Emperor of Lust: Chapter 1

Some nights, you can feel the mayhem and the violence lingering in the shadows before it ever actually makes an appearance. You can taste it in the air, like a fine mist, wet on your tongue and lips.

A clamminess that bathes your skin. A little warning light flickering on and off in your peripheral vision.

The towering metal warehouse looms in the shadows of the industrial district just outside Kyoto, bathed in eerie silence and faint moonlight.

I close the car door quietly, willing my nerves to settle as I adjust my mask. I take a breath, willing that lingering feeling of mayhem back to the shadows. Shaking the mist off my skin.

Tonight is not a night of danger and violence, I remind myself. Tonight is business.

Tonight I’m not Hana Mori, corporate CEO and daughter of the Yakuza. I’m The Kitsune—a ghost, a fox, a shadow without a name.

My black stiletto heels click softly on the concrete, the sound echoing as if the darkness itself is leaning in to listen. The mask rests securely over my face, its delicate curves and painted fox markings letting me slip into a role that feels both dangerous and liberating.

This isn’t the first time I’ve met with clients face-to-face—well, face-to-mask. But the thrill and the slight dash of fear sharpen my focus, as always. With each step, I become more The Kitsune than Hana; more phantom than dutiful sister who keeps her family’s empire running smoothly.

By the time I reach the side door to the cavernous warehouse, my nerves are steel. I step inside, the sound of my heels drawing the attention of the three men waiting for me inside under the lone overhead light.

Won Kyung, Ji Ahn, and Johnny Dae-Kim—three mid-level leaders of three mid-level Korean syndicate factions—glare at me with predatory, pissed-off looks as I click my way across the space toward them. I just breathe in slowly, steadying my heartbeat to a calm rhythm.

I’ve met with dangerous men before. I live with dangerous men. I call them brothers and cousin.

Still, there’s no denying the particularly edged feel in the air, the dark energy hanging like a fog over this whole meeting.

“Gentlemen,” I greet them, my voice filtered through the mask, smooth and unwavering. The Kitsune never falters. The Kitsune is untouchable. “Let us get down to business. You had concerns.”

It’s not the first time I’ve met with dangerous clients. It’s also not the first time I’ve had to keep the patronizing tone out of my voice while trying to explain basic finance to men who are used to being in charge and told how smart they are.

If you’d told me a year ago that this was how I’d be spending an ordinary Wednesday night—traipsing around warehouses dressed like a spy and wearing a fox mask to engage in money-laundering business…about which my family has no fucking idea about, I might add…with some of the sketchiest men on earth—I’d have laughed in your face.

But here we are.

Johnny Dae-Kim, in the middle—mid-thirties, lean muscle, a scar tracing his cheek from eye to jaw—steps forward, lips twisted in a bitter smirk. He runs a hand over his clean jaw, and my gaze catches on the glinting red garnet stone in his gaudy gold ring. His eyes flick over me, assessing, calculating. Something dark flits through them.

“We’re disappointed, Kitsune.” His words are harsh, laced with a venom that seeps into the empty room. “Our returns have been…underwhelming.”

I ignore the surge of irritation that flares in my chest, keeping my expression steady even beneath the mask. ‘I assure you,” I reply calmly, “all transactions were processed exactly as agreed upon. Perhaps you’re neglecting to consider fluctuating exchange rates, or⁠—”

“Exchange rates.” He spits the words like they’re a curse and his gaze grows darker, more dangerous, as if my words are a slap rather than a response.

I exhale slowly. “Gentlemen, there’s a reason you do business with me and not my competitors. I get things done. I get you the best returns for cleaning your dirty money, and I do it at the lowest commission of anyone else at my level.” I shrug. “If that doesn’t work for you, I’m sure my competitors would be happy to have you back.”

My lips curl slightly beneath the mask that covers the top two thirds of my face.

“At their higher fee, that is.”

Johnny’s eyes narrow. “Your commission is not the problem, Kitsune,” he growls. “The fact that you think you can cheat us certainly is.”

