Emperor of Lust: Chapter 18

In the empty hotel suite, I glare down at my phone, tapping my fingers on the table, growling.

I’m pissed the fuck off.

Not just because Hana’s not bending to my wishes. Not just because I want her here so I can fuck her until she’s begging for my cock and coming all over it—though of course I do.

I dislike that she’s not with me. End of story.

Which is confusing.

This whole thing is supposed to be fun, a twisted game for me. She’s supposed to be a new plaything. Not someone I actually want to spend time with, unless my dick is in one of her holes.

Speaking of my dick…

I look down at my fully erect, rock-hard cock, which, it seems, shares my frustration. I could take care of this myself—pretend it’s her under me, above me, wherever I want her. Or… I have been to Tokyo before on business. I could call one of my old “acquaintances” to come over. Usually, that would be fine.

But as soon as the thought crosses my mind, it’s like I’ve stuck my dick in a freezer. I scowl as I glance down, watching my erection fade.

Fuck.

He doesn’t just need release. He seems to need release from her.

Hana.

Her lips. Her skin. Her back arching as she pushes back, her tight little cunt swallowing my cock as she moans for more.

My erection instantly surges back to full-mast.

Goddammit.

Get your mind off her. You’re the one in control.

Except—I’m not. She’s got the wheel, and I very much need to rectify that.

I tuck my dick away and head out the door, marching down to Takeshi’s room to drag Hana back here. The mere idea that she thinks she can dodge me like this makes my blood boil.

As I pass the elevators, though, I notice one of the doors is open.

I stop cold, my pulse spiking when I see her.

Hana is huddled on the floor in the back corner of the elevator, staring into space with her knees drawn up to her chest, an iPad lying beside her.

“Hana…” I growl quietly, moving closer. The moment I step inside her head jerks up, eyes wide and frantic.

“Don’t touch me!” she screams, her voice choked. She thrashes as if she’s somewhere else entirely, lost in a nightmare, an invisible phantom attacking her.

“Hana!” I bark, more firmly this time. I grab her arms, shaking her. “It’s me.”

Her breathing becomes less ragged. Her eyes search mine, flickering with recognition. She looks down at the iPad, all the color draining from her face before she glances back up at me.

“Damian…”

White-hot fury cascades through me as I hit the pause button and then rewind the fucking video back to the beginning.

I’m sitting alone on the couch in the living room area of the suite, cloaked in hatred and rage. Hana is back in the bedroom where I carried her from the elevator: no longer fighting phantoms, but wrapped tightly in a duvet with the shades down.

She never told me I could watch this filth. Then again, she never told me I couldn’t. So I did, because clearly this was what had her huddled and fighting ghosts in that elevator.

I’ve been angry before. I’ve felt rage, and hate, and fury.

But right now, the blackness inside me is at a whole new level.

I hit play once again, feeling my stomach drop and my blood turn to ice-cold razors. On the screen, a young Hana is screaming and thrashing as a smug motherfucker pins her on a bed. He’s binding her wrists to the bedposts, snickering in a way that makes me want to smash the fucking iPad as he paws at her breasts through her dress.

“Gonna finally get my dick wet!” he crows gleefully as Hana sobs and cries, begging for him to stop.

Off camera, two other boys join in, encouraging the little fuck. Hana screams again, over and over, before a t-shirt gets tossed to the asshole on screen. He laughs as he catches it and stuffs it into Hana’s mouth.

“You bitches better be ready to pay up after this!” he yells, securing Hana’s ankles to the bed posts as he moves behind her.

“Bro, this is so cheating!” one of the fucks off camera laughs.

The shithead assaulting her snickers. “Just playing to win, bro!”

I’ve already watched the next part with pure hatred in my veins—where the motherfucker gets behind her, shoving her dress up and trying to stick his dick into her. Except from his frustrated expression, and the way he’s jerking his dick, and the jeers from his buddies, it’s clear he’s having…issues.

The little piece of shit can’t get it up.

Hana’s still screaming and crying as he tries again. Finally, he backs away with a sneer on his face, tucking a shrimpy little dick back into his pants before he kicks the side of the bed.

“Guess my dick is racist,” he spits, which makes his buddies crack up.

There’s one more shot of her terrorized, broken face before the video goes dark. Then it switches to some pathetic all-American glamor shot of the motherfucker who was just trying to rape her, with a banner saying “Harvard” behind him.

Then it cuts to a black screen with the message: “I know what you did, Hana. And you’re going to pay for it.”

When I’m done watching again, the violent, thundering urge to hunt and destroy is overtaking every logical thought in my mind. This isn’t anger. It’s colder, sharper—rage so intense it sears.

I shut the iPad off, breathing deep.

“I was eighteen.”

Her voice is barely audible, and I turn to see her standing there, wrapped in the duvet, her face pale but filled with quiet strength.

