own skin. Even as her breath breaks apart in my palm. Even as tears, real and uncontrollable, slip from the corners of her eyes and cut clean lines through the ash smeared across her cheeks.
The flashing lights start to break through the smoke—sickly strobes of blue and red painting the walls, stuttering across her skin in bursts. The alley flickers like a war zone, like reality can’t decide if we’ve survived or not.
The crimson glow of the cauterizing metal has dimmed now, dulled by blood and soot. I toss it away without looking—somewhere into the shadows. It clatters against the brick with a finality that makes my chest seize.
Her nostrils stop their panicked flare. Her breath evens—just barely. Shallow. Shaky. But no longer desperate. Her body still trembles, the aftershocks of agony rolling through her in waves, but she’s no longer fighting me. She’s just breathing. Barely.
Alive.
I slowly lift my hand from her mouth.
Her lips are parted, red and swollen from the force of the scream she tried to swallow. Blood has smeared across her bottom lip from where she bit down. Her mouth is slack, gasping in short bursts of air like she’s learning how to breathe again.
Her chest rises and falls—uneven, frantic, but steady.
I cup her face with both hands, my palms shaking. One slick with blood. The other burned raw from holding the metal.
“I am so proud of you, Hime.” My voice cracked open, barely more than a whisper. I press my forehead to hers again, trembling against the heat still radiating off her skin.
Her lashes flutter. Slow. Her eyes roll upward, dazed and unfocused, but they find mine again—stormy blue flickering in the chaos.
“They were right,” a lazy, mocking drawl echoes down the alley, smooth as oil and just as slick. “You are a tough girl to kill.”
I whip around instantly, my hand already reaching for the grip of the gun buried in the waistband of my jeans. But my hand freezes on my waist the second I see him.
Because he’s already aiming a pistol at my head.
He leans one shoulder against the alley wall like he’s been watching us for longer than I want to imagine. The barrel of the pistol in his hand gleams beneath the stuttering flashes of emergency lights. His finger rests light and loose against the trigger, but his eyes—dark, sharp, predator-calm—never leave me.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, sweetie,” he says with a lazy smirk, voice lined with that smooth, unbothered malice reserved for people who’ve killed too often to remember how it felt the first time. “Hands up.”
