Page 44 of Brutal Union (Ruthless Mafia Kings #8)
NADIA
He doesn’t move, eyes locked on mine, as the adrenaline of all the events from last night and early this morning unfolds itself inside my chest like a vice.
I have never felt this emotion before. Not like this.
Not this precise mixture of panic and vulnerability, like I’ve been split open and asked to wait while someone else decides whether or not to sew me back together.
It’s unbearable. And yet, it pushes me deeper into the room, closer to him, drawn by a need I barely know how to name.
I take a cautious step forward, my voice tighter now, cracked from the effort of holding back the spiral.
“I love you, Sho,” I say again.
The silence that follows feels louder than a scream.
It swells in my ears and hums beneath my skin, an oppressive, pulsing weight that turns my every breath into a fight.
My heart, which had just begun to calm after the blood and fire of what I did downstairs, kicks up again—tight, frantic, disorganized. A different kind of violence .
My cheeks flush hot, and my stomach coils. I came to him raw, trembling, covered in my father’s blood and unspoken history, and I gave him the one truth I’ve always kept to myself. And now I just stand here… waiting. Still. Unanswered.
My pride claws at me to retreat, to pull back, to armor up before the shame can sink in fully. But I don’t move. I can’t. Because if I flinch, it means I meant less than I said—and I meant every word.
“Say something,” I whisper, my voice barely holding together. “Anything.”
Sho finally shifts. Slow. Intentional. He closes the book in his lap with measured precision and sets it gently on the short-legged table beside him.
His movements are fluid, thoughtful, deliberate.
When he leans forward, his eyes don’t break from mine, and he lifts his knee, resting his forearm lazily across it, like he’s settling into something rather than preparing for battle.
“You love me?” he murmurs, and something in his voice makes my heart stutter. He’s not mocking. He’s not cold. He’s savoring.
I nod, tension flooding my throat. But I can’t speak. So instead, I move.
I drop to my knees beside him, sinking into the soft pillow on the floor.
It gives slightly under my weight, plush and quiet, like the only softness left in the world.
My hands move instantly to my lap, where they twist together without my permission—fingers tightening, palms wringing against each other, nerves erupting under my skin.
“You heard me,” I say, eyes locked on his now that we’re level. “Don’t make me suffer for it… just tell me.”
He studies me, unblinking. The light from the paper lantern above casts long shadows across his jaw, highlighting the smooth, deliberate way his lips press together in thought.
“I’m not making you suffer,” he says, his voice low, steady. “I’m just basking in the moment. You said it first.”
His smile—small, lazy, amused—pulls at the corner of his mouth. The same mouth I’ve kissed. The same mouth that has whispered threats, promises, and everything in between.
I narrow my eyes and shove at his chest—frustrated, embarrassed, overwhelmed. The push is impulsive, not hard, but sharp with emotion. He catches my wrist instantly.
Before I can pull away, his fingers tighten around me—not painfully, but firmly—and in a fluid motion, he yanks me toward him. My balance shifts, and I brace myself with one hand on the tatami mat, landing with a quiet thud. My body leans forward, pulled across the space between us.
My face is inches from his.
The breath in my lungs stutters.
His hand doesn’t let go of my wrist. If anything, it draws me closer, his grip warm and controlled. My other hand flattens against the floor to hold myself upright, but my mouth hovers dangerously close to his. One wrong move, and we’ll be touching.
Or maybe one right move.
I can feel his breath on my lips—tea and warmth and something else that makes my skin pulse with anticipation.
His eyes flick from mine to my mouth, and drunkenly my eyes follow the movement, focusing on the quiver of his lips as he speaks to me .
“I have loved you,” he says, voice low, voice certain, “since the moment I laid eyes on you in the back of your brother’s van.”
I lean forward without thinking, drawn by the sound of his voice, the warmth of his body, the softness in his eyes that I’m almost never allowed to see. I want to feel his mouth on mine, feel the truth of those words pressed against me—but just as my lips hover close enough to touch, he pulls back.
Not far, but enough to make me pause.
His fingers find the underside of my chin, and with the barest pressure, he tilts my face upward until I’m forced to look him in the eye.
