The Yakuza's flower

Waking nightmare

Content Warning:
This chapter contains scenes of physical violence, emotional abuse, and attempted SA. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Please prioritize your well-being and skip this chapter if needed.

Ume's POV

The elevator doors slid open.

I didn't move.

Not at first.

Then he grabbed one of my arms—gently, almost reverently—and pressed his other hand to the small of my back. His palm was hot, steady, possessive. Like he'd been dreaming of this moment and now that it was here, he wouldn't rush it.

He guided me forward, step by step, down a long carpeted hallway. The lights above were dim, the silence suffocating. Each step was slow, deliberate—like he was savoring the fear bleeding off me.

My pulse pounded in my ears.
This wasn't real.
It couldn't be real.

But the weight of his hand said otherwise. The way his fingers flexed—subtle, absentminded—like he couldn't help reminding himself I was real. I was here.

He stopped in front of a door. Slid a keycard through the lock with the ease of routine.
Beep.
Click.

He looked at me. I didn't move.

His hand slid higher up my spine, fingers pressing into the notches of my backbone.

"Inside," he said. His voice was low. Cold. Almost gentle.

I didn't move.

So he shoved me in.

I stumbled forward, caught myself on the edge of a glass coffee table. My heart slammed against my ribs. My lungs forgot how to breathe.

The door shut behind me with a soft, final sound. Like the sealing of a tomb.

The suite was enormous. Expensive. Lifeless. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the glittering city, but the light didn't reach inside. The air was too still. Too sharp. It felt like it had teeth.

Behind me, Mateo peeled off his jacket, tossing it onto the couch like he'd done it a thousand times before. Like this was his home. Like I was his.

His eyes dragged over me.

"You've changed," he murmured, eyes glinting. "More refined. A little tougher."
A pause. A slow smile.
"Mm... and thicker."

My skin crawled.

I didn't answer. I didn't blink.

But every muscle in my body was screaming.

His gaze dragged over me like a slow knife. Measuring. Possessing. Like he was cataloging every part of me he thought he still owned.

He stepped forward.

I backed away.

He smiled. "Still stubborn, though."

My fingers clenched against the cool glass. "Why are you doing this? Why are you here?"

He tilted his head, like he found the question amusing.

"Why?" Another step forward.

My back hit the wall.

"Because," he said, voice suddenly low, "you were a bad girl who ran away when I told you to stay put. You remember that night? That beautiful night..."

My stomach twisted. My chest clenched.

He was talking about the night he assaulted me.

"I don't belong to you," I said, my voice trembling. "I never did, and I never will."