Page 66 of Brutal Union
“I think you’re an even greater fool for not staying.”
“You hate Nadia.”
“I hate Nadia,” she says, her voice thinning into something colder, “because I am like a dog, Sho.”
She leans forward, her fingers tracing the thick vein threading my shoulder. The touch is light, almost tender. Almost.
“I marked my territory,” she whispers. “Not well. But you were marked.”
“And now?” I ask, though I already know.
“Now,” she says, pulling back just enough to smile without warmth, “I have Bhon. And you… you’re still obsessed with her.”
I push onto my feet, shrugging off her chilling caress like ice melting from my skin. “It’ll fade.”
“You said that three years ago,” Aoi shrugs, moving closer to me from her post against the house.
“I didn’t believe it then.”
“And you believe it now?” she deadpans, rising slowly to her full height. Her gaze is unflinching, sharp as the blade tucked inside her robe. “Is that why Boris is locked in your basement? Starved. Tortured. Alive.”
“That’s my business,” I snap, too quickly.
She doesn’t flinch. “If you're done with her—kill him.”
Her words hit harder than they should. I search her face, but her eyes are so black they swallow the light, the kind of eyes that hide bodies and never blink.
Her lips curl into a smirk as she steps into my space. One hand pinches my chin, tilting it. The other snakes behind my neck with the quiet finality of an executioner’s grip—deadly and practiced. Assassin control. Before I could blink, she could snap my neck.
“Who are you keeping him alive for?” she taunts, her voice a breath against my cheek. “You won’t let anyone touch him.Won’t let me finish the job. But you keep him there. Hanging. Dripping. Like the sweetest carrot.”
I clench my fists, jaw twitching.
Her fingertips curve over the outline of my jaw. “Who else do you do it for if not her?”
“Your point, Aoi.” I keep my voice strained, eyes never leaving hers.
“Go get her back before you go to war,” she says, no flirtation, no venom—just the bone-deep command of a killer who’s done dancing with emotion.
“You sound like you care about me,” I smirk.
Aoi taps my cheek once, like a warning. “I care that you don’t make a fool of Bhon, because you’re distracted by a pair of tits.”
“You know it’s more than that.”
She turns away, a smirk over her shoulder as her robe trailing behind her, disappearing back into the house. I wait until I can’t hear her footsteps anymore before I move.
Through the brush, I follow the narrow, hidden path carved out by years of secrecy and blood. Jagged stones jut up from the earth like broken teeth, their edges worn smooth by footsteps that never wanted to be followed. Thick roots snake along the ground, silent and unmoving beneath a canopy of pine and cedar that swallows sound. The deeper I go, the more the forest tightens, the air cooling with every step, until even the breeze feels hesitant to follow.
I stop at the torii gate—half-collapsed, (iconic Japanese gate) its once vibrant paint now peeled and lost to rain, its framestrangled by creeping vines. There’s a sacredness here, but it’s long since curdled into something more sinister. My fingers press into the rusted metal panel hidden behind a loose stone. The keys are worn to the point of guessing, but I know the code by feel. When the last button clicks into place, the trapdoor at the base of the gate shifts, ancient hinges groaning like something buried too long.
As I descend, the wooden stairs creak beneath my weight, damp with forest moisture and thick with the scent of soil and decay. The temperature drops sharply, the kind of cold that seeps straight into your bones. The basement is carved directly into the mountain’s rock, the walls wet with condensation that collects in slow drips from the ceiling. Faint rust marks streak the stone from where water runs down old chains embedded into the walls. It’s silent, save for the occasional drip of moisture and the low hum of the generator buried beneath the floor.
A frayed bulb swings overhead, its cord tangled with cobwebs. I flip the switch.
The light stutters to life, bathing the chamber in a jaundiced glow. And there, against the far wall, is the man I’ve kept at the edge of death for three years.
Boris Petrov.
