Page 86 of Brutal Unionn
His silence stretches, tight and sharp. Then, his voice returns, quieter now, but not without a bite.
“Huh.”
Just one syllable—but the sound of something clicking into place. I feel him withdraw a half step, and the cold pressure of the blade leaves my skin. For a moment, the breath I have been holding loosens, and I brace to strike, to reclaim what little control I have left.
Because just as I brace to turn—ready to strike one last time—he turns toward the crowd and speaks.
“The woman before me,” he calls out, voice clear, dominant, unapologetically commanding, “has agreed to submit to me. She will serve me for the rest of her life.”
What?
My mind reels. I blink hard, sure I imagine the words. But the crowd has heard. I can feel the pulse of their reaction ripple outward, silence folding in on itself like breath held too long. It takes a full second for the words to register. And when they do, my blood surges in my veins like wildfire.
“I beg your unbelievable pardon?” I snarl, trying to shove off the ground. “I do not?—”
But Sho’s voice cuts clean through mine, louder, more authoritative. “Does Madam Aoi find this a reasonable conclusion?” he asks, tone clipped and formal now. “To spare her life in servitude to me?”
His grip on my injured shoulder tightens—not enough to rebreak it, but enough to remind me that I am still in the dirt, still unarmed, still on my knees.
Aoi doesn’t answer right away.She turns her gaze toward Bhon, who merely shrugs and chuckles like this is a delightful little plot twist in his favorite show. It is the kind of laugh that says, Let him have his prize…
“Are you prepared…” Aoi sings from the upper deck, her voice playful but laced with sadism, “…to give up yourself—mind, body, and spirit—to be his slave?”
The wordslavestrikes me harder than Sho’s kick ever could. It isn’t just a title. It is a declaration. A binding chain forged not from iron, but humiliation. And the entire pit—hundreds of eyes—is waiting to see if the Queen of the Russian underground will bend. This isn’t about survival anymore. This is about control.
I stare at the dirt in front of me, jaw clenched and trembling with rage and shame. My shoulder throbs in pain. My mindscreams in defiance... But through the chaos of my heartbeat, one name whispers louder than all of it.
Mia.
My breath trembles. My heart pounds against my ribs like it wants out. My pride screams at me to spit in their faces, to take the execution and die like the queen I am. But Mia… she is still out there.
I remain on my knees, dirt grinding into the skin beneath my jeans, my body aching in too many places to count. My shoulder throbs with the sharp, persistent heat of injury, and my pride—once the only thing I cling to—feels like it is bleeding out faster than any wound.
That word still hangs in the air.Slave.
It echoes in my mind like a curse, like the punchline to some cruel joke only Sho and Aoi are in on. The crowd stares, waiting, breathless, reveling in the sight of the Queen of the Bratva on her knees before the Shadow of the Yakuza. To them, this is a spectacle. To Bhon, it is entertainment. To Aoi, it is sport. But to me, it is a negotiation wrapped in humiliation. And it comes with only one question. Am I willing to lose everything to save one person?
I swallow what is left of my pride, and it tastes like blood and rust. I don’t lift my head, but I don’t lower it either. I force my voice through clenched teeth, quiet and cracked.
“…Yes.”
The word is small, but in that moment, it feels as heavy as a death sentence. It lands softly, barely louder than a breath, but it silences the entire arena.
Above me, Aoi lets out a soft, delighted hum, like she has just watched the final piece of a puzzle snap into place. Her smile, though I can't see it, paints itself clearly in my mind—lips curled, eyes gleaming, head tilted like a woman admiring her own masterpiece. Bhon lets out a low whistle of amusement, followed by a lazy clap, as if to saygood girl.
Sho doesn’t speak. But I feel the shift in him. He doesn’t expect me to say it. Not really. He knows me too well. He knows I’d rather die than kneel. But now I have done both—and not for him. For her. And maybe that difference matters to him. Maybe it doesn’t. But either way, he has won. Not the fight. Me.
The crowd erupts, a roar of approval cascading through the stands like a crashing tide. They clap, they stomp, they scream my name—but not with reverence. With ownership. With the triumphant joy of watching a wild thing break.
And yet, under the humiliation, beneath the rage still simmering in my chest, another feeling blooms low and unwanted. Not fear. Not sorrow. But a twisted, forbidden thrill.
I hate that I feel it. Hate that the idea of being close to Sho again—close enough to see the cracks in his armor, to hear his breath in the dark, to learn how he has evolved since the last time I tear him down—excites me. Not just strategically, not just for the mission. Viscerally.
There has always been a part of me that understands Sho better than anyone. I train him, test him, twist him. And now I am kneeling before him—my body aching, my dignity in tatters—and I am still drawn to him. Drawn to the gravity of his violence, to the intellect behind his cruelty. To the man he has become because I broke him.
Sho finally moves, every step dragging harder than the last. His hand comes to rest lightly on my injured shoulder—not possessive, not cruel, but grounding. A reminder. A claim. The contact sends a shiver through me, not from pain, but from something darker. Something I refuse to name.
He leans down, his breath warm against my ear, and his voice drops to a whisper meant only for me. “You’ll survive this, Hime,” he murmurs, the words as soft as silk and as sharp as a scalpel. “But you won’t survive me.”