In the flickering light, the two men flanking him drift forward, each movement calibrated, like wolves closing in on an injured fawn. My senses sharpen, the air thickening with tension. Instinct tells me to step back, to reach for the small knife strapped under my sleeve, but I resist.

The Kitsune does not retreat.

“That’s a serious accusation,” I say, keeping my voice even, “and not one I take lightly. If there’s been a miscalculation, I am happy to go over the figures together. I’m certain⁠—”

I don’t get the chance to finish. Johnny lunges, reaching me in an instant. His fingers dig into my arms, cold and unyielding as he yanks me forward and spins me around. The breath leaves my body as he slams me back against a wrought-iron pole, pinning me to it.

I twist violently in his grip, but before I can break free, the other two are on me, grabbing my wrists and wrenching them behind my back and around the pole.

Rope twists around my wrists.

Oh God.

A spike of blind panic shoots through me and I bite down hard, forcing it back even as it drags me beneath the surface.

Stay calm.

But the familiar sensation…rough rope pressing against my skin…biting into my wrists…sends a wave of nausea through me. Memories surge up, dark, unwelcome, dragging me back to a night I’ve tried so hard to erase from my mind.

The laughter. The spinning room. The rope cutting into my skin as hands pawed at me.

No. I will not let this be like before.

But the ropes tighten, and my heart hammers against my ribs, drowning out reason with every beat. Breathe. Focus on the present. I am not that girl anymore. I am The Kitsune, and The Kitsune doesn’t break. The Kitsune⁠—

“Look at her,” Won Kyung sneers. His grip is relentless iron, his breath hot on my cheek. “The fox isn’t so cunning now, is she?”

“Bitch sure came dressed to impress,” Johnnyt snickers. I jolt, gasping sharply when I feel the suit jacket yanked off my shoulders and down my arms to tangle behind me against the pole. I shudder, going cold as ice when Johnny flicks open a blade and grabs a fistful of the thin blouse at my stomach, yanking it out of my pencil skirt.

The blade slips underneath. I can’t even scream or fight as it slices up, removing every button as they cut the shirt open.

Fabric rips. Tears well in my eyes. My bra is cut off as they shove me to my knees on the dirty ground.

All I know is the drowning sensation. The urge to scream. To explode. To self-immolate, just to get away.

The past claws its way into my mind, dragging me down and back to that dark room, the jeering faces, the hands pinning me down as I struggled, helpless and trapped.

No matter how much I fight it off, that night’s shadow is back, wrapping around me, blurring the line between past and present. A cold, creeping numbness settles over me, my mind fracturing and falling through memory and fear until I’m no longer in control.

I barely hear the words as they taunt me, their voices low and mocking, stripping away my power and dignity. One of them pulls at the edge of my mask and I turn away, trying to hide, trying to keep what little I have left. Their laughter grows louder, harsher, piercing deeper with every word.

Then, suddenly, a different sound—a door slamming open.

The laughter dies, the hands freeze on my skin. I open my eyes, blinking as I turn toward the sound.

A figure stands silhouetted in the doorway, tall and imposing, his presence filling the space with an energy that’s even colder more menacing than that of the men holding me.

At first that’s all he is: a dark stain of black ink against the low light outside. A malevolent fog ready to billow into the warehouse and choke us all.

But then, he steps in.

My heart lurches when I see the shock of silvery-white hair gleaming under the dim light and the violet eyes burning with a chilling intensity that lances straight through me.

Oh God…

On the surface, you’d think I’d be thrilled that someone I know has just appeared, bursting in like a fairytale hero at the heroine’s darkest hour.

Except there’s a million things wrong with that statement, the biggest one being that Damian Nikolayev is anything but a hero.

When my older brother Kenzo married Kir Nikolayev’s pseudo-adopted daughter Annika not long ago, our family and theirs buried the hatchet to become allies: the Mori-kai and the Nikolayev Bratva, working side-by-side. Kir even expanded his business interests into Japan, first here in Kyoto, and soon into Tokyo, with our family.

But.

The man standing in the doorway isn’t Kir. It’s not Annika.

