Emperor of Lust: Chapter 10

I’ve been avoiding Damian for days now—ignoring his texts, dodging any situation where I might cross paths with him and he might look me in the eye with the look that says “I know”.

I know that you came on my fingers the other night, your hands tied behind your back with your own panties.

Every time his contact name flashes on my phone, I get a sense of dread mixed with something darker and more unsettling.

I detest him, and yet somehow he’s always there, lurking, as if he’s branded himself into my psyche. It’s confusing, maddening, and no matter how many times I tell myself he’s nothing but a bully or a bored psychopath, I can’t erase the memory of his hands on me or forget the way he looked at me, as if he could see straight into my soul.

I push the thoughts away as I make my way to the garage, where Takeshi is working on one of his “ladies”—today it’s an older Honda NSR500—black, with neon-blue racing stripes down the side.

The estate’s garage—and the apartment over it—is his domain. When I enter, I’m hit with the familiar scent of motor oil and metal. Rows of custom bikes fill the space, with a door leading into a larger warehouse-type space filled with classic cars, all lovingly cared for and polished to a mirror finish.

Takeshi is crouched beside the Honda, lost in his work. But he notices when I walk in.

“Yo,” he grunts without looking up. There’s a warmth in his tone that makes me smile. As my twin, he’s always been my closest confidant and knows me better than anyone, and I feel a pang of guilt now for keeping Damian’s intrusion into my life from him.

I linger by the doorway, crossing my arms. “What’s up?”

He glances up, wiping his hands on a rag. “I should be asking you that. You’ve been…” He shrugs. “Off.”

I grin as I shrug. “Just a lot going on with work.”

“Uh-huh,” he replies, eyeing me dubiously. “You do know I can tell when you’re bullshitting me, right?”

I can’t meet his gaze. Takeshi has always been my protector, and if I told him about Damian, he’d handle it, no questions asked. But he’d “handle it” in a way that most places would classify as “murder”.

I force a smile, waving Tak off. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

He watches me for a moment, clearly unconvinced, but then lets it go, turning back to his work with a shake of his head. A knot of anxiety tightens in my stomach. Takeshi would fix everything if I asked him to. So why don’t I?

Because you want Damian to keep lurking in the shadows, a small, unwelcome voice whispers, the restlessness inside me growing.

“Is that psycho bothering you?”

My gaze snaps up to find Tak looking at me intently. “What?”

“You heard me.” He frowns. “Hana, don’t let him freak you out. He’s a weirdo, and it’s obvious his ‘thing’ is throwing people off. I don’t like this situation Kenzo’s put you in. And if the asshole is bothering you⁠—”

“He’s not.”

It pops out too quickly. Luckily, Tak doesn’t seem to notice.

“Well, if he does…”

I smile. “I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Tak grimaces as he turns to nod his chin at the katana hanging on the wall. “Please do.”

The garage goes quiet for a second.

“Tak…” I shake my head. “You know I love when you play overprotective brother. But…”

I don’t have to make the request out loud. Takeshi knows I don’t want him killing for me.

Not again.

Tak and I end up going for a ride around the mountain roads outside Kyoto for a while to get some air. But later, my head still spinning, I head to one of my favorite spots on Earth to try to reset my brain.

The Golden Monkey, probably the coolest jazz bar in the world, is a hidden gem nestled among the back streets of Kyoto, with a sign that glows dimly against the darkened alleyway. It’s an intimate place, timeless, with an air of old-world mystery.

The place has been around forever: some of the greats played here back in the proverbial day between gigs at the bigger spots in Tokyo or Osaka. The owner, Daichi, is the second generation of his family to run the place. He’s pushing eighty himself, and his dad was in charge before him.

I’ve been coming here for years, drawn to its smoky atmosphere, its low lighting, and the music—jazz that flows like silk, filling the room with a sound that’s both soothing and alive. Tonight, the band is playing one of my favorite albums straight through: Kind Of Blue, by Miles Davis.

When I walk in, I close my eyes and let the slow, sultry notes of “Blue in Green” wrap around me like a warm blanket. Then I pick my way to one of the small café tables near the stage, sink into a chair, and order a whiskey. When it comes I sip slowly, breathing deeply and letting the music work its magic.

Here, I can forget the weight of my family’s expectations, the tangled mess of my life, and, for a while, even Damian. The soft wails of the trumpet and the steady thrum of the upright bass drift through the room, grounding me.

Jazz has been my escape for longer than I can remember: it’s the perfect mix of structure and chaos and just makes sense to me when nothing else does. It’s a temporary relief, but it’s enough. And this place has always been a refuge, a space where I can just exist without the pressures and dangers of the world weighing down on me.

Suddenly the air shifts, a chill creeping down my spine.

I stiffen and the gentle caress of the music stops soothing me as what feels like a dark shadow falls over me.

I don’t need to look to know who it is; I can feel his presence, like an inky cloud spreading through the room. But I do anyway.

Damian stands near the doorway, his head tilted to the side and an unreadable, slightly demented look in his eyes as they land on me.

