Page 17 of Brutal Union (Ruthless Mafia Kings #8)

Sho swallows a mouthful of dumplings and shakes his head, calm and unbothered.

“Wrong. The whole point is to win as a couple the audience believes in. Loyalty is the currency. He picked the redhead during the re-coupling, promised her the ride or die act—then dropped her the second a newer model showed up.”

I narrow my eyes at the screen. “She didn’t exactly tattoo his name on her ass either. She had options.”

“Yeah, but she didn’t take them,” he counters, waving a chopstick. “New guys came in, and she stayed loyal. He didn’t. That’s the problem.”

“Please,” I scoff, picking up a chunk of lo mein and shoving it into my mouth. “You’re the last person who should be preaching loyalty. Assassins don’t do loyalty. They do contracts. Paychecks. Lies.”

Sho’s hand freezes mid-air, and he swiftly sets down his food container, his gaze sharpening.

“Don’t they?” he asks, voice low.

I shrug with a full mouth, not meeting his eyes.

“You’re an assassin. A cold-blooded killer You don’t have time for relationships.

Or family. You probably have a girlfriend in every country—frequent flyer hearts.

Requiring loyalty from a guy like you is like asking to get your heart broken. It’s foolish.”

There’s a long pause. Then Sho leans back against the headboard, arms braced behind him. The amusement drains from his face, replaced by something unreadable—his jaw tight, his eyes darker than the TV glow across his cheekbones.

“It’s not foolish,” he says quietly. “I’m a one-woman guy. ”

Something flutters hard in my chest, wild and stupid like wings in a jar. I stare down at my noodles like they’ve betrayed me.

“Bullshit,” I cough, the heat of the food hitting wrong and catching in my throat. I choke a little.

“I’m telling the truth.” Sho lifts both hands like he’s surrendering. “And I expect the same.”

My laugh is dry. Bitter. “Expect the same from who, exactly? What guy are we talking about here?”

He tilts his head at me, slow. Dangerous. “Don’t play with me, Nadia.”

I blink at him, feigning innocence. “I’m not playing. I just didn’t realize I’d have you pussy-whipped this fast.”

His smile returns, but this time it’s razor-sharp, all teeth and tension. “Ah, I see.”

I tilt my head. “See what?”

“You’re not ready for what happens when I’m yours,” he says, voice dropping to a growl. “But when you are? You won’t want anyone else breathing near you.”

I freeze.

For a second, I swear I can feel my heart battering against my ribcage, trying to escape. Every pulse is a warning: run . Instead, I cross my legs tighter, locking everything down, and drag in a deep breath like it might steady me.

“Possessive much?” I murmur, trying to sound unaffected.

Sho doesn’t even glance my way. “I thought we already established that,” he says, eyes fixed on the screen—but the corner of his mouth betrays him. A small, satisfied smile pulling at his lips like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

He wants me to be his—and only his. What kind of twisted attraction is that?

Doesn’t he see it for what it is? Loving me is a guaranteed death sentence, and some part of me—some black, hollow place I thought I’d buried—is already clawing its way back to life at the thought.

I should warn him. Tell him that wanting me is the worst mistake he could make.

That I destroy the things I care about. I should shut this down before it ever starts.

But I don’t.

Instead, I let my eyes trace the ripple of muscle beneath his shirt, the relaxed line of his shoulders, the calm that’s settled into his body like he believes—somehow—he’s safe here. With me. Foolish. Sweet.

After all these years of being a trained killer, he’s gone belly-up in front of the enemy. And if I were just a bit crueler, I’d slit his throat while he smiles.

My gaze flicks to the gun resting on the floor. The other’s still on the nightstand. Sho shifts slightly beside me, and?—

I yawn. Loud and sudden. It catches me off guard as much as it does him.

Sho shifts beside me, brow arching with smug amusement. “Tired already? Am I boring you?”

I rub at my eyes lazily, feigning nonchalance even as my limbs scream in protest. My body feels like a war zone—bruised, scorched, raw.

“Shut up,” I mutter, rolling my shoulders .

But then I stretch, arms over my head, and that’s when I smell it.

My nose wrinkles instantly. “What the hell—” I drop my arms and whip my head toward him. “Sho!”

He blinks. “What?”

“You let me sit here smelling like this?” I gesture dramatically to myself, eyes wide. “Like smoke, blood, and death?”

Sho blinks again, slower this time. “You just got blown up.”

“And?”

“I wasn’t going to rush you into a damn shower while you’re half-broken!” He throws a hand up. “Excuse me for not being a complete monster.”

“You’re useless,” I grumble, already scrambling to my feet with a wince. “I smell like the inside of a tire fire.”

“You still look good,” he says, too easily.

“Flattery won’t save you,” I snap, already limping toward the bathroom. “God, I reek. You could’ve at least lit a damn candle.”

“I lit two, ” he calls after me. “They just couldn’t compete with ‘Eau de Combustion.’”

I slam the bathroom door behind me, his laughter echoing in the hall like a smug drumbeat.

The lock clicks under my fingers, and I quickly move to take off the oversize sweatshirt Sho grabbed for me earlier.

My ripped t-shirt and dirty panties are still on.

They peel off in layers—stiff with blood, soot, and whatever misery clung to me after the explosion.

I kick them into a corner, and move to the shower .

The shower hisses to life, steam billowing into the room and curling around me like a phantom embrace. I step in, flinching at the first touch of heat against bruised skin, but I don’t retreat. I force myself to breathe through it as the water washes over me.

At first, all I can do is stand there. Then I let my head fall back, letting the stream beat against my scalp, my neck, my shoulders. Slowly, the tension begins to melt—muscle by muscle, ache by ache. The pounding behind my eyes dulls. My ribs stop screaming.

And with that silence comes something worse. Thoughts of Sho.

That damn smile. That too-casual way he holds a gun and kills a man. The way he looks at me like I am something precious rather than the killer I have trained myself to be. The way his voice curls around my name— Hime.

I press my palm flat against the cool tile, water streaming down my spine.

In another timeline, maybe I could’ve loved him.

Maybe we wouldn’t have blood between us. Maybe there wouldn’t be scars with his name carved into the skin beneath my clothes. Maybe he would’ve been just the reckless, charming bastard who makes bad coffee and worse jokes.

But not here.

Not in this war-torn universe where my love would cost my family legacy and his loyalty to himself is worth more to him in the long term.

I let out a slow breath and whisper to the water, to the silence, to whatever part of me still wants to feel something softer. I could have loved Sho, just not in this life. In this life I will be his downfall, and I will rue the day that truth is revealed.