Page 20 of Brutal Unionn
“I would.” I smirk, walking over to her phone next to the window and text her name to my own phone, that buzzes in my pocket.
Her whole body tenses. “You’re fucking insane.”
“And you love it,” I laugh and walk toward the door, unhurried, like I don’t feel the weight of her fury licking at my spine.
Hand on the doorknob, I glance back over my shoulder—she’s glaring now, teeth bared, wrists straining against the restraints like she might rip the damn couch apart.
“See you next time, little brat.”
Then I’m gone, leaving the door cracked just enough to hear her scream echo through the penthouse, feral and furious. And fuck, it’s music to my ears.
5
NADIA
It takesme three fucking hours to crawl across the penthouse floor, the leather belt biting into my wrists, my arms screaming from the strain. Three hours of dragging myself toward my dead phone—useless, lying by the floor-to-ceiling windows like a sleek little corpse. Three hours of bloodied palms, carpet burns, and sawing at the restraints with the dull edge of my favorite goddamn knife.
Sho left me bound like a trophy. And now I’m bleeding for the privilege of undoing it.
Could I have screamed? Absolutely. I could’ve shattered the glass with my voice. Security downstairs, the concierge, maybe even some poor maid—they would’ve come running.
But that would’ve meant beingseen.
Half-naked. Sweaty. Lips bruised from a gag. Wrists bound behind my back with a belt like some broken little plaything.
And I’m a lot of things—but humiliated? Never.
Another thing I’ll be telling Sho the next time I see him: humiliation is a hard line. Anddefinitelynot a kink I fucking have.
After one brutal yank, the belt finally gives. My palm splits open, blood oozing from a gash that’ll probably need stitches. I don’t care. I’m free.
I dig through the penthouse with one good hand until I find a charger, then jam it into the outlet beside the marble coffee table and plug in my phone.
Now I wait.
I throw myself onto the leather couch—the same one he desecrated me on—and glare at the phone like I can will it back to life. The belt lies limp across my lap, still looped around my left wrist, soaked with blood and sweat.
I lean back, dragging my fingers through my hair and wincing when they catch on a knot. My thighs are still sticky, my pulse still too high, and my mouth still tastes like him. And theworst part? He kissed me on the cheek.
That smug little bastard had theaudacityto kiss me like a lover before leaving me tied up and wrecked. Like what he was doing was not a complete declaration of war.
“I’m going to kill him,” I whisper, voice shaking with fury. “I am going to carve my name into his ribcage and burn that fucking smirk off his face.”
I look over at the phone and tap the screen -- still black, becauseof course it is.
I shove off the couch and stalk toward the bathroom, each step leaving a smear of blood across the pristine floors—abreadcrumb trail soaked in fury. Revenge drips from me, literal and figurative.
The light hums to life as I flick the switch, cool and sterile against the sweat still clinging to my skin. My reflection stares back, a portrait of aftermath—mascara smudged into the hollows beneath my eyes, lipstick smeared like a bruise, hair a wild, tangled crown of chaos. I look wrecked.
Sho would say I lookbeautiful. That I lookruinedin the way he likes. That I learned my lesson well.
I bare my teeth at the mirror, hatred and humiliation burning behind my eyes.
Then I rip open the cabinet beneath the sink. Of course. A first aid kit—meticulously stocked. Bandages organized, alcohol wipes unopened, the thread wound tight. Predictable.
This is one of Sho’s safe houses. His little playground. His fucking trap.
Good.
