Page 100 of Emperor of Lust

“Give it to me.”

He looks up at me, all sniveling snot and tears and blood. I nod to the severed finger.

He stares at me, horrified, but he knows better than to defy me now. Slowly, he picks up the pinky, his face twisted in agony, and hands it to me.

I take it, slipping it into my pocket like it’s nothing more than a business card.

“It goes without saying,” I murmur lethally, “if you’ve misled me here, I’ll be back to cut off the rest of your appendages.” I lean closer, my eyes flashing. “Then I’ll do the same to your wife.”

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move.

I turn to leave, the severed finger in my pocket feeling like a trophy.

“Welcome to Japan, Ambassador Donahue.”

30

DAMIAN

The achein my arms is a dull throb, a steady pulse of pain that matches the slow trickle of blood.

But it’s nothing compared to the vicious, stabbing jabs of pain that come with every hit.

There are two of them. I suppose I should feel proud that they felt they needed more than one guy to fuck me up. But it’s hard to feel anything when the two of them have been beating the shit out of me for the better part of half an hour.

I grunt as one of the two Ishida-kai enforcers rocks a left hook across my face. My head jerks to the side, blood exploding from my lip. The rest of my body doesn’t really move: my wrists, ankles, and torso are all bound to the big wooden X-shaped cross behind me in the middle of the dark warehouse space.

…Notexactlythe kind of bondage that gets me hard.

The second enforcer’s fist follows, landing a big hit against my bruised, probably cracked ribs. I groan, more blood spilling from my mouth and dripping down my bare chest.

Another hit comes. Then another, and another. Suddenly, through the miasma of pain, I hear a voice—smooth, controlled, commanding.

“Enough.”

I drag my head up, breathing in shallow, jagged gulps as the two men step away. Every inch of my body is screaming, bruises throbbing, blood running sticky and warm down my chest. The dull thud of footsteps brings my focus forward, and I see the man entering the room.

He has an air about him that could quiet a storm—controlled lethality wrapped in brutal elegance. His eyes are sharp, the color of stormy water, and his dark hair, streaked with silver, is pulled back. The very air in the room shifts around him, bows in his presence.

He’s in gunmetal gray three-piece suit, a black and blood-redmontsukikimono draped around him like a shogun. His shoulders are broad and strong, his arms thick, and I can see tattoo ink at the neck of his one-button-undone shirt.

The corners of his mouth lift in almost polite acknowledgment, but his gaze is as cold as a winter wind. He stops a few feet away, his head cocked slightly.

“Damian Nikolayev.” Kolya Ishida’s voice is low and smooth, but it slices over my skin like glass. “Welcome.”

He says it like I’m a visitor he’s invited here, not a man strung up in a grotesque display. A flicker of amusement dances in his eyes as he steps closer with predatory calm.

“I suppose you know why you’re here.”

I hold his gaze, not giving him the satisfaction of an answer.

His smile widens, but it’s all in the mouth; his eyes are still hard and calculating. “Ah, yes, the famous Bratva pride.” He turns and spits on the ground. “You’ve been quite a nuisance, Mr. Nikolayev. You and the Mori-kai, and your absurdinsistencethat you somehow belong in this city.”

“I’m here because you’re scared of a little competition, then,” I growl, forcing the words out despite the dry, bitter taste in my mouth.

He chuckles a dark, gravelly sound. “Hardly.” He steps closer, his gaze sharp and cold. “Allow me to rephrase. You’re here, Mr. Nikolayev, because you are apest. A disease. A virus that requires eradication.”

Kolya’s hand drops to his side, and my eyes fall on thekatanahe’s carrying. The scabbard gleams, intricately polished wood with gold inlay. He draws it slowly, the blade catching the dim light with a deadly shimmer.

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