That motherfucker. He’s intruded upon the one place I thought I could escape him.

He moves through the room confidently, unhurried, as if he fucking owns the place. He doesn’t come for me right away, strolling instead to the bar. The bartender brings him a drink without a word, and Damian lifts his glass, gaze fixed straight ahead, completely ignoring me—but I know he’s aware of every move I make.

I grip my own glass, practically hard enough to crack it. This is my place, my sanctuary, and he’s turned it into a battlefield without saying a word.

Slowly, he slips away from the bar and strolls right over, watching the band as he takes a seat across the little table from me, his proximity instantly setting me on edge.

The music fills the silence between us, but I can feel the tension simmering just below the surface. I turn back to watch the band, refusing to look at him, but his presence is like a weight pressing down on me, unyielding, inescapable.

When the band finishes their set, the last note hovering in the air, Damian clears his throat, a quiet yet commanding sound that makes the musicians exchange uneasy glances. His voice cuts through the room, low and assertive. “I’d say this is a good time for a break.”

The effect is immediate. The musicians nod, hurriedly packing up their instruments as the other patrons begin to rise, leaving their seats without a word. Even the bar staff moves quickly, avoiding eye contact as they file out as if on cue. Within moments, the once-lively club is empty, leaving only Damian and me in the silence.

I slowly turn to stare at him, stunned, my heart pounding. “How the fuck did you do that?!” I seethe, my voice tinged with a mix of fear and anger. I’ve always prided myself on being in control, especially here. But now Damian has invaded my space and made it his own with a single command.

He smiles, a dark, twisted curl in his lips that sends a shiver down my spine. “Want a few pro tips? I’m always happy to help the little guy.”

I grip my glass tighter, barely resisting the urge to throw it at him.

Damian leans back, his posture relaxed but watching me with a predatory intensity that leaves me feeling exposed. “Let’s make one thing clear,” he says, his voice low, a warning in his tone. “When we get to Tokyo, you’ll report to me. In business, and…” His grin turns hungry. “Well, everything else.”

My pulse quickens, fear and anger flooding my veins, but I hold his gaze, refusing to back down. “I don’t report to anyone. I run the legitimate business side of the Mori-kai. I’ll work with you, but I won’t⁠—”

He cuts me off with a cold laugh, his smile widening. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and holds it up. My stomach drops as I see the email I’d showed him, the one where I’d confessed to laundering money. It’s addressed to my whole family.

“This is the one you already sent, yes?”

My heart thuds.

“Go on,” he says with mock innocence. “Hit send. If you’re telling the truth and they’ve already read it, there’s no harm, right?”

My breath catches, my mind racing.

He knows. He fucking knows I was lying. I try to shrug it off, to keep my expression neutral, but I can feel the color draining from my face.

Damian’s smirk widens, his gaze dark and calculating. He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that sends chills down my spine. “Mmm… That’s what I thought.”

The silence stretches between us, thick with tension.

“Hands on the table,” he says quietly.

I shiver. “What?”

“Put your hands on the table,” he growls. “Now.”

I could question what the fuck this is. I could resist. But… He’ll get my hands on the table one way or another.

The other night’s events involving my panties being pulled off are a pretty good indicator of that.

Swallowing, I put my hands palm down on the table in front of me.

“Good girl.”

My eyes dart to his, my cheeks flushing. Damian just smirks, his violet eyes flickering like dark magic in the low light.

“Now clasp them together.”

My pulse skips as I do as he says, lacing my fingers together.

“Now what,” I mutter.

“Now…this.”

He reaches into his jacket pocket. When his hand withdraws, there’s a length of thin black string dangling from his fingertips. Without any preamble, Damian leans forward and deftly wraps the length of it around both my wrists.

Initially, my pulse jumps and my brain short-circuits as the immediate reaction hits me.

Don’t tie me up. Please. Not my hands…

But as he starts to wrap the soft string around my wrists, then my hands, something changes. The panic begins to melt. The fear doesn’t spike like usual.

Damian keeps going, wrapping the string around each finger and thumb, lacing it back over my hands and wrists, until they’re…

I look at them.

What the fuck.

While he was doing it, it seemed random. But when I look now, it’s not random at all. It’s meticulously neat and symmetrical. It looks like art.

Dark, erotic art.

“I’m curious,” he growls quietly. “You seem to think—and assert quite loudly—that you don’t like being bound.” I shiver as he leans forward. “And yet, every fucking time I do it to you, you look like you’re seconds away from begging me to make you come.”

He hooks a finger into one of the loops around my hands and uses it to tug me closer across the table toward him.

“Why is that, Hana?”

My throat bobs. “I…” I shrug. “You’re delusional. That’s not what I look like, and I have no interest in you trying to make⁠—”

“Not trying,” he chuckles. “I already have.” He leans in more. “Twice.”

Suddenly, he pulls me even closer. His other hand slips under the table, and I gasp quietly when I feel it on my knee.

