Page 6 of Brutal Union (Ruthless Mafia Kings #8)

SHO

Nadia Petrov stands in the center of my hotel penthouse suite like she owns the air I breathe.

She's adjusting the lines of her midnight dress, smoothing the fabric over the soft swell of her breasts with a grace so effortless it feels weaponized.

I have to grit my teeth to swallow the groan crawling up my throat.

Her long blonde hair—usually cascading like a damn halo—is twisted into a high, elegant bun, exposing the nape of her neck and the delicate line of her spine.

My fingers twitch with the urge to undo it, to drag her back to the version of herself I remember best—wild, undone, and whispering sins in Russian.

I feel like a starving man in a locked room with the feast he was told he’d never deserve. Like a desert wanderer hallucinating a mirage, and yet here she is—Nadia, my personal delusion dressed in silk and danger. A fever dream made flesh.

And I should treat her like what she is: a fiction. A ghost of a mistake I should never touch again .

But fiction never looked this good pressed up against reality.

“Are you going to keep staring at me?” Nadia purrs, sliding her fingers down the curve of her cleavage.

“I’m just admiring,” I counter, my steps measured as I make my way across the expansive living room area. A smile curves slightly on her lips.

“And what are you admiring?” She murmurs, just as my hands rest on the curve of her waist. “Is it my winning personality?”

“Of course.” My voice drops as I dip my head into the silk of her throat, letting my breath dance across the hollow beneath her jaw. “I love how cold you are, Hime. I think about it when I can’t sleep.”

Her elbow jabs me—playfully, precisely—right into the ribs. The soft roll of her glacial blue eyes only makes me grin harder. I stumble back, letting the impact take me, falling into the supple drag of black leather behind me. The couch welcomes me like sin.

She doesn’t follow. Not yet.

Instead, she glides—predatory and poised—hands drifting down the swell of her hips, her fingertips grazing the fabric of that slit dress like she’s unwrapping herself just for the hell of it. Then she turns, one brow arched, her expression carved from ice and fire all at once.

“I’m not cold,” she purrs, voice sharp as broken glass. “I’m precise.”

That word hits somewhere low and hot in me.

She steps forward . The dagger-thin black, red bottom stiletto of her heel finds its mark and presses into the center of my chest. Not hard enough to wound, but with enough pressure to see if I will buckle under the pressure of her.

The cool weight of her sends a jolt straight through me, and I laugh, breathless.

I reach up slowly, eyes locked on hers, unbuckling the delicate straps of her heels with the kind of reverence one usually reserves for religious icons or high explosives.

“Then let me worship your precision,” I murmur, dragging her shoe off her foot, knuckles grazing the silken skin of her ankle. “ After I punish you for your lack of manners.”

She sucks her teeth as she slides her foot off of my chest and replaces it with the other heel. “I have manners.”

My fingertips graze along the buckle, and I chuckle low. “You do,” I murmur, loosening the strap with practiced ease. “But you have American manners.”

“What does that mean?”

The heel slips free, and I cradle her foot gently, letting my thumb drag along the delicate arch like I have any right.

My eyes trail up, devouring the silhouette of her curves—the dangerous dip of her waist, the swell of her hips, the dress clinging to her like sin tailored just for her.

She is elegance sharpened into a blade, venom in heels, and I should kick her out right now.

Tell her to get the fuck out before this turns into something I can’t come back from.

She wants my head. That hasn’t changed. I am the reason her father still breathes, the reason a monster walks free. And I know exactly what kind of evil he is—because I’ve bled under his orders.

But here I am. Not running. Not warning her off. Just staring at her like she’s the storm meant to drown me.

Because what kind of fool runs from something this fucking beautiful?

“It means in Japan when you want to kill someone you lure them outside, and do it in private, unless you are trying to start a fight with the whole room.”

Before she can step away, I tilt my head and press a slow kiss to the top of it—right where vein meets bone, just soft enough to steal her breath.

I want to bury my teeth into that skin and leave proof.

Not because I need to mark her. But because she’s the only person alive I want to belong to, despite the fact that she is the last person I can belong to.

A part of me thinks when this is all over, and I have my vengeance that I will hand myself over to her.

Tell her to do her fucking worst and revel in the way she will destroy me.

“I wouldn’t mind fighting the whole room.” She watches me with those glacier eyes, and speaks cooly. “Sounds fun.”

