Emperor of Lust: Chapter 6

The lights of Kyoto spread out beyond the windows of the penthouse like glimmering constellations in the night sky.

Usually, I love this view—although I didn’t love the idea of spending half my time here in Kyoto, beautiful as it is, when my uncle first allied us with the Mori-kai. When Annika, who’s like a sister to me, was forced to marry Kenzo to stop a fucking bloodbath between our families, I was all set to end that bloodbath by walking into the Mori house and cutting throats until someone called the whole thing off.

Unfortunately for my innate bloodlust and thirst for violence, that’s not how it panned out. But at least my quasi-sister is happy, having found her “soulmate” in Kenzo.

Ugh, “soulmate.”

Kill me now.

The very concepts of “soulmates” or love at all are such laughably ridiculous fairytales to me that I almost get angry when people bring them up. It’s like an adult walking up to you and insisting to your face that Santa Claus is real. All you want to do is beat some sense into them.

At least, all I want to do is beat some sense into them. Or at the very least, just beat them. But I digress.

Since forming that alliance with the Mori-kai and spending some time here, I’ve come to appreciate Japan—Kyoto specifically—more. I bought this penthouse because of all the time I’d be spending here, away from New York. Ultimately, I’d consider the Big Apple my true home, but Kyoto has certainly grown on me.

That said, tonight, my focus is not on the view out these windows of the city below.

I pace, a restlessness prickling beneath my skin. Every muscle feels coiled tight, anticipation humming through me like napalm.

Kyoto is beautiful, but tonight, I barely see it. My mind’s elsewhere, filled with an image I can’t shake—Hana Mori, bound and helpless, the look in her eyes somewhere between fury and surrender. It consumes my thoughts. It’s an obsession I can’t control and don’t remotely understand.

I’ve had beautiful women throw themselves at me my entire life, eager for my attention, craving my power and, some of them, the darkness they sense under the surface. But Hana?

The exact opposite.

Her defiance and stubborn refusal to fall in line like everyone else has been on my mind all day. It shouldn’t bother me. It shouldn’t matter. And yet, a huge part of me can’t shake the image from my mind—the way she looked in the warehouse, bound and vulnerable, every bit of her under my control.

Beautiful. Broken. An exquisitely perfect work of erotic art, all tied up like that.

I may not understand love or the ridiculous notion of soulmates, but I do understand obsession in its most depraved, twisted incarnation. And that’s what Hana has become to me: an obsession. A fixation. One I don’t truly understand.

It’s strange, this feeling she stirs in me. It runs deeper than the usual satisfaction of bending another person to my will. I’m used to that. People are predictable, and I’ve always been able to manipulate them to fit whatever need or whim strikes me. But Hana appears to be…different.

Maybe I’m just hungry for a challenge.

I find myself reliving that night again and again, every detail etched into my mind with unfading clarity. The way she looked up at me with fear and fury flashing in her eyes. The way her breath hitched, her pulse racing even as she tried to hide it. She swallowed her pride…swallowed me…and yet somehow, I’m the one who feels as though I lost that power game. It’s confounding.

My gaze falls to the table, where the ropes and assorted other playthings lie ready and waiting. My fingers trace over the toys, a dark smile forming on my lips as I imagine her here, bound and vulnerable, her defiance slowly crumbling under my control.

The women I usually entertain come to me because they want to be controlled, and crave the power I can offer. They know the game and are more than willing to play by its rules, not to mention sign the necessary NDAs beforehand.

I mean, I’m not just some guy with a rope kink. I’m the heir apparent to the entire Nikolayev Bratva.

But Hana’s different. She doesn’t just resist me—she’s genuinely repulsed by me. I can see it in the way her nose wrinkles in disgust whenever I get too close, the way her voice drips with disdain. She’s not afraid to show her contempt for me. But rather than pushing me away, that defiance only pulls me in and fuels a hunger that’s becoming harder to ignore.

