Page 33 of Brutal Unionn
Because she’s mine.
I reach the blown-out entrance just as part of the second floor gives way, the floor above collapsing inward in aguttural moan. It hits the ground with a thunderous crack that reverberates through the soles of my boots. The shock rattles the bones in my legs, and for a split second, the whole fucking world seems to hold its breath.
Then the lobby coughs up smoke and fire and ruin, and I’m in it—throwing myself headfirst into the chaos.
My arm shields my face as the heat claws at me. My eyes sting, watering, but I force them open. The smoke burns. My lungs seize. But I charge through the mouth of the inferno like the devil’s on my heels—because she’s somewhere inside. Buried. Trapped.
“NADIA!” My voice shreds, but I scream anyway. If she can hear me, if she’s still alive, I need her to hold on. Just a little longer.
Flames bite up my calves, igniting the edges of my pants. I don’t care. I leap over a fallen beam, the charred wood snapping beneath me, and duck beneath the twisted remains of a support beam that groans with the weight of the floor above it.
Everything smells like death.
Burnt wood, melting wires, cooked leather. And blood.
I can smell her blood.
My hands are shredded, cut to hell as I dig through fallen beams, drywall, ash. My knuckles are raw, split open, and I don’t stop. The couch where she’d been lying—gone. Reduced to blackened steel and foam skeletons. Nothing is left. Not the velvet cushions. Not the silk throw she always refused to wash.
Nothing but ash.
And then I see her.
My heart punches through my chest as I spot the curve of her hip beneath a slab of splintered wall. She’s half-buried in wood, plaster, and rubble. Her body is slack. Blonde hair tangled and soaked with soot and blood. Her shirt is ripped down the middle, hanging in tatters, exposing pale skin marred with soot and grime. Cuts lace her torso, some shallow, others gaping. And that gash—above her eyebrow—bleeding slow, crimson tears down her cheek.
Time stops.
“Nadia…” I collapse to my knees beside her, breath catching as I reach for her. I’m trembling. I don’t even realize it until my hands are beneath her, lifting her gently, terrified she might break apart in my arms.
Her skin is ice. Her pulse is faint.
“I’ve got you, Hime. I’ve got you. I’ve got you—don’t go.”
She stirs. A flutter of lashes. Her lips part.
“Sho…” Her voice is barely air. Frayed. Fragile. But alive.
“I’m here.” I press my forehead to hers. I squeeze her tighter. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”
A sharp sound cuts through the roaring fire—boots.The rhythmic sound echoes throughout the room in such a controlled tempo, I know it is too precise for emergency response of the police, not these are trained soldiers.
My body stiffens.
I hear them—grinding through ash and glass, methodical, unfazed.And then, cutting through the smoke like a blade:
“Pick her up. Now.”
The voice is deep, calm. Korean accent. Precise like a scalpel.
I twist my head. Movement through the smoke. A tall figure. Black tactical coat, gloves slick with soot and blood. He moves like a ghost through the inferno, eyes sweeping the room.
He hasn’t seen us.
Not yet.
He’s close—too close.
I shift my hold on Nadia, lowering her behind a half-collapsed beam. She groans softly, her body trembling from the movement.