“I bet it does, but isn’t it rude to start a fight with everyone just to get one person’s attention?” I ask, brushing my thumb along her ankle.

Her eyes narrow like a blade being drawn as she pulls her foot from my grip. “And whose attention did I want?”

I chuckle, just as she turns her back to me. “Who did you fly all the way to Japan to see?”

I can hear the scoff leaving her lips just as she lowers herself onto my lap, her back to my chest, the curve of her spine sliding flush against me like we were made for this kind of quiet violence.

Her ass settles perfectly, hips cradled in the V of my thighs, and my hands instinctively move to her waist, tightening around her like a vice .

“Zip me down?”

Fuck, she fits. Every inch of her against me feels like a war I’m begging to lose. I want to own her. Break her. Then let her break me. I promise I am a better man than this. I am more disciplined. I am more controlled than this. But Nadia Petrov brings out the animal in me.

“You are getting real comfortable for someone who is supposed to be receiving a punishment.” I counter.

She simply leans back, tilting her head just enough for her perfume to hit me like a drug. Smoke, spice, and danger. A fucking cocktail I’d drink until it killed me.

“You should be comfortable with all boundaries BDSM 101,” she says, one hand drifting lazily up the center of my thigh.

I laugh softly, breathe fanning the back of her neck. “BDSM 102 - safe word.”

“Love.”

I clear my throat, dragging my palm down the smooth line of her spine, each knuckle grazing skin like a match waiting to spark.

I pause at the dip of her back, then go back up and hook a finger under the zipper and pull—slowly, deliberately—until the soft whisper of fabric gives way to skin.

The exposed curve of her back gleams under the low light, and I fight the growl that coils in my throat.

“Love,” I murmur, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Seems like the wrong word for this.”

“And why’s that?” she breathes, not moving.

I slide my hand up, curling possessively around her throat, guiding her body flush against mine. Her ass presses into my hips like a challenge. I lower my mouth to her shoulder, teeth grazing the skin just above the blade of her tattoo.

“When my cock is buried so deep you forget where you end and I begin, all you would be able to say is,” I rasp, “ I love this. Give me more. Please Sho. ”

“Presumptuous,” she whispers, but her voice cracks like it’s barely holding.

“I don’t think it is,” I breathe against her skin, and her breath stutters.

My hand slides inside her dress—slow, sure, claiming. I curve my palm around her left breast, fingers teasing the soft swell, the pad of my thumb brushing across her hardened nipple. Her body trembles beneath my touch, but she doesn’t pull away.

My mouth hovers by her ear, breath hot, my voice turns to gravel. “See, Hime…I think love is the wrong word for this. Try again.”

“Red,” she whispers.

“Green for go. Yellow for slow down?” I confirm, rolling over her hardened nipple between two fingers.

“Yes,” she breathes, the word torn from her like a confession. “Limits?”

“No bodily fluids,” I smirk into the crook of her neck, dragging my teeth across her skin.

She gasps. “Besides your cum.”

Fucking hell. I roll her nipple between my fingers, pulling it taut until she arches away from me, a desperate curve of spine and lust. Her breath hitches, sharp and shallow, and I can feel the way her body trembles against mine. She’s already so close to the edge, and we’ve barely begun.

“Correct,” I growl, pressing her back into me, my voice a low rumble that vibrates through her skin. “Any other limits?”

“I—I can’t think right now,” Nadia gasps, her voice trembling as much as her body. Her hands clutch at my thighs, nails digging in just enough to make me smirk.

I laugh darkly, the sound low in my throat. “No kidnapping. No trying to kill each other during these…meetings.”

“You think this will happen more than once?” she challenges, but her voice is already wrecked, her defiance crumbling under the weight of her need.

I sink my teeth into her shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, and her moan slides down my spine like gasoline on fire. She writhes against me, her hips grinding into mine, and I can feel the heat of her through the fabric of my suit pants.

“I don’t think,” I rasp, my lips brushing against the mark I’ve left on her skin. “I fucking know it will.”

I lean back against the couch, my eyes locked on hers as I give the command. “Take off your dress.”

Her breath catches again, but she doesn’t hesitate. She stands, holding the dress to her chest, turning around slowly, her eyes immediately locking with mine as she licks her lips.

She drops the dress and lets it pool at her feet, revealing the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts on full display for me.