It’s Damian, Kir’s nephew. Heir to the Nikolayev throne? Yes. My brother’s ally? Also yes.

But there’s another word for Damian that in my opinion isn’t mentioned nearly enough: psychopath.

The man is a fucking psychopath. My twin brother, Takeshi, has his own darkness inside him and his own…neurodivergent tendencies. But Damian is something else altogether.

He’s malice incarnate. “Unhinged” personified. A black hole where goodness and sunlight go to die.

If those were the only reasons to be nervous about Damian Nikolayev, this would all still be fine. Unfortunately, there’s one more thing Damian is:

My competition.

He doesn’t know this, because he, just like everyone else who knows me, has no idea that I’ve been moonlighting as The Kitsune—elusive and effective money launderer for the rich and dangerous. He doesn’t know that I, Hana Mori, have been stealing some of his most lucrative clients by slashing my commission rates.

I have to remind myself that he can’t see who I am with this mask on as his eyes settle on me with a look that can only be described as malicious satisfaction, a smirk twisting his lips as he takes in the scene before him.

He steps forward, his movements deliberate, as if he has all the time in the world. I feel the three Koreans stiffen. Their nervousness is palpable but they don’t move, caught between the instinct to run and the fatal mistake of hesitating. Damian’s gaze drifts over me, lingering on the ropes binding my wrists, the torn clothes, the disarray.

My tits, which are on full display right now.

“Well, well.” His voice is smooth, almost lazy, but there’s a dark edge to it that settles over me like a shroud. “What do we have here?”

“We have a dumb motherfucker walking into places he doesn’t belong,” Johnny spits, pulling a gun from his jacket.

He struts toward Damian, grinning savagely as he raises his weapon.

“This is a party you weren’t invited to, you stupid fucking⁠—”

It happens so fast that I can barely register it. One second, Johnny is standing perhaps ten feet away from Damian. The next, the man with the silver hair, purplish eyes, and psychotic energy has slammed into him and is jamming a blade into his stomach.

Johnny howls, clutching his bleeding abdomen and sinking to the floor as Damian yanks the blade out. The two others lunge toward him, pulling their own guns out. But instantly Damian’s knife flings, catching Ji Ahn in the throat.

Damian’s on his prey in a second, slamming into him and yanking the blade free with an arc of crimson. My eyes bulge wide, my throat tight and my pulse roaring as he whirls, spins the blade around, and drives it to the hilt into Won Kyung’s chest. The Korean’s eyes start from their sockets and his mouth falls open. Damian removes the blade, watching with almost a bored expression as the man drops to the ground in a heap next to his buddy.

The silence that follows is deafening, the air still and thick with death. Time feels slowed as Damian casually turns to glance behind him.

“Hmm.”

My throat works as I follow his gaze to the bloody puddle where Johnny was lying on the ground, which has turned into bloody footprints leading out the side door.

“I don’t envy you in your current position.”

I flinch, ripping my gaze back to Damian and taking in the slow, predatory smile curling his lips as he looks at me.

I stare at him, every nerve flickering with a mix of terror and defiance. He steps slowly and methodically over the men he’s just killed, as if admiring his own violence. His gaze sweeps over me with a dark satisfaction, taking in the mask, the ropes, the ruined state of my clothes. The dim light glints in his violet eyes, giving him an otherworldly look.

“So… The Kitsune is a woman.” His voice, low and smooth, slips through the darkness, each syllable laced with dark amusement. “You’ve been making quite the mess of things…Kitsune.” He circles me, the bloody knife in his hand.

I keep my gaze steady, refusing to let him see the panic clawing at the edges of my control. “I don’t know who you think you’ve found,” I say, forcing steel into my voice and hoping to God he doesn’t recognize me, “but I assure you, my business is none of your concern.”

A quiet laugh escapes him, as cold as the look in his eyes. “On the contrary,” he murmurs, stepping close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him, a stark contrast to his icy expression. “You’ve been meddling in my affairs. Stealing my clients.” His gaze sharpens and his tone dips, becomes more lethal. “And that,” he says softly, “is very much my concern.”

