Page 109 of Brutal Unionn
“Four,” comes a third, already smirking as he lifts his crystal glass, in Nadia’s direction.
Aoi’s voice cuts through the chatter in my ear, calm and clipped. “Five hundred million,” and then she turns her head and whispers into her inner ear, “I didn’t think they would start her off so fucking high.”
I smirk, despite the growing nausea in the pit of my stomach. “Of course they would. It’s my girl.”
The auctioneer beams, stretching out the moment. “We have five hundred million—do I hear six?”
Blood is already rushing in my ears, as the number is pushed higher and higher until my gaze lands on my father. He hasn’t lifted a hand or opened his mouth. He sits completely still, his body poised like a sculpture, but it’s his eyes that won’t let go of her. They never blink, never waver, following every small shift in Nadia’s posture. There’s no lust in his expression, no interest in ownership. Only scrutiny. Deep, surgical focus, like he’s trying to decide whether she’s a threat or a tool, or maybe both. That’s what sets my pulse racing, not the other bidders or the price tags—but him.
As the auctioneer opens his mouth to close the deal, my father rises from his seat without a word. In the same motion, he draws a blade from inside his coat, a slender, bone-handledknife I recognize from his ceremonial collection. He doesn’t hesitate or posture. He throws it like it’s part of his breath, fluid and clean.
The blade cuts through the air in a tight spiral. I lurch forward from my place near the back wall, instinct already taking over. My body surges toward the stage, but I don’t make it far. Bhon grabs my arm with an iron grip, pulling me back before I can even reach the aisle. His other hand braces against my chest, holding me still.
“Don’t,” he says in a low voice near my ear. “He’s not aiming to kill. If you rush the stage, everything falls apart.”
I struggle against him for a beat, but he doesn’t budge. His grip is exact and brutal, and he knows me well enough to brace for the backlash. I don’t speak, don’t curse, because the second the blade makes contact, all the breath is ripped out of the room.
The knife strikes just beneath her left eye. It doesn’t pierce deeply, just enough to slice the skin in a single line that glows red against the pale canvas of her face. Blood trails slowly, along her cheekbone from the shallow cut. Her body doesn’t move, not an inch. She doesn’t startle or cry out. There’s no flinch, no shock in her expression—only the same poised calm she walked in with, as if she expected it.
The ribbon holding the mask together falls off from the precise slit of the knife, and drops to the stage floor with a soft clatter of lacquered wood against polished oak.
She’s fully visible now.
Every inch of makeup that Aoi layered with obsessive detail is perfectly intact—deep red lips, sculpted brows, sharp eyeliner and glittering shadow—but none of that holds the attentionof the room anymore. What arrests them, what stops every whisper cold, is the face beneath the paint. The mask is gone, and there is no illusion left.
“Ah,” my father’s aged voice echoes throughout the space. “Such an unforgettable beauty.”
Nadia looks up at the corner of the room, like she senses me from the shadows before looking at my father with a demure smile. “Master Matsumoto, it’s an honor.”
“No,” my father clicks his tongue, a tinge of humor in his tone. “Do not lie to me and use words you don’t understand.”
He grabs the shiny black cane with a silver handle next to him, and steadily stands, and takes lazy steps forward as the whole room watches.
My heart pounds harder now, a dull throb behind my ribs. I don’t even realize I’m pushing forward until Bhon braces against my chest again.
“She can handle him,” he mutters.
“She shouldn’t have to,” I grit out.
“You speak of honor,” my father bellows, folding his hands neatly over the top of his cane. “But you walk onstage in lingerie and silk, disguised as a gift for the honorable men in this room. And you offer a smile, as if you are not poisonous.”
Nadia straightens her spine just slightly beneath the fall of her robe. She lifts one hand with elegant ease, brushing a single lock of hair away from her face, drawing subtle attention to the bleeding line across her cheek.
“Perhaps I misunderstood the kind of performance required for this crowd,” she replies, her voice measured. “After all, Iheard your organization values tradition. I dressed to suit the role. I bleed for it too, now, thanks to your hospitality.”
My fists clench again, this time harder. Bhon hasn’t let go of my arm. I can feel the tension in him too, not as panic but readiness. He knows how my father works. He knows what happens when this man smiles.
Takeda doesn’t react to her jab. If anything, he looks entertained by it.
“I once trusted you to be a queen amongst kings” he says, tone low and laced with theatrics.
“I have always been,” she replies evenly. “A master of my own fates, if you will.”
“So you admit your deception," he says.
“I admit I’m dangerous,” she answers. “I admit I am a queen. I admit that you have stolen a very valuable subject of mine.”
Takeda’s face doesn’t move, but his fingers tighten slightly over the silver handle of his cane.
