Page 102 of Brutal Union
Bhon holds his ground. “We wouldn’t be putting her in danger. Not the kind we can’t manage. She’s the best infiltrator we have. Hell, she got into your head, didn’t she?”
“Absolutely fucking not,” I snap, standing up now, blood pounding in my temples. “It’s too dangerous. Everything about this reeks. We find another way, any other way, I don’t give a damn how long it takes?—”
“I’ll do it.”
The voice is soft, barely louder than the rustle of breath, but it cuts through me like a blade. All three of us turn toward the hallway.
Nadia stands there in an oversized T-shirt, her bare legs pale in the moonlight pouring through the kitchen window. Her hair is tied back into a messy ponytail, loose strands framing her face, but her eyes—God, those eyes—are crystal clear and cold with resolve.
“I’ll do it,” she repeats, stepping into the room like she hasn’t just heard me threatening to rip the plan apart at the seams. She looks between Bhon, Aoi, and then me—unflinching, unapologetic. Beautiful. And completely, terrifyingly fearless.
“No,” I say, gathering myself before the storm inside me can spill any further. “This isn’t some gala event full of bored aristocrats bidding on overpriced art for charity. This is a den of monsters—depraved, sadistic masterminds of the underworld. They don’t just trade in flesh and fear, they thrive on it. They buy people like cattle. They use them, break them, discard them. They blackmail governments, bankroll civil wars, and bathe in the blood money they earn doing it. This isn’t a field trip, Nadia. You don’t get to smile, flirt, and charm your way to safety.”
She tilts her head, voice light and unbothered. “Am I not dangerous?” she asks with a chirp, the glint in her eyes daring me to say otherwise. “You’ve seen the scars on your body. You know I can handle myself.”
My composure cracks. I step forward, my voice hardening, my jaw clenched so tight it aches. “No,” I snap, grabbing her arm before I can stop myself. She winces—only slightly—but I can tell I’ve gripped too close to the shoulder I dislocated days earlier. My hand trembles as I loosen my hold but I refuse to let go.
“It’s not about the danger. It’s not even about you,” I hiss, my voice now a low growl from somewhere deep in my chest. “It’s about the boys and girls who stand on that stage, dressed up like prizes, and sold to some inbred lizard of a man for a price that's both too high to comprehend and too low for a human soul. They vanish. Just like that. No goodbyes, no bodies, no clues. Their friends never find them. Their families get silence. They're erased from existence. Forgotten. And for what? For power. For perversion. For profit.”
My fists curl so tight my nails bite into my palms. I can feel the heat radiating from my skin, purple-red fury rising in my veins like smoke. My heart hammers against my ribs, not from fear—but from the violent urge to burn every last pillar of the empire that makes that kind of cruelty possible.
“One,” Nadia says coolly, her voice steely despite the pain on her face, “let go of my arm.”
I obey, jaw flexing as I gently place her wrist back at her side. She rotates the shoulder slowly, never breaking eye contact.
“And two,” she continues, stepping in close, “why the fuck does it matter how disgusting these people are? That’s exactly why wehave to do this. You’re trying to take them down, right? Destroy their empire? Then stop acting like a martyr and act like a soldier. If Bhon says this is our way in—our only way—then we take it. We don’t have time to wait for a cleaner option. Mia is in that hellhole right now. Every second we stall, more girls like her disappear. More lives are ruined. The longer we wait, the more untouchable they become.”
Her voice lowers, but not in volume—in gravity. “I’m doing this. Whether you’re with me or not. So are you coming, or are you staying behind to wrestle with your conscience while they get away with everything?”
Her words carve through me with surgical precision. There’s no anger behind them—just truth. And truth, as always, hurts the most. Somewhere between the fear and the fury, I’ve lost the thread. Am I trying to protect her, or am I just too afraid of what losing her might do to me?
“Ooh!” Aoi lets out a delighted sound, clapping softly. “A feisty one. Sharp, too. I like her. She’s got more grit than half the men I've trained.” She turns to me, one brow raised like a taunt. “She’s willing. But it’s your call, Sho. What’s it going to be?”
I look at Nadia—barefoot, bruised, unyielding. She looks like a storm wrapped in silk. I hate the plan. Hate everything about it.
But I hate the idea of letting those bastards win even more.
“I’m in,” I say finally, my voice hoarse, weighted. “But if anything happens to her…”
“You’ll burn the world,” Bhon finishes, nodding once. “I know. That’s why this might actually work.”
And just like that, the clock begins to tick.
25
NADIA
I sitin the middle of Aoi’s room. It is small, the kind of space that feels like a secret, tucked high above Tokyo’s humming arteries. Every inch of the walls is dressed in aged, hand-painted Japanese portraits—geishas caught mid-laughter, kimono slipping from shoulders, frozen in erotic grace. Time-stained rice paper scrolls drape unevenly along the walls like whispering ghosts of pleasure, and a sweet, musky incense curls from the brass dish in the corner, softening the air with lotus and old ash.
Tatami mats cover the floor in tight, clean lines, but it is the deep crimson silk sheets in the corner that demand attention—where elegance meets indulgence. Paper lanterns glow softly overhead, casting the room in a golden, flickering light that paints our skin in shades of fire and shadow.
I sit in the center on top of a plush pillow, my legs crossed and my hands resting on my knees to stop my clothes from crumpling. My clothes are a borrowed fantasy: a crimsonfurisoderobe, its long sleeves dragging the floor, half open toreveal black lace lingerie trimmed in gold. My hair is pinned high, not unlike the women watching me from the walls.
Aoi kneels before me, quiet, reverent. Her dark hair is pulled back in a low knot, but a single loose strand curls against her cheek as she dips the brush into the pot of red pigment. Her hands, always so steady, tremble just slightly as she brings the brush to my lips.
“Open,” she whispers, touching the tip of the brush to my inner lip.
I follow her command, the silk bristles dragging fire across my mouth. I watch the focused curve of her brows, how her lips purse in concentration like she’s painting a goddess and not a girl trained to kill. She leans back after a moment, her eyes scanning my face like an artist stepping back from a nearly-finished portrait.