He moves closer, reaching out, his fingers grazing the edge of my leather mask along my cheek. It’s just the lightest touch, yet it sends a shiver down my spine, an icy jolt that freezes me in place.

If he takes the mask off, it all explodes in my face.

No one knows I’ve been doing this.

Kenzo’s been so focused on building the Mori-kai into a dominant empire and allying with the Nikolayev Bratva, not to mention expanding into Tokyo, that he hasn’t been paying attention to the state of our finances.

Nobody has, except me.

Expanding takes money. Building an empire takes even more. That’s the only reason I’ve been doing this. At the end of the day, Kenzo’s doing what he’s supposed to do: leading our family empire into a bigger, bolder future. And it’s my job to make sure everything runs smoothly as we grow.

That’s how I got into this side business in the first place: we needed the money, and I, frankly, know how to do this better than any of the competition. So for the last four months, I’ve been funneling dirty money through my family’s legitimate businesses, taking a cut of it, and paying out clean cash to psychos like Johnny.

If Damian unmasks me, they’ll all know what I’ve been doing. Not just conducting business with people we consider enemies. But they’ll know that our family’s cash flow problem came up under what’s supposed to be my watchful eye.

I can’t have that. I won’t. In fact, there’s almost nothing I wouldn’t do to make sure that does not happen.

Damian’s lips curl dangerously as he slips a finger under the edge of my mask, as if to lift it away.

“No.”

The word tumbles out before I can stop it, a quiet plea I hadn’t intended to voice.

Damian’s eyes shine with something dark, realization dawning slowly in them. His hand pauses, and instead of pulling the mask away he lets his fingers trace the line of my jaw, a deliberate, lingering touch that sends sparks dancing across my skin.

“I’m not sure you realize just how weak your negotiating position is, Kitsune,” he says, his voice dropping to a murmur, rich and mocking. He presses his thumb against my bottom lip, pulling it down slightly, exposing the sharp edge of my teeth. “Who’s behind the mask, hmm?” His gaze bores into me, amethyst eyes filling with interest as he watches my lips part, his thumb grazing back and forth across my bottom lip.

It happens without my brain even commanding it.

My tongue flicks over his thumb.

The contact is barely a breath, yet it fills the space between us with a charge so intense I can almost hear it, an electric hum of tension filtering through the silence.

I don’t know what possessed me. But in that space between us, something wild and thrilling and terrifying rushes through me like a hot pulse when I do it, turning my cheeks pink.

Damian lifts an eyebrow, his mouth twisting into a predatory, amused smile. “Oh my…” His voice is a low rumble, laced with condescension. “Was that your pathetic attempt at seduction, Kitsune?”

Heat rushes to my cheeks, my mind racing to explain what made me do it. I try to look away, but he holds my chin firmly, his thumb tracing the curve of my lower lip. There’s nowhere to hide from his scrutiny, or the slow, cruel smirk spreading across his face as he studies me.

Before I can find my voice he draws his hand away, keeping his fingers where they are for a heartbeat before releasing me entirely. He lifts the knife again, and I gasp when he touches the still-bloody tip of it against my neck. A throbbing knot forms in my core, my body humming with an energy I don’t quite understand as he drags the tip of the blade over my jugular.

“A pity,” he sighs, his tone tinged with mock sadness. “Such a pretty mouth. Such a work of art, all tied up like this.”

My heart thuds faster, desperation clawing to the surface. If I don’t give him a reason to keep me alive right now, he’ll kill me without hesitation.

I swallow hard, grasping for anything that might convince him to let me live. “Wait—” I whisper, the word edged with a fear I can’t suppress.

He cocks his head, pretending to think for a moment. “No.”

The word is blunt, almost dismissive, but I catch the faintest flicker of interest as his gaze lingers on the ropes, the mask, my exposed breasts, their nipples stiff. It’s a glimmer of something I might be able to use, if I’m willing to pay the price.

I take a shaky breath, my mind scrambling to find anything that will shift the balance of power even slightly. “If it’s the business you’re worried about, I’ll drop every client I’ve taken from you.”

