Emperor of Lust: Chapter 20

I pace the perimeter of the gala, drink in hand, jaw clenched so tight I can almost feel the enamel chipping.

The ice in my glass rattles. Every second since Hana left feels like another drop of gasoline on a spark that threatens to consume everything in its path.

Part of me very begrudgingly wants to admit that maybe I overreacted earlier.

The other part of me thinks that Scott is lucky to have walked away with his fucking jaw intact.

Yes, I feel a slight smugness knowing he never had her—never fucked her or touched her the way I have. But still.

I don’t like the fact that he fucking hugged her.

The problem, as I’m discovering, is that when it comes to Hana, it’s impossible to rein in my crazy. It won’t be—can’t be—leashed or caged around her.

“Hey, so…”

I turn to find Annika standing there, smirking and tilting her head as she gives me that half-mocking, half-affectionate look only she can pull off.

“Want to tell me why Hana really spent the night in your suite last night?”

I roll my eyes. “We’re playing a role, Anni.”

She studies me keenly. “How about I just ask: are you sleeping with her?”

I frown, simultaneously irritated and amused. “It’s not the salacious story you apparently want it to be,” I reply dryly as I turn back to the crowd, looking for Hana.

“Total non-answer,” Annika points out.

“Why do you care if it was?” I toss back, my tone unexpectedly sharp.

She looks at me for a moment, choosing her words carefully. “First, I want to be clear: I love you. You’re the brother I never had.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

She sighs, her expression softening. “That said… Hana is a good friend.”

“You’re worried that I’m going to drink her fucking blood or something sinister.”

Annika rolls her eyes. “I mean, I’m not thinking you’ll go full Hannibal Lecter…”

“But you’re still worried about her.”

“I’m worried about you both.” She sighs quietly. “Look, I know you don’t do relationships⁠—”

“Says who?” I challenge, raising an eyebrow.

She rolls her eyes. “Do you?”

“No,” I answer flatly, earning a smile.

She touches my arm, her gaze soft and steady. “I know what you have with Freya and me is rare. I know you don’t do intimacy.”

She’s not wrong. After my parents died, the part of me that might have welcomed that kind of closeness just…shut down. It’s a defense mechanism that’s become second nature. The problem is, Hana seems to be prying open a door I thought was deadbolted.

Annika studies me, and I suddenly get the strange feeling that she understands something I don’t even understand about myself. I might not know exactly what Hana means to me, but I do know she means something.

A big something. Something more than I ever expected anyone to mean.

I’m about to open my mouth despite not knowing how to answer Annika when a hand lands on my shoulder.

“Apologies, Annika-san,” Miyamoto says, bowing slightly. “I’m afraid I must borrow Mr. Nikolayev for a moment.”

“Don’t go thinking for a second that we’re done with this conversation,” she sighs, shaking her head.

“Sure looks like we are,” I grin as Miyamoto gently tugs me away. My smirk fades the moment I’m led into a tight circle of Yakuza men, all watching me with both caution and interest.

‘Gentlemen,’ Miyamoto says expansively, draping an arm around my shoulder like we’re old friends, ‘allow me to introduce you to my…how best to put it…formidable ally, Damian Nikolayev. This man,’ he grins, squeezing my shoulder harder, ‘is someone you want in your corner. He defended my own home from that bastard Kolya’s recent cowardly attempt to take us down.’

One of the other men grunts, nodding in my direction. ‘Impressive, but it’s no small thing you two are attempting,’ he mutters, glancing around the circle. ‘With the Mori-kai and Nikolayev Bratva working together, you’re stirring up a hornet’s nest with Kolya Ishida. His people won’t take it well.”

I smile, unfazed. “They’re welcome to take it however feels best for them,” I shrug. “They’re still going to take it.”

Another of the men clears his throat. “The problem,” he grunts, leaning in almost conspiratorially and throwing a significant look around the group, “is that Kolya isn’t the only one running his empire these days.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

One of the other men pipes up, nodding sagely. “They say Kolya’s daughter’s been helping him behind the scenes, running operations with even more of an iron fist than her father.”

Miyamoto scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Fairy tales and gossip, my friends. Kolya’s daughter died years ago.”

The first man shakes his head. “She didn’t. She’s alive, and just as twisted as her father.”

“No one’s seen her in years,” Miyamoto grunts, his gaze flinty. “Doesn’t sound very alive to me.”

I frown, the wheels in my head turning. Kenzo mentioned a plan that Takeshi’s been cooking up involving the Ishida-kai, one that he’s kept suspiciously quiet. This unknown daughter could complicate things. It’s worth keeping an eye on.