There’s a danger in playing this game with her, of course. Hana Mori isn’t some nameless bimbo from a club. She’s the sister of Kenzo fucking Mori, the same man who could destroy our alliance with a single word, who would have no qualms about personally gutting me like a fish—or at least making what I’m sure would be a very good attempt—if he thought I posed a threat to his family.

And then there’s Kir. He’s warned me before, countless times, about treading carefully and keeping my…deviant impulses in check. He knows what I’m capable of, knows the darkness I have within me. He’s seen it firsthand and raised me knowing all about it after taking me in after my parents were ripped from me.

I was eight years old when it happened. My parents were driving us through Brooklyn, the streets slippery with rain, the night heavy with fog. I remember the sound first: the screech of tires, the crash of metal. Then the way the world tilted end-over-end, throwing me into a haze of confusion and fear.

I remember feeling the seatbelt cutting into my skin, tasting the blood sharp on my tongue. And then…silence. I remember looking over, seeing my mother’s hand hanging limp near me, her eyes staring vacantly, her body crumpled and broken. My father, too, his life extinguished in an instant, leaving me alone.

A baptism in blood.

Later, I came to understand that what happened that night was no accident. That my parents were targets in a game a rival crime family was playing with Kir.

He’s the one that came for me that night when I was lying in the hospital bed. He pulled me from the hole I was falling into, his face a mask of anger and grief. He took me in, raised me as his own, and molded me into the man I am today. Kir became more than an uncle; he grew to be my father, my mentor, the only person who truly understands the darkness that consumes me.

That darkness has always been there, bubbling just beneath the surface, a part of me that I’ve never even tried to tame. It makes me good at what I do, allows me to bend people to my will, to control them without hesitation.

It also, almost certainly, makes me…different.

“Neurodivergent.”

“Psychotic,” if we’re being trendy and edgy.

Both fun ways of tiptoeing around the phrase on everyone’s tongue: fucking crazy.

Still… I can’t let this thing with Hana go. I can’t shake the desire to see her break, to experience that moment when she finally realizes how little power she has against me. The idea of it sends a thrill through me that gets my blood hot and my dick rock-hard in a way that I know deep down is as dangerous as it is addictive.

I smirk, anticipation curling within me as I picture her walking through the door, her confidence fading the moment she sees the ropes and implements I’ve laid out and remembers what’s at stake. She might think she’s in control, but that’s the beauty of this game: she doesn’t know just how deep she’s in, how very tightly I’ve woven her into my plans.

A soft knock pulls my attention to the door, and a hungry grin prowls across my lips.

Let’s begin, Kitsune…

I open the door lazily and lean against the frame as I watch her stride in, her air of calm confidence highly amusing. She throws not a single glance in my direction, chin held high, stiletto heels clicking deliberately against the marble floor.

The dress she’s chosen has my cock swelling with hunger and need. It’s sleek, hugging her figure perfectly. She looks nothing like cornered prey. If anything, she appears to be stalking me. The thrill her appearance sends through me is unexpected and addictive. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this way, or had a challenge like this. I’d expected her to walk in with a hint of fear, maybe a tremor in her hands, perhaps even a trace of hesitation.

If I was particularly lucky, maybe she’d even beg me to reconsider our dark arrangement—fuck, I’m not sure I’d be able to control myself if she begged—but this boldness, this fire in her eyes is…unexpected.

And oh-so-tantalizing.

She stops in the middle of the room, in front of the ropes and cuffs I’ve laid out on the coffee table, her gaze unwavering when she glances at them. The air thickens with tension as I close the door behind me, savoring the click of the lock that subtly reminds her that she’s in my world now. I watch the way she holds herself, so poised, so carefully controlled. It only fuels the hunger building inside me, the twisted satisfaction that she’s finally alone with me, exactly where I want her.

She meets my gaze, her expression neutral, her eyes cold. “I know what you’re doing,” she says, her voice low and steady. “At least, what you’re trying to do.”

I smirk, leaning back against the wall and letting my gaze drift over her languidly. “And what would that be?” I ask, my voice soft and taunting, letting her see just how little her bravado affects me.

