Page 13 of Brutal Unionn
“Ah, Miss Petrov,” he bows, kissing the curl of my wrist with a wide smile as his opposite hand snaps, pointing to Draco’s whimpering body.
One of the guards grunts, moving to fumble with the knives impaling Draco to the felt. Draco, the big baby he is, groans and curses in Russian as they finally wrench his hands free, blood dripping onto the floor.
“Miss Petrov, do you know the rules of Yurei Club?” He questions, grabbing my hand lightly in his as his eyes swipe across the room with flare. In the background, Draco groans as his seat yawns, finally released from the weight of him.
“No weapons? No killing other patrons?” I mock, tilting my head to the side as I tug my hand roughly out of his tightening grip.
“Oh, so you know that you’ve violated the rules of conduct, Miss Petrov,” he barks, the act of casual conversation disappearing behind a snarl. “This establishment does not tolerate acts of violence—no matter the offense, or attraction.”
Attraction? Is he referring to my dress? Does he think I am a sex worker? I mean no work is more honorable, but he must be deranged to believe that this is a proper way to talk to a lady. I rise to full height, chin tilted, ready to snap—but Sho beats me to it.
He sighs, long-suffering and charmingly apologetic, then pulls a gold-edged hotel card from the inner pocket of his blazer. It gleams under the low light like a badge of divine right. His hand rests heavily on the curl of my spine, right above my ass.
“She didn’t do anything, and besides she’s with me,” he says smoothly, flashing the card. “Apologies for the… misunderstanding.”
The man’s face pales as he glances between the card and me multiple times before his posture collapses into a frantic bow. The guards follow suit, heads lowered.
“Forgive me, Sho-sama,” the man stammers. “I didn’t realize. No offense intended. Of course she may stay—or leave—under your discretion.”
Sho waves a hand, all casual dismissal, and his control over the situation intrigues me. “No worries. I’ll be handling her…reeducation in proper conduct myself.”
The man nods so fast I snort at the idea that he might pass out. “Yes, of course. Please.”
Sho turns to me then, still smiling—but now with a gleam that makes my spine arch with heat.
“Shall we, Hime?” he asks, offering his arm.
I curl my lips into a smile of adoration, one I have learned from years of seduction during a mission. I must look gorgeous because Sho’s eyes darken with hunger and my thighs clench at all the nasty things he must be thinking.
I slide my hand through the crook of his arm and turn my smile on the order. “I do apologize for not following the rules of this establishment. I do havemuchto learn in conduct.”
The man smiles in a way to most that looks like politeness but to me looks like fear. “Mondai nai desu.”There's no problem.
Sho slightly bows his head and guides me towards the golden elevators across the floor. I don’t look back to make sure Draco is gone, but I hope for his sake he goes to Sergei before Sergei finds him. I keep my head up high as all the eyes in this club follow us across the floor.
The elevator doors shine like polished sin, and just before we reach them, Sho leans in again—his voice low, husky, and threaded with heat.
“Move your ass,Hime, before I have to start a war in here just to keep you to myself.”
His lips brush the shell of my ear as he speaks, and I swear the air leaves my lungs in one slow, stunned exhale. I step faster—not away from him, but toward whatever this is unraveling into.
The elevator dings. Sho presses the button with the same hand that still carries blood beneath his fingernails.
And just before the doors slide shut behind us, he murmurs— “Now…how do you want to learn your manners?”
4
SHO
Nadia Petrov standsin the center of my hotel penthouse suite like she owns the air I breathe. She's adjusting the lines of her midnight dress, smoothing the fabric over the soft swell of her breasts with a grace so effortless it feels weaponized. I have to grit my teeth to swallow the groan crawling up my throat.
Her long blonde hair—usually cascading like a damn halo—is twisted into a high, elegant bun, exposing the nape of her neck and the delicate line of her spine. My fingers twitch with the urge to undo it, to drag her back to the version of herself I remember best—wild, undone, and whispering sins in Russian.
I feel like a starving man in a locked room with the feast he was told he’d never deserve. Like a desert wanderer hallucinating a mirage, and yet here she is—Nadia, my personal delusion dressed in silk and danger. A fever dream made flesh.
And I should treat her like what she is: a fiction. A ghost of a mistake I should never touch again.
But fiction never looked this good pressed up against reality.
