Page 91 of Brutal Union
“Please,” I whisper again, my voice feathering across the floorboards, barely more than breath. “Let me make this right. Let meearnthe forgiveness I was too afraid to ask for.”
The silence tightens around me like a noose, and then—I feel it.
The floor creaks softly under his weight. Sho kneels behind me. Not fully. Just enough to drop his center of gravity. Close enough that his heat ghosts over the curve of my spine, close enough that my body aches to lean into him—but doesn’t. Can’t.
For the briefest moment, I believe he’s going to touch me with care. That he’ll cup my jaw, whisper my name, tell me to get up, to stop humiliating myself. My eyes sting with the hope of it. With the dream of mercy.
But instead?—
His fingers fist in my hair, sharp and sudden. Not cruel, not violent—just enough to remind me who he is. Whoweare. His grip tightens, tugging my head back with the kind of tension that hovers between dominance and desperation.
“Get up, Nadia,” he growls, his breath skating across the shell of my ear. His voice is gravel and smoke, layered with something unspoken. Fury. Hurt. Hunger. “You look pathetic.”
His words sting, but I don’t rise. I won’t.
I shake my head slowly, forehead brushing the wood again. My hands press harder into the floor, like I can anchor myself there, like Ideserveto be anchored there.
“Not until you believe me,” I breathe.
His grip on my hair tightens. The pull is harsher now, angry. Testing.
Still, I don’t move.
I feel his exhale—sharp and annoyed—against the back of my neck. Then he growls, low and guttural, and releases me with a harsh curse, shoving off the floor as he stands.
The sudden absence of him is a blow to my chest.
I listen to his footsteps retreat—steady, well placed, each one sounding like a rejection. The bathroom door slides shut with a distinct snap, and a second later, the soft hiss of the shower begins. Steam curls out beneath the door, thick with the scent of cedar soap and warming skin.
Minutes stretch.
Then an hour.
Then more.
Time becomes meaningless. The ache in my knees grows sharp, then dull. My thighs tremble, blood throbbing in my temples. My arms begin to go numb, but I don’t shift. I don’t drink. I don’t rise.
This is what remorse looks like. This is whatlovelooks like—when you know you were wrong, and you’re willing to bleed for it.
Eventually, the shower cuts off. The water stops. The paper thin wall slides open.I hear the soft pad of his bare feet as he moves past me—still damp, still silent—and disappears into the next room. Drawers open. Fabric rustles. A zipper. The muted tug of cotton over skin. Then the shift of air as he leaves again.
A moment later, faint kitchen sounds reach me. The gentle splash of water into a kettle. The soft rattle of a lid.
A quiet bubbling follows, then the earthy scent of miso rises into the air—warm, savory, grounding. Seaweed and green onion follow, delicate but clear.
My knees shake with need and strain. I want to cry from the pain of the fight and the yawn of my muscles. The kettle whistles, high and sharp, before he silences it with a flick. The crisp bitterness of steeping green tea cuts through the air, and then, silence again—until I hear him return.
He doesn’t say a word when he reaches me. But I feel his presence like a shadow settling over me—heavy and sharp.
Then: theclinkof ceramic on wood. A cup and bowl placed on the floor beside me.
“You know,” he says dryly, voice laced with mocking exhaustion, “you’ve been doing this dramatic bow bullshit for three hours now.”
He squats beside me, his forearm brushing lightly against mine. I can smell the tea before I see it—green, earthy, clean. Miso soup, too. The scent of seaweed, tofu, a hint of dashi broth.
“I made soup,” he says.
My throat aches, dry and sore, but I don’t move. I keep my forehead to the ground, my body folded in half, my palms pressed flat.
