Page 86 of Brutal Union
I remain on my knees, dirt grinding into the skin beneath my jeans, my body aching in too many places to count. My shoulder throbs with the sharp, persistent heat of injury, and my pride—once the only thing I cling to—feels like it is bleeding out faster than any wound.
That word still hangs in the air.Slave.
It echoes in my mind like a curse, like the punchline to some cruel joke only Sho and Aoi are in on. The crowd stares, waiting, breathless, reveling in the sight of the Queen of the Bratva on her knees before the Shadow of the Yakuza. To them, this is a spectacle. To Bhon, it is entertainment. To Aoi, it is sport. But to me, it is a negotiation wrapped in humiliation. And it comes with only one question. Am I willing to lose everything to save one person?
I swallow what is left of my pride, and it tastes like blood and rust. I don’t lift my head, but I don’t lower it either. I force my voice through clenched teeth, quiet and cracked.
“…Yes.”
The word is small, but in that moment, it feels as heavy as a death sentence. It lands softly, barely louder than a breath, but it silences the entire arena.
Above me, Aoi lets out a soft, delighted hum, like she has just watched the final piece of a puzzle snap into place. Her smile, though I can't see it, paints itself clearly in my mind—lips curled, eyes gleaming, head tilted like a woman admiring her own masterpiece. Bhon lets out a low whistle of amusement, followed by a lazy clap, as if to saygood girl.
Sho doesn’t speak. But I feel the shift in him. He doesn’t expect me to say it. Not really. He knows me too well. He knows I’d rather die than kneel. But now I have done both—and not for him. For her. And maybe that difference matters to him. Maybe it doesn’t. But either way, he has won. Not the fight. Me.
The crowd erupts, a roar of approval cascading through the stands like a crashing tide. They clap, they stomp, they scream my name—but not with reverence. With ownership. With the triumphant joy of watching a wild thing break.
And yet, under the humiliation, beneath the rage still simmering in my chest, another feeling blooms low and unwanted. Not fear. Not sorrow. But a twisted, forbidden thrill.
I hate that I feel it. Hate that the idea of being close to Sho again—close enough to see the cracks in his armor, to hear his breath in the dark, to learn how he has evolved since the last time I tear him down—excites me. Not just strategically, not just for the mission. Viscerally.
There has always been a part of me that understands Sho better than anyone. I train him, test him, twist him. And now I amkneeling before him—my body aching, my dignity in tatters—and I am still drawn to him. Drawn to the gravity of his violence, to the intellect behind his cruelty. To the man he has become because I broke him.
Sho finally moves, every step dragging harder than the last. His hand comes to rest lightly on my injured shoulder—not possessive, not cruel, but grounding. A reminder. A claim. The contact sends a shiver through me, not from pain, but from something darker. Something I refuse to name.
He leans down, his breath warm against my ear, and his voice drops to a whisper meant only for me. “You’ll survive this, Hime,” he murmurs, the words as soft as silk and as sharp as a scalpel. “But you won’t survive me.”
My eyes flutter shut. And despite everything—the shame, the rage, the raw humiliation coursing through every inch of me—I smile.
21
NADIA
Sho keepsa firm hand on my wrist as he guides me toward the back of the club, cutting through the haze of sweat, smoke, and cheap perfume. The bass still thunders beneath our feet, but I hardly hear it over the wave of jeers and boos erupting from the crowd. They’re disappointed. Hungry for more blood. For a longer show. For the humiliation of a woman who didn’t break when they wanted her to.
“Take it off!”
“Boo! Kill the bitch!”
“Back to the block with you, Bratva bitch!”
And then, above all the noise, Aoi’s voice crackles through the speakers, cold and sharp as a blade. “The next man who opens his fucking mouth will have his tongue in a jar. Try me.”
The silence that falls after that is swift and absolute.
Sho doesn’t say a word as he pushes through the last hallway, ignoring the men who part for him like water. I try to speak—to explain, to ask if he’s okay, ifIdid something wrong—but the setof his jaw is locked, and his grip doesn’t loosen. He’s silent, but not cruel with his movements.
We reach a black steel door near the back, paint chipped around the edges, the lock crusted with rust and fingerprints. He shoulders it open and drags me inside with him. The office is cramped and dimly lit, cluttered with old ledgers, an unplugged fan in the corner, and the scent of alcohol-soaked upholstery. A metal desk sits against the far wall, and beside it, a beat-up red first-aid kit.
I open my mouth to speak, to say anything—anything that might bring him back to me—but he drops my wrist without a glance and moves straight to the desk. He yanks open the drawer, digs out the first-aid kit with a roughness I’ve only ever seen in him mid-fight, and tosses it onto the surface.
I step forward. “Sho?—”
He turns sharply and walks past me. He doesn't shove or touch or even look at me. He just moves, fast and clean, opens the door, and slams it shut behind him without a word.
The sound echoes through the room, sharp and sudden.
I blink, frozen for a second, the sudden stillness hitting harder than the fight.
