Page 41 of Brutal Union (Ruthless Mafia Kings #8)

I sink lower, letting my knees press into the floor.

The coolness of the wood contrasts with the heat rolling off his body, but I don’t stop.

The waistband of his pants brushes my cheek, and I can see it— feel it—his body responding to me despite the walls he’s still trying to keep up.

Want and pain war with each other in the way his abdomen tightens beneath each kiss.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” I say softly, eyes lifting to meet his.

I don’t blink. I let him see me. All of me—vulnerable, humbled, begging for forgiveness in the only way he’s ever responded to. Through honesty. Through submission. Through action.

“Please… tell me how I can apologize.”

His hand shoots out, fingers curling into my hair, yanking the tie free until blonde strands fall in loose waves around my face. His grip is tight, but not cruel. A leash of sorts and he could guide me to my salvation or shun me, and right now I would take both from him .

“Get off your knees, Nadia,” he grunts.

But I don’t obey. Instead, I lower myself all the way down, letting my forehead drop to the narrow strip of floor between his bare feet. I hear the sharp inhale of his breathing, but I keep my bowed position. I could stay there for days in this deep bow so he knows how sorry I am.

In Japanese culture, to bow— to prostrate oneself —is more than an apology.

It’s a surrender of pride. A plea that transcends words.

The saikeirei , the deepest bow, is reserved for the gravest offenses and the sincerest repentance.

It is a vow of sincerity, usually reserved for emperors or gods.

It is not a gesture to be taken lightly, especially not by someone like me. Someone who doesn’t kneel for anyone.

Except for him. Except now.

Silence presses down around us like snowfall. I feel his breath above me, heavy and uneven. His hands twitch at his sides, as if caught between yanking me back up or falling down with me.

“Please,” I whisper, forehead still to the floor, breath ghosting over the wooden boards. “Let me make this right. Let me earn the forgiveness I was too afraid to ask for.”

And for the first time in three years, I don’t care if I look weak. Because this isn’t about power. It’s about him. It’s about him knowing how much I love him, and how deeply I need him to accept my apologies, and take me back.

“Please,” I whisper again, my voice feathering across the floorboards, barely more than breath. “Let me make this right. Let me earn the forgiveness I was too afraid to ask for.”

The silence tightens around me like a noose, and then—I feel it .

The floor creaks softly under his weight. Sho kneels behind me. Not fully. Just enough to drop his center of gravity. Close enough that his heat ghosts over the curve of my spine, close enough that my body aches to lean into him—but doesn’t. Can’t.

For the briefest moment, I believe he’s going to touch me with care. That he’ll cup my jaw, whisper my name, tell me to get up, to stop humiliating myself. My eyes sting with the hope of it. With the dream of mercy.

But instead?—

His fingers fist in my hair, sharp and sudden. Not cruel, not violent—just enough to remind me who he is. Who we are. His grip tightens, tugging my head back with the kind of tension that hovers between dominance and desperation.

“Get up, Nadia,” he growls, his breath skating across the shell of my ear. His voice is gravel and smoke, layered with something unspoken. Fury. Hurt. Hunger. “You look pathetic.”

His words sting, but I don’t rise. I won’t.

I shake my head slowly, forehead brushing the wood again. My hands press harder into the floor, like I can anchor myself there, like I deserve to be anchored there.

“Not until you believe me,” I breathe.

His grip on my hair tightens. The pull is harsher now, angry. Testing.

Still, I don’t move.

I feel his exhale—sharp and annoyed—against the back of my neck. Then he growls, low and guttural, and releases me with a harsh curse, shoving off the floor as he stands.

The sudden absence of him is a blow to my chest.

I listen to his footsteps retreat—steady, well placed, each one sounding like a rejection. The bathroom door slides shut with a distinct snap, and a second later, the soft hiss of the shower begins. Steam curls out beneath the door, thick with the scent of cedar soap and warming skin.

Minutes stretch.

Then an hour.

Then more.

Time becomes meaningless. The ache in my knees grows sharp, then dull. My thighs tremble, blood throbbing in my temples. My arms begin to go numb, but I don’t shift. I don’t drink. I don’t rise.

This is what remorse looks like. This is what love looks like—when you know you were wrong, and you’re willing to bleed for it.

Eventually, the shower cuts off. The water stops.

The paper thin wall slides open.I hear the soft pad of his bare feet as he moves past me—still damp, still silent—and disappears into the next room.

