Page 57 of Brutal Unionn
He growls against me, his hips slamming into mine as he drives me over the edge. My body convulses around him, waves of pleasure crashing over me as I come hard, my nails raking down his chest as I scream his name. He follows me over the edge moments later, his body tensing as he spills himself inside me, his hands gripping my hips so tightly I know there will be bruises tomorrow.
We collapse together, our bodies tangled and spent, our breaths coming in ragged gasps as we try to recover. I can feel his heart pounding beneath me, and I know mine is racing just as fast. I lift my head, looking down at him, and I can see the way he’s completely undone, his eyes dark and hooded as he looks up at me.
I look into his face, and it’s right there that I see what heaven looks like. That the flames of my hell have vanquished for the first time, and I know I am screwed, because all of this power can’t be mine as long as I want him.
“Nadia,” he hums like a prayer.
Fuck it.Nik was right. I was never raised to be queen. I never really wanted that anyway. I’ve never wanted anything, but this.
“You’re mine,” I whisper, my voice soft but firm. “Boyfriend.”
“Fucking hell,” he replies, his voice hoarse with a small twinge of humor. “Now tell me what I have to do for you to be my wife.”
14
SHO
TWELVE YEARS EARLIER
Takahama Coast,Japan
The salt stings worse than the wound.
I hunch over in the pale sand, waves gently hissing up the beach. My leg burns. A jagged gash slices along my thigh from earlier this afternoon, when I fell trying to keep up with the older boys on the breakwater rocks. They didn’t notice I was hurt. They laughed and moved on. That’s good. That’s what Father would’ve wanted.
Still, it bleeds. I press my hand to it, trying to stop the flow. The blood soaks through my fingers and runs down my shin. The pain is sharp at first, then dull, then just… there.
I’m not supposed to cry.
I’m not supposed to feel anything. Father’s made that clear a hundred times. Weakness isn’t just shameful—it’s dangerous. He says it all the time. A single crack is enough to bring thewhole wall down. A moment of softness, and someone will use it to kill you.
The minute he deems me too weak, he will kill me. He has done it before. I remember my brothers. Benjiro was an artist who had a knack for drawing women and animals. He used to tell me those were the two purest forms of humanity. Riko was more of a lover. He was tender and kind, never really understood what it was to wield a sword. Both died at the age of fourteen. I am almost fourteen, my father has no trust I will make it to maturity. He believes my mother breeds weak men. I never asked about my one sister. I haven’t seen her since the day she was born five years ago.
I don’t want to cry.
But the tears still come. Hot. Silent. Not sobs—nothing weak like that. Just my eyes leaking without permission while I grind my teeth and keep my jaw clenched. Salty streaks cut down my face, disappearing into the ocean air. My shoulders shake, but only a little. Maybe from the wind. If anyone finds me I will tell them I am cold, but I am unsure a man should even feel a chill. That may make me weak as well.
The blood gushing from my leg isn’t clotting, and my head feels too fuzzy to sense my surroundings. That is the only reason I don’t hear her approach.
I smell her first—lavender, and sea salt. She kneels beside me without a word and clicks her tongue at the sight of my leg. Her presence doesn’t feel like it pushes into mine; it’s like water—slipping around me, fitting beside me.
“Sho,” she hums, her hands moving around mine, and gently pulling them away from the wound.
I stare at her beautiful heart shaped face. She’s wearing a pale blue kimono with silver cranes dancing along the hem. Her hair’s twisted up, strands pulled loose by the breeze.
“Do shita no, amai ko?”What happened, sweet girl?She hisses, looking at the long gash, moving my pained leg from side to side. It is only then that I recognize the swelling at my ankle.
I don’t answer her, and she murmurs under her breath, looking around the beach for the eyes of my father, or his men. She reaches into her sleeve and pulls out a small cloth bundle. Of course she brought it. She always brings something. I wonder how long she’s been watching me.
She unwraps the bundle and dabs at my leg. Her hands are warm. She’s gentle, but not afraid. When I flinch, she doesn’t. But her hands grip me tighter to keep me still.
“You should have come to me,” she says.
I stare at the waves. “I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because…” I pause, biting the inside of my cheek. The words taste like shame. “Father said I can’t be seen as weak.”