Her gaze doesn’t waver. “This game you’re playing,” she says, her jaw set, her tone filled with contempt that cuts deeper than I want to admit. “Holding my secrets over my head while you try to…corrupt me.”

I let out a low chuckle, the thrill spiking higher, a predator closing in on his prey. “Oh, I think we both know,” I murmur, my voice dropping to a growl as I step closer, “that it wouldn’t take much effort for me to corrupt you, Kitsune.”

She presses her lips together, defiance in her eyes as she reaches into her bag, pulls out a folded piece of paper, and holds it out to me. Her fingers are steady and her gaze unflinching, like she’s serving me court papers.

“Well, I’m not playing that game. In fact,” she says, her voice laced with quiet triumph, “I’ve removed all the pieces from the board.”

The smugness in her tone fans the flames of irritation smoldering beneath my calm exterior. I take the paper and unfold it, skimming the text, my smirk fading. It’s an email addressed to her entire family.

Fucking. Fuck.

It’s a goddamn confession. A full, detailed account of her money laundering, plus her explanation that it was intended to ease the Mori-kai’s financial strain.

I blink as a re-read it again.

Shit. She’s vaporized every ounce of leverage I held over her.

My jaw clenches as I read it yet again, irritation twisting in my chest.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. She was supposed to be desperate, cornered, begging for my silence. Instead, she’s ripped the rug out from under me.

The faint, smug curve of her lips only makes it worse.

I lift my gaze to hers, and there’s a spark of triumph in her eyes that sends both a dark thrill and bitter frustration coursing through me. She cocks an eyebrow, glancing at the ropes and cuffs on the table, her expression mocking. “So,” she drawls, her voice heavy with sarcasm, “play with your toys by yourself. I’m out. Nice try, though.”

My fist clenches around the printout, rage brewing under my skin as I crumple it.

“Yeah, so, that’s just a printout,” she says patronizingly, standing there so confident, so supremely sure of herself. “I’m not sure if you know how emails work, but destroying that paper doesn’t really do shit, so…”

She shrugs, that smug look still on her face. It’s infuriating and thrilling all at once, a tangled mess of feelings that twist and knot around me, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. I want to trap her and wipe that smug look off her face. I want to crush her defiance, break her down, make her see just how wrong she is to think she can walk out of here unscathed.

I don’t move. I hold my ground, forcing myself to stay calm and keep my expression unreadable, even as I feel her slipping from my grasp, her victory hanging in the air. She watches me for a moment longer before she glances again at the ropes and scoffs.

She turns on her heel, her steps measured and confident as she walks right past me, opens the door, and leaves.

Click.

Just like that.

The door shuts, the final sound of her departure echoing through the silence. I’m left alone with nothing but the quiet and the lingering scent of her perfume. I stare at the crumpled paper in my hand, the confession that’s torn away my power, the memory of her look of triumph still taunting me.

The silence presses down, each second stretching out, the irritation in my chest curling, twisting, and slowly morphing into something else.

Admiration.

Beneath the frustration, I feel a reluctant, grudging respect brewing for her cunning, her willingness to strip herself bare, to sacrifice everything just to keep me out of her life. No one’s ever done that before. No one’s ever had the unmitigated gall to stand in my path and stare me down with such cool, calculated defiance. It wakens something inside me, a hunger that’s more demanding than the usual thrill, a challenge that I can’t ignore.

She may think the game is over, that she’s won and freed herself from my control.

That’s categorically not the case.

All she’s done is make herself more interesting. More worth pursuing.

I smile, my irritation shifting and settling into a new resolve, a fresh determination to bring her back under my thumb.

Hana Mori may have stripped away my leverage, but that only makes the game more enticing. Next time, I’ll make sure she’s cornered—truly cornered—with no escape in sight.

I toss the crumpled paper onto the table, a satisfied, almost dangerous glint in my eyes. She may think she’s done with me, but she seems to have overlooked one microscopic, insignificant detail:

She’s about to become my fucking fiancée.

You haven’t seen anything yet, Kitsune.