Page 51

Something will need to be done about his insolence. A beatdown at the gym was not enough.

“She’s dead,” I state plainly.

Jae-hyun chortles, pure joy on his craggy face. “I heard there was blood on the sheets. Jin-tae, you savage bastard. I wish I could’ve seen the look on her face. Seung-min said she was a looker.”

I bite down on my tongue and draw blood to keep from speaking what’s really on my mind. From doing what I really want to do and vaulting over his desk and stabbing him in the throat until his blood sprays out like a faucet.

“Yes, there was a mess. She put up a fight,” I say vaguely instead. “It’s cleaned up now. No traces left behind.”

Jae-hyun puffs on his cigar. “Good, good.”

“I need to address Kang Seung-min at the next club gathering.”

“Oh? For what?”

“Disciplinary retribution.”

Jae-hyun coughs with his cigar between his lips, then sits up in his chair. “You are going to declare Baek-ho-ui Chim?”

His surprise is due to the fact that it’s been some time since someone has called for one.

In the Baekho Pa, we have a strict ranking system that must be obeyed at all times. When a higher ranking individual calls for Baek-ho-ui Chim, it’s no lighthearted matter. It’s a ceremonial punishment where the offender must submit and suffer through retribution for the dishonor within the ranks.

This happens at our private gatherings where everyone in the syndicate bears witness to the punishment.

“I’ve had enough of his insolence,” I answer. “It’s time he recognizes the way of the Baekho and where his place is.”

“Consider alternative means,” Jae-hyun says, his tone one of shock. He gives a shake of his head and then returns to puffing on his cigar. “It is brutal and only for the highest of disrespect. Seung-min is young and an asset for his brawn. But if, as Ho-gwi, you have no other option, then as Hubae, he must listen. He must obey.”

“I will address it at the next gathering.”

I leave Jae-hyun in a haze of his cigar smoke, staring after me.

Monroe has two bowls of ramen on the kitchen counter when I make it home. She gives a shrug at the stern look I give her, and says, “If you don’t want it, I’ll just have seconds. But you’ve got to eat something eventually.”

“I ate earlier. Outside of the apartment.”

“A man your size? You need more than one or two meals a day, Jin.”

Though she’s right, I consider scolding her. As my captive, it’s not her place to tell me when to eat. It’s not even her place tocall me by my informal given name, like we’re equals. Her fate lies in my hands.

I’vesavedher. She should bethankingme.

But then I glance over at her and see the pure intention in her eyes. The sincerity and kindness that I noticed when I spent hours monitoring her.

It doesn’t help that it’s disarming to see her in my clothes.

I’m not the beefiest man. In fact, I’m leaner than most men my height, having crafted my physique around a balance of strengthandagility.

But Monroe barely scrapes five feet, which means anything of mine I put her in looks comically big on her. She can wear my shirts as dresses and my shorts almost as pants. My shoes look like clown feet on her.

It’s funny enough that I almost laughed the first time I saw her in some of my clothes.

She’s taken to wearing my t-shirts and nothing else, which means her smooth legs and thighs are well within view, providing a distraction I’ve never had before.

No woman has ever been to my place.

The select women I have been involved with were kept at a distance. They served only one purpose.