Page 2 of Emperor of Lust

I twist violently in his grip, but before I can break free, the other two are on me, grabbing my wrists and wrenching them behind my back and around the pole.

Rope twists around my wrists.

Oh God.

A spike of blind panic shoots through me and I bite down hard, forcing it back even as it drags me beneath the surface.

Stay calm.

But the familiar sensation…rough rope pressing against my skin…biting into my wrists…sends a wave of nausea through me. Memories surge up, dark, unwelcome, dragging me back to a night I’ve tried so hard to erase from my mind.

The laughter. The spinning room. The rope cutting into my skin as hands pawed at me.

No. I will not let this be like before.

But the ropes tighten, and my heart hammers against my ribs, drowning out reason with every beat.Breathe. Focus on the present. I am not that girl anymore. I am The Kitsune, and The Kitsune doesn’t break. The Kitsune?—

“Look at her,” Won Kyung sneers. His grip is relentless iron, his breath hot on my cheek. “The fox isn’t so cunning now, is she?”

“Bitch sure came dressed to impress,” Johnnyt snickers. I jolt, gasping sharply when I feel the suit jacket yanked off my shoulders and down my arms to tangle behind me against the pole. I shudder, going cold as ice when Johnny flicks open a blade and grabs a fistful of the thin blouse at my stomach, yanking it out of my pencil skirt.

The blade slips underneath. I can’t even scream or fight as it slices up, removing every button as they cut the shirt open.

Fabric rips. Tears well in my eyes. My bra is cut off as they shove me to my knees on the dirty ground.

All I know is the drowning sensation. The urge to scream. To explode. To self-immolate, just to get away.

The past claws its way into my mind, dragging me down and back to that dark room, the jeering faces, the hands pinning me down as I struggled, helpless and trapped.

No matter how much I fight it off, that night’s shadow is back, wrapping around me, blurring the line between past and present. A cold, creeping numbness settles over me, my mind fracturing and falling through memory and fear until I’m no longer in control.

I barely hear the words as they taunt me, their voices low and mocking, stripping away my power and dignity. One of them pulls at the edge of my mask and I turn away, trying to hide, trying to keep what little I have left. Their laughter grows louder, harsher, piercing deeper with every word.

Then, suddenly, a different sound—a door slamming open.

The laughter dies, the hands freeze on my skin. I open my eyes, blinking as I turn toward the sound.

A figure stands silhouetted in the doorway, tall and imposing, his presence filling the space with an energy that’s even colder more menacing than that of the men holding me.

At first that’s all he is: a dark stain of black ink against the low light outside. A malevolent fog ready to billow into the warehouse and choke us all.

But then, he steps in.

My heart lurches when I see the shock of silvery-white hair gleaming under the dim light and the violet eyes burning with a chilling intensity that lances straight through me.

Oh God…

On the surface, you’d think I’d bethrilledthat someone I know has just appeared, bursting in like a fairytale hero at the heroine’s darkest hour.

Except there’s a million things wrong with that statement, the biggest one being that Damian Nikolayev is anythingbuta hero.

When my older brother Kenzo married Kir Nikolayev’s pseudo-adopted daughter Annika not long ago, our family and theirs buried the hatchet to become allies: the Mori-kai and the Nikolayev Bratva, working side-by-side. Kir even expanded his business interests into Japan, first here in Kyoto, and soon into Tokyo, with our family.

But.

The man standing in the doorway isn’t Kir. It’s not Annika.

It’s Damian, Kir’s nephew. Heir to the Nikolayev throne? Yes. My brother’s ally? Also yes.

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