Page 105 of Brutal Union
He groans, burying his face in the crook of my neck as he thrusts harder, deeper. I can feel myself unraveling, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter until it snaps, sending waves of ecstasy crashing over me. My body clenches around him, milking him as I cry out his name.
He doesn’t stop—he fucks me through my orgasm, his movements growing erratic as he chases his own release. With a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself as deep as he can go, his hips jerking as he spills inside me with a guttural groan.
We stay like that for a moment, both of us trembling as we come down from the high. His grip on my hair loosens, his hand sliding down to cup my cheek instead. He kisses me—softly this time, a stark contrast to the intensity of just moments ago.
When he pulls back, his eyes meet mine, dark and still burning with residual heat. I lean in trying to steal another moment for ourselves when Aoi's voice screeches through the walls.
“If you messed up her perfect face I will skin you alive, Sho!”
Sho’s jaw twitches. I blink, startled—then press my lips together to stifle a laugh.
Instead, I fall forward into his chest, stifling a chuckle that breaks through anyway. “God,” I mutter against him. “She’s terrifying.”
Sho lets out a low, amused breath into my hair. “You should see her when she’s calm.”
I push away from him with a small smirk, adjusting the robe over my shoulder. “Go before she kills you, and me.”
With a lazy salute and one last glance that drags across my body, he grabs some of the clothes we’d thrown around the room, and slips out the door.
The moment it clicks shut, Aoi enters without knocking from the other side. She stops in the doorway, sharp-eyed and silent for a beat too long.
“I told you not to smear the lip,” she mutters under her breath.
“I didn’t,” I say, wiping the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand, then looking at the stain. “He did.”
26
SHO
I movethrough the back corridors of the auction house with my head low and my steps silent. The walls are concrete, the lighting dim and flickering. Everything smells like bleach, sweat, and metal. I’ve seen rooms like this before—underground markets where people are priced and sold. I hate every inch of it. But I’m not here for a fight. Not yet. I’m here to find Mia, and then after, if time permits, I will have the time to kill some of these bastards and get Mia to safety.
I follow the deeper hallways marked with symbols I recognize—kanji used in the old Yakuza circles. Premium goods. High-bid entries. These rooms aren’t shown on any map. They’re for clients who pay extra for secrecy.
The guards at the outer entrance were lazy and underpaid. One of them had the courtesy to die quietly, and the other didn’t even reach for his radio. Now I’m deeper in, where the halls start to twist and narrow. I stick to the edges, behind pipes and crates, using the noise from the stage to cover my movement. They're already parading someone out there—judging from the low cheer that rumbles through the floorboards, it's starting.
I know how these auctions are run. The girls they’re unsure about get held in side rooms, checked, drugged, dressed. The high-value ones are kept away from the main floor. If they know Mia’s last name, she won’t be in a regular cell. She’ll be somewhere locked down, behind guards who know better than to fall asleep.
I spot a security station ahead, tucked behind a mesh gate. Inside, a man sits half-asleep in a folding chair, his badge hanging off his chest, a keycard clipped to his belt. He doesn’t hear me approach. He doesn’t even look up before I drag him out of the chair and shove my knife between his ribs. He lets out a weak grunt and slumps. I pull the keycard free and drag him behind the desk. No alarms. No commotion. I’m still clear.
Moving fast now, I follow the direction marked “Vault” on the wall signage. This is where they store the bodies worth real money. Not just the ones for show. The hallway is cleaner here—white tile, reinforced doors with biometric locks, and red overhead lights that flash in rhythm with the buzzing intercom. I hear footsteps and duck into a side maintenance closet, holding my breath until two men pass. They’re armed, but casual. They don’t know I’m here.
Once the hallway clears, I swipe the card and enter the secured section. There are six cells, all soundproof, each with a narrow viewing window. I check them one by one. The first two are empty. The third holds a woman curled in a corner, shaking. She looks up when I pause at the door, but it’s not Mia.
It’s a barefoot girl, wearing a pale silk robe that clings too tightly to her thin frame. Her dark brown hair is curled, her face lightly made up like they’re trying to make her look older. But they can’t hide the truth. She’s young. Way too young.
She looks up at me without fear. Her eyes sweep over my frame, pausing at the blood on my gloves, then my face. She tilts her head and smiles so dimly I don’t catch the way her eyes dart around the room. She reminds me of pictures of Aoi before the death of her family, so innocent and pure.
“You’re not dressed like the others,” she says, her voice soft but controlled. “Are you here to inspect the merchandise? Or claim me early?”
The vomit that curls up my throat is damn near unbearable. I fucking hate this place. The first thing I am going to do when there are no more innocents is burn it to the fucking ground and that still won’t be enough.
“You shouldn't say things like that,” I answer, voice low, as I side my arms through the bars and brace myself against the cold iron.
She shrugs and crosses her legs at the knee, leaning back on the thin cot against the wall, only above the ground due to a metal frame. “Why not? That’s what they told me to expect.”
“How old are you?” I ask, leaning my forehead against the rusty bars, hoping to not hear a number I expect.
“The card says I am fifteen,” she whispers.
