Page 22 of Brutal Unionn
“Shut up and bring me a change of clothes.” I growl moving into the bedroom.
Aleksandr chuckles, low and smug. “I don’t even want to know which one of you is kinky enough to leave without them.”
My jaw tightens. “Two hours.”
I hang up before he can say anything else, cheeks burning as I toss the phone onto the bed. It lights up again almost instantly, and when I glance over—there it is. A message from my fucking arch-nemesis.
UNKNOWN: I hope you got out of your bondage.
I practically scramble across the bed to pull the phone into my hands.
NADIA: I am going to kill you.
UNKNOWN: Now, don’t threaten your dom. I may have to gag you with more than your panties.
I pull my thighs tight, my center pooling.
NADIA: Next time, I will be gagging you with a gun.
UNKNOWN: Mmm promise?
I stare at the screen, seething. “Oh, you think you’re cute,” I mutter, growling low in my throat. Talking to him is like setting myself on fire and pretending I don’t love the burn.
I toss the phone onto the bed, resisting the urge to hurl it through the window. My skin still hums from being touched, spanked, and bound. I can feel the dried sweat and slick clinging to every inch of me like a second skin.
I march toward the bathroom, blood still crusted faintly around the cut on my palm, my thighs sore with bruised muscle and phantom sensation. My reflection catchesme in the mirror as I reach for the faucet—hair wild, lips swollen, bite marks blooming at the edge of my collarbone like blooming bruises.
I look like a woman who just survived a war—and lost. But I don’t feel like a loser. The only man to make mefeellike a loser was Boris, my father, but Sho knew I was strong enough for these wounds and bruises. He knew what I could handle.
I turn the shower on, and hot water hisses from the shower head instantly, the steam rolls over my exposed flesh and I sigh at the sensation knowing the water will be better.
I step under the spray and the first hit of heat makes me suck in a sharp breath.
The water is almost scalding, and I don’t turn it down. I let it beat against my chest, my back, pouring over the places he touched. My fingers scrub hard—too hard—over my skin, as if I can erase the evidence of what we did, his mouth, the way he left me undone, but I don’t want to erase him. Phantom heat curls over my skin with every drag of the washcloth, and I let the scent of jasmine give me some semblance of peace before I do what I have to do.
My father, Boris Petrov—once called the Demon of New York and head of the Bratva’s American division—is free because of Sho, and he should never be free. I spent my life trying to earn his approval, thinking if I killed enough, fought hard enough, he’d see me as worthy. But Boris never believed women could lead. He murdered my mother for infidelity, then tormented Aleksandr, Nik, and me by sending us pieces of her body. And still, back then, I wanted his respect. Now that I know the truth, all I want is for him to suffer—for what he did to her, for the lies he fed us, and for everything hetook.
Sho didn’t mean to set all of this in motion. He was chasing his own revenge against the Yakuza, blinded by it, and in the process, helped Boris escape. Because of him, the man who hates me most is now free—a man who would rather see me dead than see me as Queen of the Bratva. That can’t go unanswered.
Aleksandr and I are meeting with the head of the Yakuza to demand Boris’s return or the location of his hiding place. Sho may never forgive me for making that kind of deal, but what we have was never meant to last. He’s the heir to the Yakuza. I’m a Bratva princess trying to take the throne. Us being together would mean war. Whatever’s between us was always standing on ice—and I’m about to shatter it for my future.
The water cools slightly and I slip out of the shower, finally clean—every inch of me scrubbed raw, including freshly shampooed and conditioned hair that now smells like jasmine and vanilla, purely expensive. I wrap a sinfully fluffy towel around my body and twist another into a knot at the top of my head.
My skin is pink from heat, scrubbed down to the bone. But I feel…reset. Not calm. Not centered. Just sharper. Like a blade wiped clean, waiting to be drawn again.
I step into the bedroom, steam trailing behind me like a ghost. And there it is—my phone, buzzing softly against the sheets. And beside it, the black garment bag.
With a cautious gaze, I tap my phone and look at the new message from Sho.
UNKNOWN: Your clothes should be there. Can’t have you leaving in that dress.
I roll my eyes changing his contact before I unzip the garment bag with more force than necessary, and the second the zipper drops, I mutter under my breath?—
“?????…” My jaw tightens. Of course the bastard was right.
Inside: a pair of high-waisted leather pants. A cropped white tank top, soft but structured. A matching leather jacket with quilted shoulders and a concealed blade slot in the inner lining. And on the floor are heeled black military boots with silver buckles that look similar to the ones I wear back at home.
I quickly dry off, leaving the towel around my hair. Sho thought of everything but underwear, so I shrug and continue to get dressed
