Page 82 of Brutal Union
Above me, Aoi’s voice slides across the silence like silk over a blade. “Well, well, well,” she purrs, her tone syrupy with delight. “It seems we’ve got a gladiator before us.” Her heels click rhythmically against the stone ledge as she steps into view, the sheen of excitement in her eyes barely veiled. “Since our good friend Sho has graciously defeated all ten of today’s scheduled opponents—” she pauses, letting the moment stretchlike a bowstring, savoring the tension, “—why don’t we open the floor?”
Her arms spread wide, theatrically, as if inviting the gods themselves to descend.
“Who thinks they’ve got what it takes to best the man with the rusted blade?”
The pit falls silent. Utterly, painfully silent. No roars, no bets, no jeers. Just the low hum of disbelief. The kind of stillness that follows a massacre when no one knows whether to cheer… or flee.
And how could they? What I’d done wasn’t a performance—it was a message. A ritual. I wasn’t just efficient. I was final. Aside from Bhon—who still leans at the edge of the arena, giggling softly to himself like a drunken monk—I am the most dangerous thing in this room. Maybe in any room.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, flicking blood from my lip, and prepare to turn my back on the crowd.
But then, a hand rises above the heads of the stunned onlookers. Not shaky. Not hesitant. High. Certain. And my heart drops I would know that hand anywhere.
It had once locked chains around my wrists and called it mercy. It had stabbed me with reverence and touched me like I was both an enemy and an addiction. That hand had carved its name into my skin, cupped my jaw after slicing me open, held me like it had every right to.
It was hers.
A voice followed—low, smooth, and maddeningly steady.
“I do,” said Nadia.
And just like that, everything in me stills. The pit, the crowd, the ache in my muscles—all of it vanishes beneath the weight of her presence. The sea of bodies parts as she walks, head held high and steps steady, like the queen of death. Her long coat moves with every step like a second shadow, and beneath it, her curves are outlined by a black tank and jeans. The clop of her combat boots is purposeful. Her hair, tied in a loose bun, her sweat gleams under the arena lights. She looks nothing like her royalty, yet still I am mesmerized.
She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t blink. She just stares, eyes locked on mine like crosshairs, like she has never forgotten the last time we were this close in the dark. Her voice still lingers in my memory like a curse.
And suddenly, it isn’t about the ten I’ve defeated. It isn’t about Bhon’s sick game or Aoi’s twisted theater.
It’s about her. It’s always been about her. And as she steps forward, eyes burning with challenge, one truth settles over me like a blade against the skin.
This isn’t the next fight. This is the real one. And the war between us?
It has only just begun.
20
NADIA
The stenchof blood was heavier than the air. It didn’t just hang—it clung, hot and wet and metallic, curling through my nostrils and sinking into my skin. The pit looked like a war zone: red with broken bits of bone and weapons, and a few dents in the dirt where his last opponents fell. In the center stood Sho.
And fuck me, he looked glorious.
He was breathing hard, chest rising and falling with each strained inhale, blood smeared across his ribs and pooling at his feet. His shirt had been torn nearly to rags, his blade looked like it had crawled through history and never got cleaned, and still… still he stood like a crowned king drenched in carnage. The rusted weapon hung in his grip like an extension of his will. His stance was loose, but not weak.
He was injured, yes. But not finished, and I couldn’t help but want a piece of that, a minute of this.
My hand shoots up like a rocket before the words even leave my mouth, “I do!”
The crowd parts and everyone looks at me but I keep my head high as I make my way deeper into the room. This was not the original plan. I was supposed to corner him after, but he can’t ignore me in front of all these people. He can’t run not if he doesn’t want to forfeit his bragging rights.
“You can’t be fucking serious.” Sho growls, glancing at Aoi. “I am not fighting her.”
“The final fight is always between the survivor and a volunteer.” Aoi chides, “No one else seems eager to enter the ring with you. These are the rules.”
“Fine.” Sho mutters, unhappy with the circumstance, yet his eyes return to me.
I take my time descending into the pit, feeling the weight of every step, my pulse steady, my breath controlled. I don’t need armor. I don’t need flash. I don’t need more than these blades, my fists, and my intent. The denim clings to my thighs, damp with sweat from the heat of the bodies and the fire in my chest. My hair is pulled back into a loose knot, strands already sticking to my temple. I look nothing like royalty.
And I have never felt more like a god.
