Epilogue
Fucking through the Pain
Hiro
For the first time in weeks, I slept.
Not the shallow, restless half-sleep that had plagued me since Nura's death.
Not the fitful tossing that ended with her smile burned into my eyelids and my father's laughter echoing through my skull.
Real sleep.
Deep.
Relaxing.
Dreamless at first.
The prison and Kenji’s torturing should have followed me into sleep.
Sako’s and Mami’s screams.
The smell of their burning flesh.
Arata's mother reaching for sons who couldn't save her.
But my mind, starving for something other than death, found a different way of coping instead.
I stood in my brother's bedroom back in Tokyo. The room was bathed in candlelight. Shadows danced across the walls like living things.
I was positioned near the door with my back straight and my hands clasped in front of me like one of the Cum Guards.
And I watched like them too.
Kenji lay on the massive bed, his body stretched out like a king on his throne. His tattoos rippled with each breath, dragons and flames alive on his skin. His head was thrown back against the pillows, his jaw clenched, his hands gripping Nyomi’s ass.
She straddled him, her body rising and falling in a rhythm that made my mouth go dry. Her skin gleamed with sweat, dark brown and beautiful in the flickering candlelight.
She was magnificent.
A goddess riding a dragon.
I couldn't look away.
Didn't want to.
My gaze traced the curve of her spine, the flare of her hips, the way her thighs gripped my brother's waist like she was afraid he might disappear.
Her head fell back, exposing the column of her throat, and I saw the marks there—fresh bite wounds, still brownish-red, evidence of my brother’s savage hunger.
He claimed her tonight.
Marked her.
Made her bleed.
The thought should have made me look away.
Instead, my heart warmed.
I never understood this part of me.
Not fully.
Every time I caught myself watching Kenji like this—his body moving, breath rough, tattoos alive under candlelight—I’d feel something warm uncoil in my chest.
Something almost peaceful.
Something I wasn’t supposed to feel in moments like these.
Comfort.
That was the confusing part.
Comfort didn’t belong here.
Comfort didn’t belong anywhere near the things I’d been taught to fear.
But there it was anyway.
Soft.
Low.
Warm.
Why did watching him with a woman soothe something in me that nothing else could touch?
I tried to trace the feeling back—unravel it, peel the layers like skin off a fruit.
Maybe it was because, when we were young, happiness only existed if Kenji created it.
Our father didn’t smile.
My mother never gave me any warmth.
But Kenji could make a moment feel safe, even in hell.
He’d sit beside me on a cold floor, pull his coat around both of us, and mutter, “It’s fine. We’re still here.”
And I’d believe him. Stupid, blind belief—but belief, nonetheless.
Maybe that wired something in me wrong.
Maybe my brain learned too early that Kenji’s calm was my shelter, and everything else was noise.
So now, when I saw him like this—with a woman he wanted, a woman who wanted him back—it didn’t feel like I was intruding. It felt like I was remembering. Remembering what it was like before the blood. Before the screams. Before the Fox carved obedience into our bones.
Maybe that was why my chest loosened when I saw him trembling beneath someone’s touch. Maybe that was why the dark thoughts quieted. Why the world stopped spinning so fast. Because he was alive, and if he felt safe, then some part of me—some tiny, rusted piece—felt safe too.
Maybe that made me twisted.
But maybe it just made me a broken brother.
Maybe watching was the only way I knew how to stay close without breaking anything more than what was already broken.
Maybe it was the only time the world didn’t feel like it was slipping out from under me.
And maybe that was why I didn’t look away.
Maybe that was why I couldn’t.
Because every time Kenji lost himself in someone else’s warmth, I found a little warmth too.
Borrowed.
Stolen.
Accidental.
But real.
“Yes, Tora.” Kenji's hands found Nyomi’s full breasts and cupped them. Squeezed them. His thumbs brushed across her nipples until she moaned. And that sound slid through me like honey.
Sweet.
Thick.
Intoxicating.
My cock throbbed.
"That's it, Tora." My brother's voice was wrecked. "Ride my cock. Take what you need."
"Kenji—" She gasped.
I felt myself harden until it hurt.
In the dream, I didn't look away. Didn't pretend I wasn't affected. I just watched my brother worship this new intriguing woman, watched her body move like a wave, watched the pleasure transform both their faces into transcendent blissful expressions.
My hand drifted down.
I pressed my palm against myself through my pants, feeling the ache, the heat, the desperate throb of want. I was so hard it bordered on painful, my cock straining against the fabric, begging for friction.
