Page 89 of Brutal Unionn
The trekback to Sho’s house is long, and mostly uphill, but he does not slow down for me.
He moves like a shadow—fluid, effortless, almost inhuman as he navigates the winding, moss-covered path through the dense forest of Osaka. The air is thick with humidity, buzzing with the constant hum of cicadas. I’m sweating, my hairsticking to the back of my neck, but Sho doesn’t even look like he’s breathing hard. He doesn’t speak to me, not even a glance thrown over his shoulder.
Except once.
“Watch your foot,” he says, gesturing toward a thin string tied low between two tree trunks—nearly invisible until you're right on top of it. A homemade tripwire, probably connected to something nasty. “Homemade,” he adds, as if that explains everything. Then he’s off again, brushing past branches and ducking under limbs without missing a step.
I, on the other hand, am forced to scramble over fallen logs and slippery rocks, the heels of my boots slick with damp leaves. My thighs burn, my jeans sticking to me from the humidity, and every time I open my mouth to demand a break or a direction, he somehow speeds up like he can sense it.
A branch smacks me across the face, and Sho calls over his shoulder, “Watch your head.”
That’s it. That’s the extent of our conversation.
I don’t know how far we’ve gone, only that the thick canopy above lets in barely any light and the air feels heavier the deeper we go. This place isn’t just off the grid—it’serasedfrom it. Perfect for a man like Sho. A man who wants to disappear. Or hide something.
Eventually, the path narrows, and he slips between a pair of leaning bamboo stalks, completely overgrown with ivy. I push through after him, swearing under my breath, and when I finally make it through, I’m greeted by the sight of a small, weather-worn house tucked into the hillside like it grew out of the earth itself.
The roof is covered in moss, walls are a thin cream color that looks like cotton paper, and a single paper lantern sways gently above the front door. It smells like cedar and old smoke. Peaceful—if you don’t know who lives here.
Sho finally stops at the threshold, one hand on the sliding door. His back is still to me, as he unlocks the door and slides it open with the tips of his fingers. Then, without a word, he bends and slips out of his shoes, leaving them perfectly aligned on the porch like the militant, crazed man he is.
“Take off your shoes, but bring them inside and lean them against the wall,” He murmurs, his tone so dead you’d think he was talking to his own shadow instead of me, the woman he has claimed to be madly in love with is right here looking at him.
I watch him walk inside, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
His shoulders have broadened—carved from granite and wrapped in skin stretched tight across thick, hard muscle. His back is a map of lean, powerful ridges and valleys, and the short sleeves of his black shirt cling to biceps that weren’t that big the last time I saw him. Not this sculpted. Not thissolid. His traps ripple slightly as he lifts one hand to press against the wall for balance, the muscles in his forearm flexing, veins raised like rivers beneath the skin.
He’s bigger now. Stronger. There’s no softness left in him. No hesitation in his steps. This isn’t the Sho I tortured in a basement and teased into submission. This version of him could break me in half—and I don’t know if I’d even try to stop him, because it’s not like I tried before.
I grunt as I start to yank at my laces, nearly falling off the damn porch. “Look,” I snarl, pulling at the knot at the top of my boot. “I get it. I fucked up.”
He pauses, mid-step, turning to the side.
The silhouette of his chiseled form is relaxed and yet every muscle is pulled tight. His side profile cuts through the dim light leaking through the paper walls braced with wood around the edges: sharp jaw, sloped shoulders, the slope of a well-earned V-line disappearing into the loose waistband of his pants.
“You fucked up,” he replies evenly.
I finally yank the first shoe off and toss it inside, the heel skidding across the wooden floor. I scoff, shifting to balance on the tips of my toes as I start tugging at the other boot. “Yeah, I fucked up,” I mutter. “And I said I’m sorry.”
Sho doesn’t move at first, but when he speaks again, his tone is tighter—cut from something raw and dark.
“No.Fucking upis getting my order wrong at the store,” he says, stepping toward me, his shadow stretching across the floor. “Fucking up is writing my last name wrong by one letter because you still can’t read or write in Japanese.”
Another step. His presence fills the space like smoke—slow, suffocating, and I stumble to my feet as I slide the shoe off and hold the doorframe to keep me steady.
“Fucking up is forgetting my birthday or losing a knife.What you did,” his voice drops, low and sharp enough to sting, “wasn’t a fuck-up.”
He’s standing close now, towering just inside the doorway, his frame bigger, broader, more brutal than I remembered. His shoulders stretch the seams of his black shirt, and theflickering moonlight from the paper window casts his muscles in sharp relief—his chest rising and falling like a storm held at bay. There’s heat rolling off of him, thick and suffocating, the kind of heat that saysrunorburn.
“You didn’t fuck up, Nadia,” he growls, my name curling off his tongue like venom, sharp and full of betrayal—for the first time in our lives.
“You tried to sell me back to the fucking Yakuza. You were going to have me killed.”
“That was a deal I made before I knew about us,” I snap, voice thin but defiant. “Beforethis—” I gesture between us, a wild slash of my hand “—was even real.”
His eyes narrow.
“So you made this deal before Gwen was even kidnapped?”