Drawers open. Fabric rustles. A zipper. The muted tug of cotton over skin.

Then the shift of air as he leaves again.

A moment later, faint kitchen sounds reach me. The gentle splash of water into a kettle. The soft rattle of a lid.

A quiet bubbling follows, then the earthy scent of miso rises into the air—warm, savory, grounding. Seaweed and green onion follow, delicate but clear.

My knees shake with need and strain. I want to cry from the pain of the fight and the yawn of my muscles. The kettle whistles, high and sharp, before he silences it with a flick. The crisp bitterness of steeping green tea cuts through the air, and then, silence again—until I hear him return.

He doesn’t say a word when he reaches me. But I feel his presence like a shadow settling over me—heavy and sharp.

Then: the clink of ceramic on wood. A cup and bowl placed on the floor beside me.

“You know,” he says dryly, voice laced with mocking exhaustion, “you’ve been doing this dramatic bow bullshit for three hours now.”

He squats beside me, his forearm brushing lightly against mine. I can smell the tea before I see it—green, earthy, clean. Miso soup, too. The scent of seaweed, tofu, a hint of dashi broth.

“I made soup,” he says.

My throat aches, dry and sore, but I don’t move. I keep my forehead to the ground, my body folded in half, my palms pressed flat.

“I’ll stay here,” I rasp. “Until you believe me. Until you feel how sorry I am.”

He exhales—short and sharp. A bitter laugh. “You look ridiculous.”

“I don’t care,” I whisper.

“What, you’re just gonna starve to death on my floor?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

The floor creaks beneath his weight, and I hear the shift—his body turning toward me again .

“ Fuck, Hime,” he growls into the air. “You won’t even allow me to be mad at you.”

I remain still, unsure if he’s angry or undone. Maybe both.

Then, slowly—almost reluctantly—I feel his fingers against my shoulder. This time, there’s no force. Just heat, and the slow trail of his fingertips against my body.

“You’re forgiven,” he says, voice gruff. “Alright? There. You got it.”

I stay down a moment longer, as if waiting for the ground to confirm his words. Then, finally, I lift my head. My eyes are red, swollen, stinging from both emotion and hours of holding this pose, but I look up at him through strands of disheveled hair.

He doesn’t look at me with softness. He looks at me like someone still bleeding, and moves a couple of strands from off of my forehead. He is barefoot, dressed in nothing but some linen pants.

Sho reaches for the bowl, scoops a spoonful of soup, and lifts it to my lips. “Eat.”

I blink at him. “You cooked this?”

His brow twitches. “Of course I did.”

I huff a breath, nearly a laugh. “Didn’t know you could cook.”

He arches a dark brow, handing me the bowl now that I’m upright. “I’m a grown man, Nadia. I know how to scale a building. I know how to kill. I know how to clean up blood and hide bodies.” He leans in slightly, voice dropping. “And I know how to make fucking soup. ”

“Well sorry,” I mutter as I lift the bowl and press the warm edge of the bowl to my lips, taking a sip. It’s good. Really good. Balanced, light, but full of umami. Earthy, and grounding. He’s a way better cook than I am.

But before I can compliment him again, the stillness is broken by a sound.

Low. Groaning. A sharp, guttural noise that scrapes against the edges of the quiet night.

I freeze, bowl halfway to my mouth.

I glance around, pulse quickening. “What… was that?”

Sho doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look up from the steam curling between us.

Instead, he just lifts his tea to his lips and takes a slow sip.

“It’s better than any other time,” he mutters, “for you to see your forgiveness present.”

Another groan—this one more distinct. Human. Strangled.

I lower the bowl and narrow my eyes. “Forgiveness present?” I echo warily.

He smirks around the rim of his cup. “You’ll understand part of the reason I was so pissed you betrayed me.” He sets the cup down gently, and I flinch at the sound. “It was supposed to be our one month anniversary present, now it can be our wedding present.”

“Wedding present?”

“You think I am going through this again?” Sho rises slowly, brushing his palms down his thighs, then holds out a hand to me. “You and I would be married by now. ”

“Right,” I hum out the word, before clearing my throat and looking at the imaginary watch on my wrist, “but we have only been dating for I don’t know… three minutes.”

“And I hear the wedding bells, don’t you?”

“Sho--”

“Come on, Hime,” he says with a smile so twisted adrenaline rushes through my veins. “Let's go kill your father.”