Chapter 4: The First Claim
The world came back in fragments.
The smell of sex and leather. The cool stickiness on her inner thighs. The heavy, solid weight of him collapsed half on top of her, his breath hot and ragged against her neck. Megumi’s heart was a frantic bird trapped in the cage of her ribs. Her skin felt hypersensitive, every point of contact with his body—the coarse hair of his legs against hers, the damp heat of his chest plastered to her side—sending aftershocks through her nervous system.
Sukuna shifted first. He pushed himself up on one elbow, looking down at her. His face was unreadable in the low light, just sharp planes and shadows. He reached out with his clean hand, the one that hadn’t been inside her, and brushed a strand of sweat-damp hair from her forehead. His touch was surprisingly gentle.
“Alright?” His voice was shot, shredded.
She managed a nod. Her throat felt raw. From crying. From screaming.
He studied her for another second, then his expression tightened. He sat up fully, turning away from her to grab his discarded jeans from the floor. The movement was stiff. He shoved his legs into them, not bothering with the button, and stood. The sight of his back, the intricate tattoos shifting over muscle, felt suddenly like a dismissal.
A cold knot formed in her stomach. “Kuna-nii?”
He didn’t answer. He walked, barefoot, to the wall of windows. The city’s neon glow painted him in washes of sickly green and electric blue. He braced his hands on the glass, head bowed, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep, controlled breath.
The silence stretched, thin and sharp. Megumi pushed herself up, wincing at the dull ache between her legs. She pulled her rumpled shirt down, covering herself, feeling suddenly small and stupid on the vast, stained leather. The high, the desperate connection, was evaporating, leaving behind a shaky vulnerability. Had she misunderstood? Had it just been the adrenaline, the violence, a fuck to cap off the night’s chaos?
“You’re bleeding.”
She blinked. His voice, flat, came from the window.
“What?”
“My hand.” He didn’t turn. “On the couch. Left a mark.”
She looked down. On the dark leather, near her hip, was a smudged, rusty-brown print from his injured knuckles. She touched it. It was cool, already drying.
“It’s okay,” she whispered.
“It’s not.” He finally turned. His face was grim. “Nothing about this is fuckin’ okay, Megumi.”
The words landed like a physical blow. She flinched, pulling her knees to her chest. “You… you didn’t want—”
“Don’t be stupid,” he cut her off, his voice a low snarl. He ran a hand through his hair. “Wanting’s got nothing to do with it. I wanted to kill that piece of shit in the bar. I did it. I wanted you. I had you.” He gestured vaguely at the couch, at her. “See how that works for me? I take what I want. That’s the problem.”
She hugged her knees tighter, the ache inside her worsening. “So I’m a problem now.”
For a long moment, he just stared at her. Then he let out a short, harsh breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “You’ve always been the problem. The only one that matters.” He pushed off the window and walked back toward her, stopping by the arm of the couch. He looked down at her, his crimson eyes scanning her face, her disheveled hair, the place where his teeth had marked her collarbone. “You think this changes anything? Out there?” He jerked his head toward the window. “I’m still what I am. People are still gonna come at me. Tonight proved that. They’ll come at anything they think is mine.”
“I’m not afraid,” she said, her voice small but clear.
“You should be.” He leaned down, placing his hands on the back of the couch, caging her in. “You think what happened in that bar was bad? That was some drunk idiot. The people I work with, the people I’ve pissed off… they don’t just grab tits in a hallway, princess. They make points. And you just painted the biggest fucking target on your back imaginable. By being here. By being…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
The fear was back, ice water in her veins. But underneath it, a spark of defiance ignited. The same one that had made her whisper take what’s yours.
“So what?” she challenged, lifting her chin. “You’re just gonna send me away? After… after everything?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. He looked like he wanted to hit something. Instead, he brought his injured hand up, staring at the crusted wounds. “I should.”
“You won’t.”
His eyes snapped back to hers, sharp and dangerous. “You sure about that?”
