Page 90 of Brutal Union
His torso is carved like a war god—thicker now, more defined. Ridges of muscle curl along his abdomen like armor, a tight V cutting low into his hips. His tattoos stretch with each breath, inked dragons and serpents curling around muscle that wasn’t there the last time I touched him. A deep scar slices down his side—a fresh one I don’t remember—jagged and red against smooth tan flesh.
“Youneversaid ‘I’m sorry,’ Nadia,” he says, voice quieter now, like he’s too tired to shout. “You never apologized.”
I turn toward him, glassy-eyed, throat tightening with emotion I’ve fought for too long. “Yes, I did,” I whisper, voice barely audible.
“No,” he says, more firmly, turning to face me with his shirt now discarded at his feet, chest rising with every wounded breath. “You gave mereasons.You gave me justifications. You talked about Boris. About the Bratva. About your loyalty to your bloodline. But you never—never—looked me in the eye and said, ‘I’m sorry I tried to kill you, Sho.’”
My body quivers. The air feels too thick, like I’m drowning in all the things I never said. My hand lifts again, hesitant, shaking. “Y-you had to know,” I whisper. “You had to know how sorry I was.”
He doesn’t answer. Just methodically pulls at the cloth wraps around his waist—ripping them loose with practiced, violent flicks. The sound of fabric tearing fills the silence between us like thunder.
“Knowwhat,Nadia?” he says finally, his eyes locked on mine. “That the woman I almost died for—more than once—thought I’d justfeelher apology in the silence?”
He takes a step forward, and I freeze, my heart pounding against my ribs like a caged bird.
“How the fuck was I supposed to know anything, when you never gave me the one thing I asked for? Honesty.” He pauses, eyes scanning me like he’s searching for something. Maybe the girl I used to be. Maybe a reason to still care.
I take a shaky step toward him. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He doesn’t move. His jaw ticks. His fists clench, but he just follows me with his eyes.
I step again, closer now, so close I can feel the heat off his bare chest. I look up at him, tears finally breaking free andsliding down my cheek. “I’m so fucking sorry, Sho. For all of it. For not saying it when I should have. For not fighting harder. For making you think you were nothing to me when you wereeverything.”
“This apology is too fucking late,” he rasps out, and I place both hands on his chest; the warmth burns me like the sun, but I take the pain in stride.
“No, it’s not,” I whisper.
I press a kiss to the center of his chest, right over the scar that slashes across his ribcage. His body shudders ever so slightly beneath my mouth, and I feel the deep, guttural rumble of something he refuses to let escape his throat.
“You and I both know that’s not true.”
And then I kiss my way down—slowly, reverently—each word spoken into the warm planes of his stomach as my lips trail lower.
“I’m sorry, Sho,” I murmur, the words trembling against his skin. “For betraying you. For not seeing what this was. For letting my need to prove myself to the Bratva blind me to what we had.”
I sink lower, letting my knees press into the floor. The coolness of the wood contrasts with the heat rolling off his body, but I don’t stop. The waistband of his pants brushes my cheek, and I can see it—feelit—his body responding to me despite the walls he’s still trying to keep up. Want and pain war with each other in the way his abdomen tightens beneath each kiss.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” I say softly, eyes lifting to meet his.
I don’t blink. I let him see me. All of me—vulnerable, humbled, begging for forgiveness in the only way he’s ever responded to. Through honesty. Through submission. Throughaction.
“Please… tell me how I can apologize.”
His hand shoots out, fingers curling into my hair, yanking the tie free until blonde strands fall in loose waves around my face. His grip is tight, but not cruel. A leash of sorts and he could guide me to my salvation or shun me, and right now I would take both from him.
“Get off your knees, Nadia,” he grunts.
But I don’t obey. Instead, I lower myself all the way down, letting my forehead drop to the narrow strip of floor between his bare feet. I hear the sharp inhale of his breathing, but I keep my bowed position. I could stay there for days in this deep bow so he knows how sorry I am.
In Japanese culture, to bow—to prostrate oneself—is more than an apology. It’s a surrender of pride. A plea that transcends words. Thesaikeirei, the deepest bow, is reserved for the gravest offenses and the sincerest repentance. It is a vow of sincerity, usually reserved for emperors or gods. It is not a gesture to be taken lightly, especially not by someone like me. Someone who doesn’t kneel for anyone.
Except for him. Except now.
Silence presses down around us like snowfall. I feel his breath above me, heavy and uneven. His hands twitch at his sides, as if caught between yanking me back up or falling down with me.
“Please,” I whisper, forehead still to the floor, breath ghosting over the wooden boards. “Let me make this right. Let meearnthe forgiveness I was too afraid to ask for.”
And for the first time in three years, I don’t care if I look weak. Because this isn’t about power. It’s abouthim.It’s about him knowing how much I love him, and how deeply I need him to accept my apologies, and take me back.
