Page 91 of Brutal Unionn
I press a kiss to the center of his chest, right over the scar that slashes across his ribcage. His body shudders ever so slightly beneath my mouth, and I feel the deep, guttural rumble of something he refuses to let escape his throat.
“You and I both know that’s not true.”
And then I kiss my way down—slowly, reverently—each word spoken into the warm planes of his stomach as my lips trail lower.
“I’m sorry, Sho,” I murmur, the words trembling against his skin. “For betraying you. For not seeing what this was. For letting my need to prove myself to the Bratva blind me to what we had.”
I sink lower, letting my knees press into the floor. The coolness of the wood contrasts with the heat rolling off his body, but I don’t stop. The waistband of his pants brushes my cheek, and I can see it—feelit—his body responding to me despite the walls he’s still trying to keep up. Want and pain war with each other in the way his abdomen tightens beneath each kiss.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” I say softly, eyes lifting to meet his.
I don’t blink. I let him see me. All of me—vulnerable, humbled, begging for forgiveness in the only way he’s ever responded to. Through honesty. Through submission. Throughaction.
“Please… tell me how I can apologize.”
His hand shoots out, fingers curling into my hair, yanking the tie free until blonde strands fall in loose waves around my face. His grip is tight, but not cruel. A leash of sorts and he could guide me to my salvation or shun me, and right now I would take both from him.
“Get off your knees, Nadia,” he grunts.
But I don’t obey. Instead, I lower myself all the way down, letting my forehead drop to the narrow strip of floor between his bare feet. I hear the sharp inhale of his breathing, but I keep my bowed position. I could stay there for days in this deep bow so he knows how sorry I am.
In Japanese culture, to bow—to prostrate oneself—is more than an apology. It’s a surrender of pride. A plea that transcends words. Thesaikeirei, the deepest bow, is reserved for the gravest offenses and the sincerest repentance. It is a vow of sincerity, usually reserved for emperors or gods. It is not a gesture to be taken lightly, especially not by someone like me. Someone who doesn’t kneel for anyone.
Except for him. Except now.
Silence presses down around us like snowfall. I feel his breath above me, heavy and uneven. His hands twitch at his sides, as if caught between yanking me back up or falling down with me.
“Please,” I whisper, forehead still to the floor, breath ghosting over the wooden boards. “Let me make this right. Let meearnthe forgiveness I was too afraid to ask for.”
And for the first time in three years, I don’t care if I look weak. Because this isn’t about power. It’s abouthim.It’s about him knowing how much I love him, and how deeply I need him to accept my apologies, and take me back.
“Please,” I whisper again, my voice feathering across the floorboards, barely more than breath. “Let me make this right. Let meearnthe forgiveness I was too afraid to ask for.”
The silence tightens around me like a noose, and then—I feel it.
The floor creaks softly under his weight. Sho kneels behind me. Not fully. Just enough to drop his center of gravity. Close enough that his heat ghosts over the curve of my spine, close enough that my body aches to lean into him—but doesn’t. Can’t.
For the briefest moment, I believe he’s going to touch me with care. That he’ll cup my jaw, whisper my name, tell me to get up, to stop humiliating myself. My eyes sting with the hope of it. With the dream of mercy.
But instead?—
His fingers fist in my hair, sharp and sudden. Not cruel, not violent—just enough to remind me who he is. Whoweare. His grip tightens, tugging my head back with the kind of tension that hovers between dominance and desperation.
“Get up, Nadia,” he growls, his breath skating across the shell of my ear. His voice is gravel and smoke, layered with something unspoken. Fury. Hurt. Hunger. “You look pathetic.”
His words sting, but I don’t rise. I won’t.
I shake my head slowly, forehead brushing the wood again. My hands press harder into the floor, like I can anchor myself there, like Ideserveto be anchored there.
“Not until you believe me,” I breathe.
His grip on my hair tightens. The pull is harsher now, angry. Testing.
Still, I don’t move.
I feel his exhale—sharp and annoyed—against the back of my neck. Then he growls, low and guttural, and releases me with a harsh curse, shoving off the floor ashe stands.
The sudden absence of him is a blow to my chest.