“The fact is, Kitsune,” he murmurs. “You really do look like you’re telling the truth when you profess to hate being tied up. And yet, even now for example, I’m sure if my hand were to explore…”

He pulls my knees apart. His fingers tease up the smoothness of my inner thigh and under my skirt.

“I bet I’d find your little pussy dripping⁠—”

Reality hits me like a punch to the face, shaking me from whatever trance he’s got me in. Instantly, I yank away from him, stumbling out of my chair as I rip my bound hands from his grip and back away from him. I scrabble at the string with my teeth, wrenching it off my hands and wrists and pulling it off completely before tossing it onto the table between us.

“Stop trying to play my therapist,” I hiss, my head swimming with nausea. “And stay the fuck away from me.”

He doesn’t follow when I bolt from the club.

…I hate the disappointment that wells inside me when he doesn’t.

I drive back to the house in a numb haze.

Damian has invaded every corner of my life, and I’m running out of ways to push him back.

Just as I reach my private wing, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and glance at the screen—it’s Daichi, the owner of the Golden Monkey. Relief softens the tension in my shoulders. When I fled the club, I’d sent him a text, checking in.

I answer quickly. “Daichi,” I say, expecting to hear his usual easy tone, but he sounds tired, his voice heavy with something close to regret.

“Hana,” he says, his voice strained. “I got your message. I wish I had better news.”

A chill settles over me. “About what?” I ask.

“I sold the club, Hana,” he says quietly.

My heart drops.

“What?” I choke. “Daichi, why?”

He sighs. “It was getting to be too much, my dear. I loved it, and have loved it for decades, like my father. But the bills have been piling up, and the place needs a new roof, and…” He exhales. “And then last night, someone made a cash offer no one in their right mind could refuse.”

My breath hitches, and my fingers tighten around the phone. “Who?”

He hesitates, as if unwilling to say, but finally his answer slips through the line. “A Russian-American guy. A bit creepy, if I’m being honest. Peculiar eyes.”

Mother. Fucker.

“He paid in cash, Hana,” Daichi finally says. “I’m sorry.”

For a moment, I can’t respond. Damian didn’t just invade my sanctuary—he owns it now. My grip tightens around the phone and I force myself to keep my tone steady, even though the fury bubbling inside threatens to spill over.

“Thanks for letting me know,” I say quietly, hanging up before Daichi can respond. I stand there for a moment, still holding the phone, my mind racing. My second home, the one place I could always go to feel safe, is gone.

A surge of anger fills me, hot and blinding, but beneath it is a darker, deeper realization that chills me to my core: Damian’s reach now extends into every corner of my life, and he’s clearly willing to use it without hesitation. Nothing is off limits.

I take a shaky breath, struggling to calm myself. When I enter my bedroom, I stop cold.

A small, neatly wrapped black box sits on the edge of my bed, tied with a red silk bow. A folded origami crane rests on top, bound with red yarn, its wings pinned tightly.

A chill runs through me as I approach it, every instinct screaming.

With trembling hands, I reach for the box, pulling the bow loose and lifting the lid.

Holy FUCKING⁠—

I nearly scream as I drop the box back onto the bed and scramble away. My heart lurches into my throat and I almost vomit, clamping my hands tight over my mouth, squeezing my eyes shut.

Inside the box are ten neatly severed fingers.

All in a row, the skin pale and stiff. I could wonder who they belong to, but the gift-giver has thoughtfully made that abundantly clear by leaving Johnny Dae-Kim’s telltale gaudy red and gold garnet ring in place on his right index finger.

I stagger back to the bed, slam the lid back onto the box, and then back away from it, shuddering.

My skin feels cold, clammy, and my mind races, caught between horror and a dark memory that’s hard to accept.

A certain conversation from the other night with Damian.

“I don’t want your cranes.”

“So, something more substantial next time, then.”

Something more substantial…like the fucking fingers of the man who jumped me, tied me up, and tried to assault me.

The weight of all of it threatens to suffocate me as I sink down into the chair in the corner of my room, staring at the box on the bed, willing it to disappear.

What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

After a moment, I pull my phone from my pocket, my fingers shaking as I dial Kai’s number. Our head of security picks up on the third ring, his tone alert.

“Hana?” he asks. “What’s wrong?”

I try to keep my voice calm. “Nothing at all. Just wondering… Could you make sure the house is extra secure tonight?” I ask, trying to keep a cheery tone.

There’s a pause on the other end, and I can hear faint movement, as if he’s already checking. “Do you know of any specific threat?”

“No!” I blurt, forcing a laugh. “I was an idiot and watched a scary movie earlier, is all. So I’m just…” I cough lightly. “If you could?”

“Of course,” Kai asserts, loyal as ever.

After I end the call, the silence of my room feels oppressive, the weight of Damian’s “gift” hanging over me like a storm cloud. For a moment, I consider calling Takeshi, telling him everything.

But I don’t.

Instead, I sit alone in my room, staring at the small, terrifying box.

Thinking of him.