Page 83 of Brutal Union
Sho watches me the way he always has—like I am both threat and temptation. His eyes follow my hands, my hips, my mouth. And when I stop in front of him, close enough to feel the heat off his skin, he doesn’t lift the blade.
Not yet.
“You always do like to make a mess,” I say, voice soft but cutting.
Sho’s lips curl at the edges, just slightly. “You always do like to show up when it is already cleaned up.”
I tilt my head, studying the fresh blood on his collarbone, the fatigue blooming just beneath the surface. He looks like he’s moments away from collapse. And yet, there is something unshakable in him, something too stupid to die. That’s what I like about him. That is also what makes him dangerous.
“Ten bodies,” I say, tone almost admiring. “I’m surprised you don’t keep one alive just to monologue at.”
“I am saving that for you,” he murmurs.
My jaw twitches with the threat of a smirk. “Good. I like an audience.”
For a moment, we just stand there—two weapons that know each other too well. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me since I step into the ring. Not because he is cautious. Because he knows me. He knows I won’t show unless I intend to draw blood.
“You come all this way to stop me?” he asks.
“No,” I say simply. “I came to see if there’s anything left of the man I once broke.”
Sho’s smile turns razor-thin. “I’m the one still standing.”
“Then let’s see what happens when someone who knows where to cut finally joins the fight.”
The tension between us hums like electricity. My fingers brush one of the hidden knives tucked against my lower back. The steel is cold. Comforting. Familiar. Around us, the pit’s edge blurs—the crowd, Bhon, Aoi—they all fade into meaningless background noise.
Because this isn’t a match. This isn’t revenge. This isn’t a performance.
This is a reckoning.
I meet his eyes fully, the way I used to when I want him to break. “Let’s see if you bleed for me like you used to.”
I drive the blade toward his core, my feet shifting into a tight lunge, muscles honed by years of war snapping into motion. The second knife slips into my left hand, drawn from the small of my back with a flick of the wrist. I don’t expect the strike to land clean—not on Sho. Only an idiot assumes a sneak attack catches him unaware.
But I don’t rely on the strike—I rely on his reaction.
He moves just as I know he will. His blade arcs across his body in a swift, fluid parry, meeting my first arm with far more force than I calculate. It knocks my strike wide, sends my shoulder stinging from the impact.
But the feint works. As his attention turns toward the right, my left knife comes in from beneath, slicing a clean line across his forearm. Not deep, but enough to split skin and draw a sharp, involuntary wince from his lips. For a second, I taste victory.
Then he reminds me who he is. Sho’s knee twists, and before I can adjust my footing, his leg whips into a spinning roundhouse that catches me square in the ribs. The knives slip from my grasp mid-air as the impact rips through me like a freight train. Air flees my lungs. The world tilts sideways.
I hit the dirt hard, roll once, twice, and land on my knees with dust in my mouth and blood boiling under my skin. Pain crackles down my side like a thunderstorm, but I don’t waste time. I spit, wipe grit from my lips, and pull two more knives—thin and curved, the ones I only use when I am done playing. When the blood stops being personal and starts being inevitable.
Sho doesn’t pounce. He doesn’t rush. He is taking his time, walking slowly toward me like a predator at the end of a very long hunt. His blade hangs relaxed at his side, blood still wet across his forearm, but he isn’t even looking at the wound. Instead, he takes out his hand wraps and wipes the blood away with deliberate care, eyes locked on mine. That grin stretches across his face like a scar that never heals.
“So… what?” he says, voice casual, amused, and dangerous. “You think if you beat me, all will be forgiven? You’ll get a medal from the Yakuza?” He gestures around to the pit with a slight flick of his chin. “This is a death ring, Hime. Only one of us walks out.”
I scan the ground around me, searching for the two blades he knocked from my hands. They are gone. Not just dropped—gone. He kicks them aside, buries them, ruffles them under the dirt while I am still catching my breath.
I rise to my full height again, blades poised at either side, pain screaming through my ribs, but my smile doesn’t falter. “Do you think they’d mind a dead body?” I ask sweetly, lips curling. “Because I’ve got a lovely one picked out.”
The grin slips off his face. Not entirely—but it hardens.
His eyes lock on mine with more weight than before, something ancient flickering beneath the green—anger, maybe. Disappointment. Or worse… understanding.
“You don’t get it,” he says softly. The humor is gone from his voice now, replaced with something far colder.
