Page 98 of Brutal Unionn
I open my mouth, but nothing comes at first.
He waits, setting his book down. “Is it done?” he asks, voice quiet.
I nod. “It’s done.”
He studies me a moment longer, and I know he’s reading everything on my face—every unspoken thing I’ve kept locked behind anger, behind power, behind my survival instincts. For years, I built myself into something indestructible. I was made to endure. To rule. To take.
But no one taught me how togive.
So I take a breath. Deep and shaking.
And then I say it—what I’ve never said to anyone.
“I love you.”
23
NADIA
He doesn’t move,eyes locked on mine, as the adrenaline of all the events from last night and early this morning unfolds itself inside my chest like a vice. I have never felt this emotion before. Not like this. Not this precise mixture of panic and vulnerability, like I’ve been split open and asked to wait while someone else decides whether or not to sew me back together. It’s unbearable. And yet, it pushes me deeper into the room, closer to him, drawn by a need I barely know how to name.
I take a cautious step forward, my voice tighter now, cracked from the effort of holding back the spiral.
“I love you, Sho,” I say again.
The silence that follows feels louder than a scream. It swells in my ears and hums beneath my skin, an oppressive, pulsing weight that turns my every breath into a fight. My heart, which had just begun to calm after the blood and fire of what I did downstairs, kicks up again—tight, frantic, disorganized. A different kind of violence.
My cheeks flush hot, and my stomach coils. I came to him raw, trembling, covered in my father’s blood and unspoken history, and I gave him the one truth I’ve always kept to myself. And now I just stand here… waiting. Still. Unanswered.
My pride claws at me to retreat, to pull back, to armor up before the shame can sink in fully. But I don’t move. I can’t. Because if I flinch, it means I meant less than I said—and I meant every word.
“Say something,” I whisper, my voice barely holding together. “Anything.”
Sho finally shifts. Slow. Intentional. He closes the book in his lap with measured precision and sets it gently on the short-legged table beside him. His movements are fluid, thoughtful, deliberate. When he leans forward, his eyes don’t break from mine, and he lifts his knee, resting his forearm lazily across it, like he’s settling into something rather than preparing for battle.
“You love me?” he murmurs, and something in his voice makes my heart stutter. He’s not mocking. He’s not cold. He’ssavoring.
I nod, tension flooding my throat. But I can’t speak. So instead, I move.
I drop to my knees beside him, sinking into the soft pillow on the floor. It gives slightly under my weight, plush and quiet, like the only softness left in the world. My hands move instantly to my lap, where they twist together without my permission—fingers tightening, palms wringing against each other, nerves erupting under my skin.
“You heard me,” I say, eyes locked on his now that we’re level. “Don’t make me suffer for it… just tell me.”
Hestudies me, unblinking. The light from the paper lantern above casts long shadows across his jaw, highlighting the smooth, deliberate way his lips press together in thought.
“I’m not making you suffer,” he says, his voice low, steady. “I’m just basking in the moment. You said it first.”
His smile—small, lazy, amused—pulls at the corner of his mouth. The same mouth I’ve kissed. The same mouth that has whispered threats, promises, and everything in between.
I narrow my eyes and shove at his chest—frustrated, embarrassed, overwhelmed. The push is impulsive, not hard, but sharp with emotion. He catches my wrist instantly.
Before I can pull away, his fingers tighten around me—not painfully, but firmly—and in a fluid motion, he yanks me toward him. My balance shifts, and I brace myself with one hand on the tatami mat, landing with a quiet thud. My body leans forward, pulled across the space between us.
My face is inches from his.
The breath in my lungs stutters.
His hand doesn’t let go of my wrist. If anything, it draws me closer, his grip warm and controlled. My other hand flattens against the floor to hold myself upright, but my mouth hovers dangerously close to his. One wrong move, and we’ll be touching.
