Page 87 of Brutal Unionn
My eyes flutter shut. And despite everything—the shame, the rage, the raw humiliation coursing through every inch of me—I smile.
21
NADIA
Sho keepsa firm hand on my wrist as he guides me toward the back of the club, cutting through the haze of sweat, smoke, and cheap perfume. The bass still thunders beneath our feet, but I hardly hear it over the wave of jeers and boos erupting from the crowd. They’re disappointed. Hungry for more blood. For a longer show. For the humiliation of a woman who didn’t break when they wanted her to.
“Take it off!”
“Boo! Kill the bitch!”
“Back to the block with you, Bratva bitch!”
And then, above all the noise, Aoi’s voice crackles through the speakers, cold and sharp as a blade. “The next man who opens his fucking mouth will have his tongue in a jar. Try me.”
The silence that falls after that is swift and absolute.
Sho doesn’t say a word as he pushes through the last hallway, ignoring the men who part for him like water. I try to speak—to explain, to ask if he’s okay, ifIdid something wrong—butthe set of his jaw is locked, and his grip doesn’t loosen. He’s silent, but not cruel with his movements.
We reach a black steel door near the back, paint chipped around the edges, the lock crusted with rust and fingerprints. He shoulders it open and drags me inside with him. The office is cramped and dimly lit, cluttered with old ledgers, an unplugged fan in the corner, and the scent of alcohol-soaked upholstery. A metal desk sits against the far wall, and beside it, a beat-up red first-aid kit.
I open my mouth to speak, to say anything—anything that might bring him back to me—but he drops my wrist without a glance and moves straight to the desk. He yanks open the drawer, digs out the first-aid kit with a roughness I’ve only ever seen in him mid-fight, and tosses it onto the surface.
I step forward. “Sho?—”
He turns sharply and walks past me. He doesn't shove or touch or even look at me. He just moves, fast and clean, opens the door, and slams it shut behind him without a word.
The sound echoes through the room, sharp and sudden.
I blink, frozen for a second, the sudden stillness hitting harder than the fight.
The door creaks open again, and for a second my heart leaps.
But it’s not Sho.
Aoi strides in like she owns the room—because she does. Tall, elegant, and lethal in tight black slacks and a silk blouse that doesn't have a single wrinkle despite the chaos outside. Her long black hair is pulled back, and her earrings sparkle under the flickering overhead light as she saunters toward me.
She eyes me up and down like I’m a bloody canvas someone left in her gallery.
“Well, well,” she purrs, her voice low and mocking. “Looks like someone's been averynaughty girl.”
I lift my head, pain still throbbing through my shoulder, through every limb. I don’t want to do this—not now—but I will if she pushes me. I meet her gaze squarely.
“Don’t make me disrespect you in your own establishment,” I snap, voice sharp and cold despite the ache spreading through my bones. “Not when I’m trying to be polite.”
Aoi’s eyes sparkle with amusement, lips curving into a slow, delighted smile.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says with a quiet laugh, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You’d need both arms working to pull that off.”
Before I can react, she’s behind me.
There’s no warning. Just a sudden, brutal grip on my dangling arm.
I suck in a breath, spinning, but her hand is already on my shoulder, the other wrapped around my elbow. She yanks.
White-hot pain shoots through my chest, seizing everything in its path.
Snap.