“His name was Josh Donahue. He was my boyfriend back when I was still at school in England. He was American, and his family was rich, powerful, and influential—his dad was a US senator and his mom was a fucking judge, for God’s sake.”

My jaw grinds.

“I…” She looks away, her throat bobbing. “We went out for a little while. But he was pushing for us to sleep together. I hadn’t done that yet, but he was…insistent.” Her face is blank as she nods her chin at the screen. “That night, we’d gone to a party. He kept trying to get me to drink, but I refused. Eventually he got me into that room and got pushy. I said no and then…”

She looks away again. Her voice is flat, her gaze distant.

“I didn’t really know what was happening until he had one of my wrists tied. I thought it was a shitty joke until his two fucking friends jumped into the room, and I realized what it really was.” Hana’s mouth twists. “I wasn’t his girlfriend. I was a bet. They’d bet to see if he could fuck me before graduation.”

The rage inside of me increases to liquid fire. I can feel my hands clench as if around Josh’s fucking windpipe, ready to crush it.

“For whatever reason—maybe he was drunk, or it was the audience—he couldn’t get it up,” Hana says tightly. “He tried, but he couldn’t even…you know. Get it to go in. So he left me there, tied up, and they went to get more drinks.”

Every muscle in my body tenses with the burning need to rip someone apart.

“And then?” I growl quietly, my voice barely controlled.

She shakes her head. “It’s done, Damian. Leave it.”

I stand and take a step toward her. “No. I want to know if that little prick got any taste of justice.”

She hesitates, her jaw working. “He’s dead,” she finally says. “He died.”

I catch the shadow that flickers over her face. “The video,” I say quietly. “It says they know what you did.”

She swallows, looking away. “I didn’t do anything.”

And then it clicks.

“Takeshi,” I growl.

Her head snaps toward me, eyes widening slightly before they dart away again.

“Your brother did something,” I say quietly.

She nods, shoulders slumping slightly as the truth finally tumbles out.

“He was at home after I got loose and managed to drive myself back. I tried to hide it, but…” She grimaces. “It was pretty obvious. I’ve never been able to hide much of anything from him.” She shrugs, a wry smile on her face. “Twin shit, right?”

“What happened,” I murmur.

“I begged him not to,” she says, her voice cracking. “I was afraid he’d throw his life away trying to ‘avenge me’ or whatever. But he left, and when he came back, it was…done.”

My voice is low, dangerous. “How?”

Her face hardens, anger flashing in her eyes. “He made it look like Josh drunk-drove his Porsche off a cliff,” she murmurs coldly. “The whole school mourned our favorite golden boy shithead…and then life went on.”

I glance at the iPad, rage still pulsing in my veins. “Who else knew what happened?” I ask.

“N-no one,” she says quietly, but there’s a note of uncertainty there, and we both look at the iPad, a silent threat hanging in the air between us.

“That’s why I don’t like being pinned down or tied,” she finally says. “I mean, I don’t even like cramped spaces where I feel immobilized. After that night… I just couldn’t.”

I look up at her, hating that her mind is drifting somewhere I can’t follow.

Her eyes shift to mine, and she shrugs. “When you do it, though, it’s…fine.”

“Fine?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

A hint of a blush rises to her cheeks. “I like it,” she blurts. “When it’s you… I don’t go back to that place. It’s like it actually sets me free from it.”

Her raw, vulnerable expression tugs at something deep inside me that I’m not sure I want to acknowledge.

“When I didn’t want to sleep in a bed with you…” She trails off, glancing down. “It’s just that… I never have. I’ve never shared a bed with anyone. Not since that night.”

The exhaustion on her face is palpable as she tries to hide a yawn.

“You should get some sleep,” I murmur.

She nods, glancing back toward the bedroom, then hesitating.

“I’ll sleep out here,” I add quietly.

Her mouth curls slightly at the corners. Relief flickers over her face as she looks at me with faint gratitude in her eyes as she wraps the duvet around herself like a shield.

“Thank you,” she whispers, looking down. “For listening to what I just told you…and not looking at me now like I’m broken or disgusting.”

I just nod, watching as she retreats into the bedroom, leaving the door open a crack. My thoughts are still filled with black rage and a possessive sort of fury.

Josh might be dead. But there were two other fuckers in that room that night—who not only did nothing, but laughed as she screamed.

She didn’t mention them being dead…

When I finally pull myself from my blood-soaked fantasies involving a flaying knife, it’s been half an hour. I stand and walk to the bedroom door, peeking in to make sure she’s okay.

Hana is sleeping soundly, wrapped in her duvet. Her sleeping face is unburdened. There’s no sign of nightmares playing under her eyelids.

Still, I watch her for another half an hour: watch her sleep, and dream.

And for once, the silence is enough.