As the conversation drifts, I take my chance to retreat from the group, muttering something about getting a drink. I’m halfway to the bar when I notice Miyamoto at my elbow, his gaze soft, reflective.

“Don’t let them worry you about the Ishida-kai,” he sighs. “They’re like gossiping grandmothers sometimes. But with your family and the Mori-kai presenting a united front, and my empire and connections?” He shrugs. “Kolya Ishida will wish he had a daughter to help him rule.” He smirks as he nods at the bar. “What’s your poison?”

“Whiskey works.”

He whistles. “A Bratva man who doesn’t drink vodka.”

“Always keep them guessing?” I smile.

He grins, turning to get us both a healthy pour of Hibiki seventeen year from the bartender. He passes a glass to me, knocking his against it.

“Kanpai,” he grunts.

“Na zdoroviehe,” I murmur back as we both take a sip.

“Look, Damian-san,” Miyamoto says quietly. “I know it’s…demanding, this little game we’re playing. I’m sure pretending to be engaged to someone can’t be easy.”

I offer a half-smile. “Wouldn’t call it a hardship, exactly.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Tokyo is different from Kyoto. It requires a certain…patience.” He pauses, giving me a respectful nod. “But you’re doing a good job, Damian-san. I’m proud to call you and your uncle allies.”

He bows slightly, making his words feel heavier, like a binding agreement. I bow back, feeling the surge of satisfaction that comes with knowing your hard work has paid off.

With a final nod, Miyamoto drifts away, leaving me alone with my thoughts…and an itch to find Hana.

When my head swivels to scan the room, though, I see a tall Japanese man watching me from nearby with quiet intensity. He nods and approaches me with calm, almost sinister arrogance.

“Mr. Nikolayev,” he begins smoothly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I don’t return his smile. “And you are?”

“My name is Ryu,” he nods. “I represent the interests of Kolya Ishida.”

“What do you want?” I growl.

He chuckles softly, tucking his hands into his pockets. “I come bearing a message from my boss.” He leans in, lowering his voice. “He’s aware of the nature of your… engagement to Ms. Mori—and the reasons for the, shall we say, farce. Mr. Ishida is a keen student of fact versus fiction.”

I grind my teeth. “It would be in your best interests to get to the point of this conversation.”

Ryu’s eyes glint. “Ishida-san is a man of twin ancestry—Russian and Japanese. He feels a duty to appeal to, and appease, both sides.” He pauses, letting his words settle. “Perhaps, Mr. Nikolayev, my boss would like to extend an olive branch to just one half of this…alliance.”

My jaw clenches. “What are you insinuating?”

Ryu’s gaze is cold. “Merely that Ishida-san sees potential for a future partnership with your uncle.” He smiles thinly. “And only with your uncle.”

A tense silence settles between us.

“My sister,” I say tightly, “in case your boss hasn’t heard, is married to Kenzo Mori.”

Ryu shrugs. “Not your sister by blood.” He lets the words hover in the air.

I don’t give a shit if I’m not technically related to Annika. She’s been a sister to me since our paths first crossed years ago.

“You have a choice to make,” he says with another dismissive shrug. “Cling to your arrangement with the Mori-kai, a faded empire that’s not what it once was.” His lips curl. “Or, ally yourself with the Ishida-kai. Be wise, Mr. Nikolayev. Choose the winning side of history.”

My eyes lock with his. “Is that a threat?”

Ryu’s expression is unblinking. “It’s whatever you want it to be.” He adjusts his collar, flicking off invisible lint. “You have a week to consider. After that, the terms will change.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” I growl, clenching my fists.

Ryu’s eyes harden. “It means…” He leans in closer, his voice a lethal whisper. “One member of your family, every five days, until you decide to make the right choice.”

My reaction is instant. I grab him by the throat, feeling his even pulse under my hand, his calmness as maddening as his threat. “My Yakuza-speak is a little rusty,” I snarl, the darkness in me surging, out for blood. “Why don’t you translate for me.”

Ryu looks at me, unfazed, and tilts his head. “I’m sure your Yakuza-speak is quite adequate for this conversation.”

“Even so,” I hiss, reaching into my jacket with my free hand. “Allow me to respond in a language we both speak fluently.”

The blade flicks open as I yank it out of my jacket and bring it to Ryu’s jugular.

Ryu clears his throat delicately. Movement surrounds me, and I’m suddenly hyper-aware that there are five men strategically placed around us, their hands hovering inside their jackets. I catch the glint of katana hilts.

“Your move, Mr. Nikolayev,” Ryu murmurs, his voice thin and poisonous.

Slowly, I release him, fury simmering beneath my skin. He straightens, adjusting his collar again. “Think about it,” he says quietly, turning away. “Though I’d advise you not to think too long.”

