Page 108 of Brutal Unionn
“She’s pure,” he adds, letting the word drip from his mouth like syrup. “Untouched. We’ll start the bidding at fifty million dollars. Do I hear an opening bid?”
Three hands go up almost immediately.
One belongs to a jittery man in the back corner—the section reserved for the latecomers, the irrelevant. His hand hovers for a second, hopeful, then wilts as he catches sight of the competition. He slouches back into his seat, already defeated.
The second man sits mid-row, a little off to the right. His hands are tattooed, his knuckles thick with callouses. Could be a disgruntled bodyguard sent to run errands, or maybe ashateigashira—an underboss,with a fat envelope and strict instructions: get a girl, stay under budget. He lowers his hand slowly, annoyed. Not surprised.
Because the third bidder is sitting in the front row.
His salted black hair is slicked back into a perfect ponytail, not a strand out of place. His suit is traditional, but the fabric’s too crisp, too new to be old money. He doesn’t even glance around—just raises his hand with that smug assurance that only comes from real power.
“I’ll take her for three hundred,” he says, voice calm, confident, practiced. And familiar. Hauntingly familiar.
My stomach drops. A cold sweat beads along my spine, because who would think tonight of all nights Takeda Matsumoto, my father, would want to participate in his own sick deeds.
“Sold!” the auctioneer crows, clapping once with performative delight.
I start to move, already tapping my earpiece again. “Aoi, secure her. Don’t let them take her anywhere alone.”
“Already on it,” she says. “She’s being moved to a private holding. I’ll follow.”
Before I can respond, a second voice cuts into the channel—low, gravel-thick, unmistakable.
“This is Bhon,” he says flatly. “That was the last of the children.”
My jaw locks. I scan the room, watching for a signal, anything off. “Then where the hell is Mia?”
“Now for item number four,” the announcer purrs, pausing with an overdone sweep of his arm, “Ourrarestitem of the night.”
A hush falls over the room. Men lean forward in their chairs, drawn like vultures to something already half-dead. And that’s when she steps out. A fucking vision of weaponized elegance. Her robe is a deep crimson, the fabric of a traditionalfurisode,a formal Japanese Kimono,the kind worn only by the most eligible women in old Japanese society. The sleeves are long, brushing the floor with every step she takes. Gold embroidery winds through the silk in patterns that shimmer with movement, catching the stage light in subtle flickers. The robe hangs half open—not by accident, but by design—revealing the black lace beneath, a bodice cut from fine lingerie, each edge trimmed in gold thread that matches the robe’s lining. It doesn’t cling to her. It presents her.
Her hair falls loose across her shoulders, curling slightly at the ends, not styled or pinned, but worn like a choice. It softens the sharpness of her presence without dulling it. Over her face, a lacquered mask conceals everything from the bridge of her nose up. It’s shaped in the style of akitsune—a legendary fox spirit from Japanese folklore - a supernatural shapeshifter known for its intelligence and magical powers.It’s deep red with delicate gold lines, hiding her identity while commanding all attention. With each step, she glides—not too fast, not too slow. Her movements are deliberate, controlled, absent of fear.
She walks to the center of the stage and stops with perfect precision. One hand rests lightly against her hip, the other hanging by her side. The robe sways, and the soft rustle of fabric across wood is the only sound in the room.
She’s the most dangerous thing in this building, and not a single bastard here knows it.
Except me, Bhon and Aoi.
In my ear, Aoi exhales, her voice sharp and low. “I did her makeup twice. Red eyeshadow, contour, lined lips—the works. And now they cover it with a fucking mask. Idiots.”
The auctioneer grins wider as he circles the edge of the stage like a wolf pretending to be a gentleman.
“Some of you may have heard whispers,” he says, his voice lifting theatrically. “Rumors. Hints of fire behind a pretty face. But I assure you… this is no rumor. This,” he gestures toward her with a flourish, “is trained. Disciplined. Loyal. A gift unlike any other. We call her… the Crimson Widow.”
A ripple of desire moves through the room, dark and palpable. It isn't just lust—they're looking at her the way animals eye something they believe they can tame. Low mutters escape lips. A few men exchange glances, hungry and calculating. Nadia does not return their gaze. Her chin remains high, her face impassive save for the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth—a smile that saysI dare you.
“She is obedient,” the auctioneer continues, and I feel the bile rise in my throat. “But not broken. We don’t sell ruins here, gentlemen. We sellrefined fire. Controlled chaos. Power you can own.”
He slows, milking the silence between his words like a sermon. “And tonight, that power can belong to one of you.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides. I know it’s an act. I know she volunteered. But hearing them talk about her like this—like she’s a possession, a trained beast on a leash—makes something ancient twist in my chest.
“Bidding will begin at two hundred million U.S. dollars,” the auctioneer announces. “Do I hear an opening?—?”
“Two-fifty,” someone calls from the front row. He sounds like he is foaming at the mouth, already leaning forward with excitement and need.
“Three hundred,” a woman with a crisp English accent says from across the room.