He pauses. His gaze never leaves my face. There’s a cruelly curious glint in his eyes and I know he’s listening, if only to see how far I’ll go. “Is that right?” he murmurs, his tone deceptively casual. “And?”

I swallow nervously. “And?”

“To spare us both a drawn-out guessing game, Kitsune,” he murmurs darkly, his eyes dropping to my breasts again, “I’ll be blunt.” His gaze lifts to mine, piercing through the mask. “You fucked with my business.” His lips curl maliciously. “Perhaps I should fuck you.”

The words shock through my system, sucking the air from my lungs and turning my blood gelid as I stare at him.

“You can’t be serious.”

Damian’s head cocks to the side. “Oh, but I am,” he growls almost playfully.

Something cold shudders up my spine and my head shakes stiffly side to side.

“No.”

Not that. Not…that-that.

Not sex.

I swallow again as I stare up at him, my hands bound behind me and the cold of the concrete seeping into my kneecaps.

Damian is, objectively speaking, good-looking. Okay, that’s putting it mildly. He’s savagely attractive. Dangerously so. Like, in a serial killer way—as if his looks have been specifically designed to reel in the unaware and unprepared so he can devour them whole.

But I’m neither unaware nor unprepared. I may not know Damian well, but I’ve been around him and seen that look in his eyes; that thirst for violence and blood. I’ve seen it in my twin brother’s eyes our whole lives. Maybe that’s why I’m not scared of “dangerous” men: I’ve grown up with them.

My eyes drag down his chiseled, sharp jawline and the smug, dark smile on his face. His supernaturally purplish eyes and silver hair, thanks to a rare genetic condition. His height, broad shoulders, muscled arms and tattoo ink.

But no matter how striking he is…no. Not just because I can’t even begin to wrap my head around the horrifying concept of screwing someone to avoid being killed by them. But because…

I gulp.

Because the last few times I’ve even attempted to have sex after what happened that night, I went into full-blown panic attacks.

A shudder rips through me as I stare up at him.

“No?” His voice is heavy with pure amusement. “Such a pity, Kitsune,” he sighs, touching the tip of the knife to my chin, lifting my gaze to his with it. “I thought we’d be able to put our differences aside and have some fun…”

“Wait!” I whimper.

“Afraid not.”

“My mouth!”

The words escape my throat in a rush.

Damian stills as I feel my face throb with heat.

“You…you can use my mouth,” I mumble.

His brow arches.

“No…you know…”

“Fucking you?” he finishes for me.

My face turns even hotter as I nod stiffly. “Yeah. I mean, no. No…sex.”

“But you’re fine with me fucking your mouth,” he purrs.

I glare up at him.

“I didn’t say I was fine with it. I said you could.”

“Semantics,” he scoffs, cocking his head. His eyes slide over me. “Who is behind that mask, I wonder…”

My pulse jangles as he reaches for the edge of my mask again. Just before he touches my cheek, I jerk my face away.

“That’s not part of the deal.”

Damian chuckles darkly. “I’m holding a knife. Meanwhile you’re tied up with your tits out. I’m not sure you understand who’s in a position of power here, but, spoiler, it’s not you.”

I purse my lips. “The mask stays on. That’s the deal.”

He smiles darkly. “How kinky. And my cock goes between those pretty lips.”

I blush fiercely. “Yeah,” I mumble, my pulse thundering in my ears.

“And it obviously goes without saying, you’re done stealing my business,” he growls.

I nod. “It won’t happen again.”

“Oh, I know it won’t.”

He reaches out, letting his fingertip trace my jawline before his thumb runs over my bottom lip again.

His gaze floats over me with a predatory gleam that sends a shiver down my spine, the agreement hanging between us like a silent contract in the quiet of the warehouse. My heart pounds, each beat a reminder of how close I’m dancing with my own mortality here. But at the same time, I feel a dark, exhilarating rush.

Damian’s smile widens, his eyes flickering with satisfaction as his thumb pulls my bottom lip open.

“Very well, Kitsune,” he murmurs. “Let’s see if you’re as good with your mouth as you are at stealing from me.”