Page 88 of Brutal Union
Her hands don’t stop moving. She applies another layer of adhesive to the cut on my shoulder before wrapping it tight. She doesn’t look at me when she speaks again.
“You hurt him again, and Iwillkill you.” There’s no malice in her voice, just a matter of fact tone of how things will play out. “I don’t care what Sho says. What he forgives. What he still hopes you’ll become. If you tear him open again just to see what’s left inside—I’ll end you myself.”
“There is nothing remotely more painful that you can do to me then what has happened between Sho and I.” I snarl, narrowing my eyes on her. “You think I don’t already know what I’ve done to him?” I say quietly, eyes locked on hers. “You think I haven’t paid for that every second of the last three years?”
She leans back on her heels, finally looking at me—truly looking, her gaze cutting, steady.
“I think youhaven’tfinished paying yet,” she says. “But at least now you seem ready to try.”
She sets the last piece of gauze down, then rises with that same slow, graceful control, like every movement she makes iscalculated ten seconds in advance. She closes the first-aid kit and places it back on the shelf with exact precision.
As she turns slightly, ready to leave, the door opens behind her.
Sho steps into the doorway dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt partially cleaned up from the fight, his shoulders taut, eyes already locked on the both of us. “Ore no kanojo ni kamawanai de.”Don't mess with my girlfriend.
Aoi doesn’t flinch. She turns back to him slowly, lips curving into a lazy smirk, and responds in English with a shrug, “Just two girls chatting.”
She walks toward him without hurry, her heels silent on the floor. As she passes, she reaches up, smacks his cheek lightly—twice, not hard, but familiar, firm. Her hand lingers for a second longer than necessary, then drops away.
She leans in, her lips near his ear, and whispers in perfect Romaji, soft and sharp like a blade drawn in the dark:
“Baka ni naru na.”Don't be an idiot.
Aoi disappears down the hallway, and Sho doesn’t turn to watch her leave. He keeps his eyes on me. His eyes drop to my shoulder, where the bandages Aoi just applied sit clean and tight, then rise back to my face.
He lifts his chin slightly, wordless, and nods toward the hallway behind him, turning to leave. I scramble to my feet and follow, ignoring the dull pain of my bones.
The trekback to Sho’s house is long, and mostly uphill, but he does not slow down for me.
He moves like a shadow—fluid, effortless, almost inhuman as he navigates the winding, moss-covered path through the dense forest of Osaka. The air is thick with humidity, buzzing with the constant hum of cicadas. I’m sweating, my hair sticking to the back of my neck, but Sho doesn’t even look like he’s breathing hard. He doesn’t speak to me, not even a glance thrown over his shoulder.
Except once.
“Watch your foot,” he says, gesturing toward a thin string tied low between two tree trunks—nearly invisible until you're right on top of it. A homemade tripwire, probably connected to something nasty. “Homemade,” he adds, as if that explains everything. Then he’s off again, brushing past branches and ducking under limbs without missing a step.
I, on the other hand, am forced to scramble over fallen logs and slippery rocks, the heels of my boots slick with damp leaves. My thighs burn, my jeans sticking to me from the humidity, and every time I open my mouth to demand a break or a direction, he somehow speeds up like he can sense it.
A branch smacks me across the face, and Sho calls over his shoulder, “Watch your head.”
That’s it. That’s the extent of our conversation.
I don’t know how far we’ve gone, only that the thick canopy above lets in barely any light and the air feels heavier the deeper we go. This place isn’t just off the grid—it’serasedfrom it. Perfect for a man like Sho. A man who wants to disappear. Or hide something.
Eventually, the path narrows, and he slips between a pair of leaning bamboo stalks, completely overgrown with ivy. I push through after him, swearing under my breath, and when I finally make it through, I’m greeted by the sight of a small, weather-worn house tucked into the hillside like it grew out of the earth itself.
The roof is covered in moss, walls are a thin cream color that looks like cotton paper, and a single paper lantern sways gently above the front door. It smells like cedar and old smoke. Peaceful—if you don’t know who lives here.
Sho finally stops at the threshold, one hand on the sliding door. His back is still to me, as he unlocks the door and slides it open with the tips of his fingers. Then, without a word, he bends and slips out of his shoes, leaving them perfectly aligned on the porch like the militant, crazed man he is.
“Take off your shoes, but bring them inside and lean them against the wall,” He murmurs, his tone so dead you’d think he was talking to his own shadow instead of me, the woman he has claimed to be madly in love with is right here looking at him.
I watch him walk inside, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
His shoulders have broadened—carved from granite and wrapped in skin stretched tight across thick, hard muscle. His back is a map of lean, powerful ridges and valleys, and the short sleeves of his black shirt cling to biceps that weren’t that big the last time I saw him. Not this sculpted. Not thissolid. His traps ripple slightly as he lifts one hand to press against the wall for balance, the muscles in his forearm flexing, veins raised like rivers beneath the skin.
He’s bigger now. Stronger. There’s no softness left in him. No hesitation in his steps. This isn’t the Sho I tortured in a basement and teased into submission. This version of him could break me in half—and I don’t know if I’d even try to stop him, because it’s not like I tried before.
I grunt as I start to yank at my laces, nearly falling off the damn porch. “Look,” I snarl, pulling at the knot at the top of my boot. “I get it. I fucked up.”
