Page 17 of Emperor of Lust

DAMIAN

The lightsof Kyoto spread out beyond the windows of the penthouse like glimmering constellations in the night sky.

Usually, I love this view—although Ididn’tlove the idea of spending half my time here in Kyoto, beautiful as it is, when my uncle first allied us with the Mori-kai. When Annika, who’s like a sister to me, was forced to marry Kenzo to stop a fucking bloodbath between our families, I was all set to end that bloodbath by walking into the Mori house and cutting throats until someone called the whole thing off.

Unfortunately for my innate bloodlust and thirst for violence, that’s not how it panned out. But at least my quasi-sister is happy, having found her “soulmate” in Kenzo.

Ugh, “soulmate.”

Kill me now.

The very concepts of “soulmates” or love at all are such laughably ridiculous fairytales to me that I almost get angry when people bring them up. It’s like an adult walking up to youand insisting to your face that Santa Claus is real. All you want to do is beat some sense into them.

At least, allIwant to do is beat some sense into them. Or at the very least, just beat them. But I digress.

Since forming that alliance with the Mori-kai and spending some time here, I’ve come to appreciate Japan—Kyoto specifically—more. I bought this penthouse because of all the time I’d be spending here, away from New York. Ultimately, I’d consider the Big Apple my true home, but Kyoto has certainly grown on me.

That said, tonight, my focus is not on the view out these windows of the city below.

I pace, a restlessness prickling beneath my skin. Every muscle feels coiled tight, anticipation humming through me like napalm.

Kyoto is beautiful, but tonight, I barely see it. My mind’s elsewhere, filled with an image I can’t shake—Hana Mori, bound and helpless, the look in her eyes somewhere between fury and surrender. It consumes my thoughts. It’s an obsession I can’t control and don’t remotely understand.

I’ve had beautiful women throw themselves at me my entire life, eager for my attention, craving my power and, some of them, the darkness they sense under the surface. But Hana?

The exact opposite.

Her defiance and stubborn refusal to fall in line like everyone else has been on my mind all day. It shouldn’t bother me. It shouldn’t matter. And yet, a huge part of me can’t shake theimage from my mind—the way she looked in the warehouse, bound and vulnerable, every bit of her under my control.

Beautiful. Broken. An exquisitely perfect work of erotic art, all tied up like that.

I may not understand love or the ridiculous notion of soulmates, but Idounderstand obsession in its most depraved, twisted incarnation. And that’s what Hana has become to me: anobsession. A fixation. One I don’t truly understand.

It’s strange, this feeling she stirs in me. It runs deeper than the usual satisfaction of bending another person to my will. I’m used to that. People are predictable, and I’ve always been able to manipulate them to fit whatever need or whim strikes me. But Hana appears to be…different.

Maybe I’m just hungry for a challenge.

I find myself reliving that night again and again, every detail etched into my mind with unfading clarity. The way she looked up at me with fear and fury flashing in her eyes. The way her breath hitched, her pulse racing even as she tried to hide it. She swallowed her pride…swallowedme…and yet somehow, I’m the one who feels as though I lost that power game. It’s confounding.

My gaze falls to the table, where the ropes and assorted other playthings lie ready and waiting. My fingers trace over the toys, a dark smile forming on my lips as I imagine her here, bound and vulnerable, her defiance slowly crumbling under my control.

The women I usually entertain come to me because they want to be controlled, and crave the power I can offer. They know the game and are more than willing to play by its rules, not to mention sign the necessary NDAs beforehand.

I mean, I’m not just some guy with a rope kink. I’m the heir apparent to the entire Nikolayev Bratva.

But Hana’s different. She doesn’t just resist me—she’s genuinely repulsed by me. I can see it in the way her nose wrinkles in disgust whenever I get too close, the way her voice drips with disdain. She’s not afraid to show her contempt for me. But rather than pushing me away, that defiance only pulls me in and fuels a hunger that’s becoming harder to ignore.

There’s a danger in playing this game with her, of course. Hana Mori isn’t some nameless bimbo from a club. She’s the sister of Kenzo fucking Mori, the same man who could destroy our alliance with a single word, who would have no qualms about personally gutting me like a fish—or at least making what I’m sure would be averygood attempt—if he thought I posed a threat to his family.

And then there’s Kir. He’s warned me before, countless times, about treading carefully and keeping my…deviantimpulses in check. He knows what I’m capable of, knows the darkness I have within me. He’s seen it firsthand and raised me knowing all about it after taking me in after my parents were ripped from me.

I was eight years old when it happened. My parents were driving us through Brooklyn, the streets slippery with rain, the night heavy with fog. I remember the sound first: the screech of tires, the crash of metal. Then the way the world tilted end-over-end, throwing me into a haze of confusion and fear.

I remember feeling the seatbelt cutting into my skin, tasting the blood sharp on my tongue. And then…silence. I remember looking over, seeing my mother’s hand hanging limp near me,her eyes staring vacantly, her body crumpled and broken. My father, too, his life extinguished in an instant, leaving me alone.

A baptism in blood.

Later, I came to understand that what happened that night was no accident. That my parents were targets in a game a rival crime family was playing with Kir.

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