Page 65 of Brutal Unionn

And then—Click.

The line goes dead.

And for the first time in years, I feel something dangerously close to fear.

Not for him. For me.

Because I think I just lost the one person who made me feelanythingat all. I think I may have just lost the closest thing I have ever felt to love.

16

SHO

THREE YEARS LATER

One.Two. Hut. One. Two. Hut.

My knuckles are purple, bloody and tortured, with splinters digging deeper and deeper into my flesh with each movement. The wood beneath my fists is stained with sweat and iron—indented from the months of training. My hips are stretched so far they burn, but I keep the position. Arms straight. Back straighter. Knees bent. Every tendon in my thighs trembles like a decaying bridge threatening to break, but I don’t move. If I fall now, I bleed for it. Again.

Three years ago, I held my breath with every shift in my muscle. My back is an array of switch marks from every time I broke my position. Some faded, some fresh. Each one a signature of failure. But not today.

Today, I don’t breathe. I endure. I become stone.

My teeth are clenched so tight my jaw aches, but I dare not relax. One sigh and I risk another whip. One blink and thesting returns. The voice above me barks orders, but it fades into a dull echo. All I hear is the thud of my pulse and the crackle of fire building in my spine.

“Again,” Bhon orders, his arms crossed behind his back. A patient look on his face as I move my body through the movements.

At the beginning, he told me there was a music to getting through this pain. To pushing through every gritted tooth. To allowing your pain to play the tune you can stomach.

I thought he was pulling my leg. Something that a mentor says just to make you feel as if you can push through the pain. This is me assuming that Bhon isn’t the sadist I predict him to be.

I snap my right arm to the front, the heel of my palm slamming into the wood, just as Bhon’s whip cracks across my spine. I hiss, my eyes darting to his blank stare.

“You moved your hips,” he shrugs. “You will be one man versus a never-ending onslaught of Yakuza men. Your hips can’t move when you don’t want them to.”

The sting burns straight to my ribs, but I bite down the sound trying to claw its way out of my throat.

My body is soaked in sweat, muscles trembling like faulty wiring. The wood in front of me is dented from repeated strikes, stained red where my palms bled earlier. But I don’t stop.

“You’re losing tempo,” Bhon calls again, stepping closer now. “Again.”

I move. Slower this time. More precise. One motion flows into the next.

Strike. Step. Twist. Hold. Again.

“You think they’ll wait for you to catch your breath?” His voice is a cold sneer that crawls across my flesh like a burn. “They will eat you alive, still. Three years of training and you are still a sloppy mess.”

I push myself harder, eyes focused on the tattered bark in front of me. “You’re a fucking liar and you know it.”

Bhon chuckles, the slick sound of a whip follows, but I lean back escaping the tip by centimeters.

“You’re too cocky.” He comments, walking around the back of the tree, just as the sound of the shoji door opening behind him.

“Are you boys done playing?” Aoi sighs. Her robe hangs loose off one shoulder, silk slipping down her collarbone. She doesn’t flinch under my stare—just yawns and stretches like a cat after a midday feeding and a lazy afternoon nap.

“Only if you’re done playing,” Bhon says simply.

Aoi leans against the door frame, a lazy smile on her face as she stares at Bhon with a fondness I never thought she was capable of. “I am never done playing. I thought you knew that.”