I watch in silence as he and his men slip like shadows into the crowd before disappearing entirely.

Fuck. I need some air.

I thread my way through the crowded foyer to one of the quieter corridors, finally able to breathe. As I round a corner, my gaze locks onto a scene that drains every ounce of whatever patience I have left in a heartbeat.

Hana stands there, looking up at a man who has his arms around her in a casual hug. He smiles at her, and every cell in my body roars for murder, burning away any sense of rationality.

I march toward them even as he turns and walks away. My steps are deliberate, my fists clenched. She doesn’t notice me until she spins, startled, and bumps right into my chest, gasping as she looks up.

“Who the fuck was that?” I growl sharply.

Then I realize Hana’s shaking, her face white and haggard, like she’s just seen a ghost. The look in her eyes is the same one she had last night: haunted, raw, like she’s miles away from this room. From me. From everything.

Without thinking, I pull her into my arms, wrapping her in my warmth, holding her tight.

“Who was that?” I ask again, softer this time.

She trembles. “He…that night. He…”

I turn cold when it clicks.

That night.

The night she told me about, there were two others there, off-camera. They laughed and did nothing while she screamed and cried. Every nerve in my body snaps to attention, and I see red like it’s the only color that exists.

“Who,” I growl, quietly but venomously.

“Prescott Harding,” she whispers, voice hollow. “He… He was there.”

“Wait here,” I order, letting her go reluctantly.

“Damian, no⁠—”

I’m already gone.

The rage is a live wire running through my veins, an unstoppable current that sparks with every step I take. I follow Prescott as he heads into a stairwell that winds down into the underground parking garage.

He’s walking casually as he gets to the garage, oblivious. Even if he wasn’t, I don’t care about stealth. I don’t care about anything except making him regret every second he’s been allowed to breathe.

“Prescott,” I call out sharply.

He stops, his hand halfway to the door of an Audi. He turns around, confusion flashing in his eyes. “Can I help you?” he asks nervously, catching the expression on my face.

I remain silent as I march toward him, death etched across my face.

“Who—” He shivers. “Who are you?”

“I’m Karma, motherfucker,” I snarl, my voice low and dangerous. “And I’m here to blow up your whole fucking world.”

He backs against his car, hands raised slightly. “Look, I don’t know you⁠—”

“No,” I growl. “But you do know Hana Mori.”

The color drains from his face. His eyes widen, panic flaring in them. “I—I don’t want any trouble.”

“Life is full of disappointments, Prescott”.

My fist meets his face with a sickening crunch. I barely feel the impact, watching impassively as he reels back, slamming into his car.

I stride forward, feeling the pulsing heat of raw fury overtaking me. Prescott’s bleeding mouth opens to stammer some pathetic plea for mercy.

He’ll get none from me.

I want to grind him into dust for what he did, what he watched and did nothing to stop, what he laughed at. My fist comes down again on his jaw, then his cheekbone, then his teeth. Prescott crumples, but I don’t stop.

He staggers back, clutching his face, blood trickling between his fingers as he tries to pull himself away, desperation in his eyes. I follow, relentless, feeling nothing but the need to destroy him, to make him feel an ounce of the horror he heaped on Hana.

I grab him by the collar and throw him against the nearest car. His head hits the metal with a satisfying thud, and I lean close, my voice darkening to a growl. “Thought you could just walk away, asshole? Like you didn’t do anything? Didn’t hurt anyone?”

He tries to respond, his words incoherent. I barely register the crowd growing around us, the horrified gasps and whispers, the sound of someone taking a photo with their phone.

Nothing matters right now except my hands on him, the wonderful sensation of his flesh turning to pulp under my fists.

Suddenly, there’s a hand on my arm, pulling me back to reality. I whirl, ready to tear apart whoever’s foolish enough to interfere, but I stop, frozen, when I find myself looking at Hana, pale, visibly shaken, but steady.

“Enough,” she says, her hand on my arm grounding me. “That’s enough now, Damian.”

The rage in me retreats as I look at her, the tension in my body draining away under her gaze. I let go of Prescott, who collapses unconscious in a heap, my focus solely on her. She threads her fingers through mine, gently pulling me away from the scene, away from the onlookers’ stares and murmurs.

We slip around a corner of the garage, finally out of sight. The adrenaline still hums in my veins, raw and untamed, and without warning I grab her, savoring the gasp on her lips as I pin her against the wall. I tighten my grip on her, feeling that fierce, possessive fire rise within me again.

She stares up at me, her expression a mixture of shock and something dark and needy.

“I’d kill for you,” I rasp, breath heavy, voice low, eyes boring into hers. “You’re mine.”

And planets collide as I crush my lips to hers.