Page 41 of Brutal Unionn

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 littwo,” 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.