This is wrong. She's his. She's. . .
But my hand kept pressing.
Kept rubbing.
Kept chasing sensation while my eyes devoured them.
Nyomi's pace quickened. Her moans grew louder, sharper, climbing toward something inevitable. I watched her body tighten, watched her nails dig into Kenji's chest, watched her mouth fall open in a silent scream as the orgasm crested.
And then she turned her head and looked directly at me.
My heart stopped.
Her eyes were dark.
Knowing.
Hungry.
She held my gaze as she rode out her pleasure, as her wet pussy shuddered and clenched around my brother's cock.
She watched me watching her, and this hot energy passed between us.
Electric.
Dangerous.
Dirty.
My balls tightened, and I pressed my hand harder against my aching length.
Come closer, her eyes seemed to say. Come see. Come taste. Come take what you want.
I took a step closer.
Then another.
The bed seemed to pull me forward like gravity, like magnetism, like something older than logic or loyalty.
My feet moved without my permission.
My hand reached out to my brother’s Tiger.
I wanted to touch her.
Just once.
Just to feel that dark brown skin beneath my fingers. Just to know what my brother knew. Just to see if she was as soft as she looked, as warm as I imagined.
But then I walked forward and the floor shattered like black glass beneath my feet. I fell, a silent scream tearing from my throat as gravity abandoned me.
The darkness below wasn't empty—it writhed with shadowy tendrils that reached up to claim me, wrapping around my ankles, my wrists, my throat.
They pulled me down into a void so absolute it devoured light, sound, hope—the hungry mouth that lives beneath every dream, waiting to consume the unwary.
I woke with a gasp.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Sweat slicked my skin.
And between my legs. . .my cock was hard.
Concrete hard.
I could feel the wetness of precum soaking through my boxers, evidence of how far the dream had taken me before the fall.
Fuck.
I lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to slow my breathing.
Warmth pressed against my left side.
Warmth pressed against my right.
I turned my head slowly.
A man lay beside me—beautiful, with sharp cheekbones and full lips, his bright purple hair was mussed from sleep.
I called him, Puppy. He was one of my regular companions. Someone I always phoned after the events of the evening, needing bodies beside me, needing not to be alone with my thoughts.
I’d brought him and another regular companion to this island for protection and some sense of warmth.
On my other side, the other companion lay next to me. A strawberry blonde woman. Equally beautiful. Long limbs tangled in the sheets, her breathing soft and even.
I’d named her Kitty.
At this point, I’d forgotten their real names.
They were simply my pets.
Years ago, I’d set them up in separate condos and gave them bank accounts where I deposited generous monthly allowances. They had a doctor specially appointed by Reo who gave them monthly health screenings.
I yawned and looked back up at the ceiling.
Perhaps, I should get new companions.
Kitty stirred beside me, her hand sliding across my chest, seeking warmth even in sleep.
On my other side, Puppy's breathing shifted, that half-conscious awareness that came from years of being attuned to my movements.
They were good at this.
At waiting.
At responding.
At being exactly what I needed them to be whenever I called.
One text, and they'd drop everything.
Rearrange schedules.
Cancel plans.
Rush to whatever hotel, safe house, or private plane I'd summoned them to.
In exchange, I made sure they never worried about money. Rent paid. Cars maintained. Credit cards with limits high enough to fund small countries. Medical care. Personal trainers. Whatever they wanted, within reason.
And one rule: no one else.
Not because I was possessive.
Not because I cared who they fucked when I wasn't around.
But because I was careful.
Clean.
Controlled.
I'd seen too many men in my father's organization brought low by sexually transmitted diseases they'd picked up from careless encounters. Seen blackmail spring from tangled sheets and loose lips.
So, I paid for exclusivity the way I paid for everything else.
With money.
With distance.
With clear, unspoken boundaries that everyone understood.
Kitty pressed closer, and her lips brushed my shoulder. "You're awake. Bad dreams again?"
I didn't answer.
Puppy's eyes fluttered open on my other side. Those striking violet contacts he wore even to bed—a vanity I found oddly endearing. "Want us to help you relax?"
Months ago, I would have said yes.
Would have let them both work me over until the tension dissolved, until the images in my head blurred into nothing but sensation.
But now. . .
"No." My voice came out rougher than I intended. "Go back to sleep."
Puppy stilled.
Kitty's breath caught.
I felt it then—that shift in the air. The confusion. The hurt they tried to hide but couldn't, not completely.