Page 98 of Brutal Union
“Say something,” I whisper, my voice barely holding together. “Anything.”
Sho finally shifts. Slow. Intentional. He closes the book in his lap with measured precision and sets it gently on the short-legged table beside him. His movements are fluid, thoughtful, deliberate. When he leans forward, his eyes don’t break from mine, and he lifts his knee, resting his forearm lazily across it, like he’s settling into something rather than preparing for battle.
“You love me?” he murmurs, and something in his voice makes my heart stutter. He’s not mocking. He’s not cold. He’ssavoring.
I nod, tension flooding my throat. But I can’t speak. So instead, I move.
I drop to my knees beside him, sinking into the soft pillow on the floor. It gives slightly under my weight, plush and quiet, like the only softness left in the world. My hands move instantly to my lap, where they twist together without my permission—fingers tightening, palms wringing against each other, nerves erupting under my skin.
“You heard me,” I say, eyes locked on his now that we’re level. “Don’t make me suffer for it… just tell me.”
He studies me, unblinking. The light from the paper lantern above casts long shadows across his jaw, highlighting the smooth, deliberate way his lips press together in thought.
“I’m not making you suffer,” he says, his voice low, steady. “I’m just basking in the moment. You said it first.”
His smile—small, lazy, amused—pulls at the corner of his mouth. The same mouth I’ve kissed. The same mouth that has whispered threats, promises, and everything in between.
I narrow my eyes and shove at his chest—frustrated, embarrassed, overwhelmed. The push is impulsive, not hard, but sharp with emotion. He catches my wrist instantly.
Before I can pull away, his fingers tighten around me—not painfully, but firmly—and in a fluid motion, he yanks me toward him. My balance shifts, and I brace myself with one hand on the tatami mat, landing with a quiet thud. My body leans forward, pulled across the space between us.
My face is inches from his.
The breath in my lungs stutters.
His hand doesn’t let go of my wrist. If anything, it draws me closer, his grip warm and controlled. My other hand flattens against the floor to hold myself upright, but my mouth hovers dangerously close to his. One wrong move, and we’ll be touching.
Or maybe one right move.
I can feel his breath on my lips—tea and warmth and something else that makes my skin pulse with anticipation.
His eyes flick from mine to my mouth, and drunkenly my eyes follow the movement, focusing on the quiver of his lips as he speaks to me.
“I have loved you,” he says, voice low, voicecertain,“since the moment I laid eyes on you in the back of your brother’s van.”
I lean forward without thinking, drawn by the sound of his voice, the warmth of his body, the softness in his eyes that I’m almost never allowed to see. I want to feel his mouth on mine, feel the truth of those words pressed against me—but just as my lips hover close enough to touch, he pulls back.
Not far, but enough to make me pause.
His fingers find the underside of my chin, and with the barest pressure, he tilts my face upward until I’m forced to look him in the eye.
“I have loved you since the moment you told me to fuck off,” he murmurs, the corners of his mouth curling with something that might’ve been a smile, if not for the weight in his voice. “I loved you even when you basically sent me to my death. You see—” his thumb brushes under my jaw, slow and grounding, “—I’m fine with you loving me now, because there was a time I just loved you.”
His eyes bore into mine, forcing my entire body to light up like a Christmas tree.
“But I know now... what I feel for you is more than love.” His voice lowers further, until I can feel it in my throat as much as I hear it. “It’s anobsession.”
I swallow hard, pulse spiking, something tight coiling in the center of my chest—not fear, not resistance, but something farmore dangerous. The sensation of beingknown.Of being seen so completely that hiding becomes useless. His hand still cradles my face, thumb grazing the edge of my cheek like he’s anchoring himself to this moment.
“I am completely consumed with you,” he breathes. “Three years without you and I felt like a ghost. I tried to outrun it. Disappear into jobs, aliases, silence. But it was always you. Every time I closed my eyes.”
His other hand slips around my waist, pulling me closer until there’s no space between our bodies, only heat.
“I’m not alive when you’re not here, Nadia.”
The words settle between us like a confession and a curse. And still, I don’t pull away.
I can’t.