“I have loved you since the moment you told me to fuck off,” he murmurs, the corners of his mouth curling with something that might’ve been a smile, if not for the weight in his voice.
“I loved you even when you basically sent me to my death. You see—” his thumb brushes under my jaw, slow and grounding, “—I’m fine with you loving me now, because there was a time I just loved you. ”
His eyes bore into mine, forcing my entire body to light up like a Christmas tree.
“But I know now... what I feel for you is more than love.” His voice lowers further, until I can feel it in my throat as much as I hear it. “It’s an obsession. ”
I swallow hard, pulse spiking, something tight coiling in the center of my chest—not fear, not resistance, but something far more dangerous.
The sensation of being known. Of being seen so completely that hiding becomes useless.
His hand still cradles my face, thumb grazing the edge of my cheek like he’s anchoring himself to this moment .
“I am completely consumed with you,” he breathes. “Three years without you and I felt like a ghost. I tried to outrun it. Disappear into jobs, aliases, silence. But it was always you. Every time I closed my eyes.”
His other hand slips around my waist, pulling me closer until there’s no space between our bodies, only heat.
“I’m not alive when you’re not here, Nadia.”
The words settle between us like a confession and a curse. And still, I don’t pull away.
I can’t.
Because I feel it too—the magnetic ache, the constant hum of him beneath the surface of everything I do.
Even when I hated him. Even when I tried to forget him.
He was always there, the quiet force behind every decision I made.
And now, hearing it—feeling it—something deep in me settles.
Like his words were always meant to live in the raw, unguarded place between my ribs.
I stare up at him, the heat of my body trembling beneath skin stained with someone else’s blood.
My breath comes out in a ragged burst. “Just fucking say it, Sho.”
He huffs a soft laugh, low and rough in his throat, and before I can blink, his arms pull me into him.
We’re both on our knees, chest to chest, the space between us erased in an instant.
His skin is warm against mine, bare except for the thin waistband of the gray lounge pants hanging low on his hips.
His torso is solid heat, all tan muscle and tension, the ink of his tattoos shifting over his ribs with every breath .
“I love you, Nadia,” he says, his voice quiet but unmistakably certain.
And then I’m on him.
The words hit me like a match to dry earth. My blood-slick hands reach for his shoulders, dragging across skin. I crash my mouth into his without care for the blood, the filth, or the trembling edge I’m standing on. There’s no grace in it. No sweetness. Just pure need.
He grunts beneath me, mouth catching mine hard.
His hands don’t hesitate—one cups the back of my head, fingers threading into my damp hair, while the other grips my waist, pulling me down flush against him.
I straddle his lap without thinking, jeans stiff with dried blood and knees digging into the floor, my tank top clinging to my skin, streaked with sweat and the aftermath of the man I just killed.
But Sho doesn’t flinch.
Not at the blood.
Not at the spit still clinging to my cheek.
Not at the way I kiss him like I’ll never have this again.
He meets every frantic push with calm, every wild kiss with something deeper—slower. His lips move against mine with the ease of someone who’s waited for this moment and won’t let it slip away.
When I pull back, breathless and raw, our foreheads rest together, his chest rising fast against mine. I feel the damp heat of my own skin smearing against his, the metallic scent of blood thick in the space between us.
“I’m disgusting,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them .
Sho lifts my chin again, forcing me to look into his eyes.
“No,” he says. “You’re mine.”
His words ignite something primal in me, a fire that refuses to be contained.
I press my body closer, feeling the hardness of his desire through the thin fabric of his pants.
My hands slide down his chest, nails dragging lightly over his skin, leaving faint trails of sensation that make him shudder beneath me.
He groans softly, his hands gripping my hips tighter.
“Let me feel you,” I murmur, my voice husky with need.
His muscles tense as I shift slightly, aligning myself perfectly over him.
The friction is electric, sending waves of arousal coursing through me.
His breathing quickens, becoming ragged as I begin to rock against him rhythmically.
“Nadia,” he growls, his voice strained with restraint. But I don’t stop; instead, I increase the pace, grinding harder against him. Each movement is deliberate, designed to drive both of us wild with desire. His hands move from my hips to my ass, squeezing firmly as he encourages my motions.