She was. Terrified, but sure. She knew him. The possessiveness that had just carved itself into her skin wasn’t something he could switch off. It was his primary operating system. “You said I was yours. You made me say it.”
He was silent, his gaze burning into her. The tension in the room was a live wire.
Finally, he straightened up. “Get up. You need a shower. A real one.”
The shift was abrupt. She didn’t move. “Sukuna—”
“Now,” he said, the command absolute. He reached down, his hand not asking, and wrapped his fingers around her upper arm. He pulled her to her feet. She stumbled against him, the solid wall of his chest. He held her there for a second, his grip firm. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. “We’re not done talking. But you’re shaking, and you’ve got my blood and my come all over you. So we’re dealing with that first.”
He steered her towards the hallway bathroom, not the master suite. It was clinical, all black tile and chrome. He pushed the door open, reached in to turn on the shower. Steam began to billow.
“Get in.”
She hesitated on the threshold, looking back at him. He looked wrecked. Exhausted. More human than she’d ever seen him. “What about you?”
“I’ll clean up after.” He reached out, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. “Go on. Water’s hot.”
She stepped inside. As she went to close the door, he stopped it with his foot.
“Leave it open,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, watching her. A guardian. A warden. His gaze was a physical weight as she peeled off her sticky clothes, as she stepped under the scalding spray.
She washed mechanically, the water turning pink where it ran over her thighs. She could feel him watching, his presence a constant in the steam-filled room. It should have felt invasive. It didn’t. It felt like an anchor. When she finally turned off the water, he was there, holding out a large, black towel. She took it, wrapping it around herself.
He didn’t move from the doorway. “You stay in the penthouse. You don’t go anywhere alone. You don’t answer the door for anyone but me. You look at the peephole every time. You keep your phone on you. Always.”
She nodded, clutching the towel.
“This…” He gestured between them, a frustrated, rough motion. “This is in here. Only in here. You understand? Outside these walls, you’re my sister. Nothing more. You act like it.”
The rule was another wall, another layer of complication. But it was also a way forward. A path to keep him. She nodded again.
He seemed to slump, just slightly, the rigid control wavering. He looked down at his battered hands. “I gotta get this shit cleaned out.”
“Let me.” The words were out before she thought.
He looked up, suspicion in his eyes. “You don’t gotta—”
“I want to.” She stepped closer, the damp towel clinging to her. “Please.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then gave a single, curt nod. He turned and walked toward the kitchen. She followed, padding barefoot on the cold floor.
He sat on a stool at the marble island, pulling a first aid kit from under the sink. He tossed it on the counter. It looked well-used. She opened it, finding antiseptic, gauze, medical tape.
His hand was worse up close. The splits were deep, the skin around them an angry purple. Gently, she took his wrist and guided it over to the sink. He let her. She turned on the cool water, letting it run over his knuckles. He didn’t flinch. She took a clean cloth, soaked it in antiseptic. The chemical smell cut through the lingering scent of sex.
“This’ll sting,” she murmured.
“Do it.”
She pressed the cloth to the deepest cut. His whole hand tensed, a sharp hiss escaping his teeth, but he didn’t pull away. She worked carefully, cleaning away the dried blood, the grit. The silence between them was different now—charged, but softer. A delicate, newfound intimacy built on violence and violation.
As she taped a piece of gauze over his knuckles, he spoke, his voice low.
“I meant what I said. He won’t ever come near you again.” A pause. His other hand came up, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of the towel where it tucked between her breasts. “But if you’re gonna be mine… really mine… you gotta be smart. You gotta be harder than you are. This world eats fragile things for breakfast, Megumi.”
She finished taping the gauze, but didn’t let go of his hand. She held it between both of hers, looking at the stark white bandage against his tattooed skin. “Teach me,” she said, barely above a whisper.
He went very still. Then, he turned his hand over, lacing his fingers roughly with hers. His grip was tight, almost painful. A promise. A threat.
“Starting tomorrow,” he said, his thumb stroking the inside of her wrist. “Starting tomorrow, princess, I will.”