Chapter 16: Blood on the leaves
The scent of her blood was still under his nails.
Sasuke stood at the arched window of his guest quarters, high in the Stone-administered tower that housed the summit delegates. Below, the meticulously raked gravel gardens of the Earth Daimyo’s estate glittered under a hard, full moon. He flexed his hand, the memory of the Hyūga chamber’s oppressive darkness clinging to him like a second skin. Hinata’s choked gasp, the painful tightness of her body, the way her unactivated Byakugan eyes had stared past his shoulder at the obsidian ceiling—all of it was a transaction now, sealed and delivered. He felt no pride, only a cold, hollow completion. The alliance was consummated. His duty, in that specific, brutal sense, was done.
A knock at the door, sharp and official, severed his thoughts. He didn’t turn. “Enter.”
The door slid open to reveal a young Stone shinobi, his posture rigid. “Uchiha-sama. The preliminary dinner commences in one hour. The Raikage requests your presence for a private discussion beforehand in the Jade-Annex chamber.”
“Understood.”
The door closed. Sasuke finally looked down at his hand. He’d scrubbed it raw that morning, but the phantom sensation remained. He dressed methodically: dark, high-collared robes devoid of clan insignia, his sword secured at his back. The weapon felt lighter than the weight in his gut.
The Jade-Annex was a small, circular room walled with translucent stone, lit from within so it glowed softly. The Raikage, a mountain of simmering power, stood with his massive arms crossed, blocking the light from one entire panel.
“Uchiha,” he grunted, dispensing with formalities. “Your little wedding tour has the diplomatic circles buzzing. The Hyūga elders are preening. The Leaf’s stability seems assured.” He turned, his gaze piercing. “For now.”
“Your point?” Sasuke asked, his voice flat.
“My point is that stability is a careful fiction.” The Raikage stepped closer, his voice dropping. “The Hyūga have their prize. But you have eyes. You saw the discontent in the minor clans during the last council. This summit isn’t about peace; it’s about realigning the pieces on the board before the next war. And you…” He gestured at Sasuke’s face. “The last Uchiha, wedded to the Byakugan. You’re a symbol they all want to claim, or break.”
“I am not a symbol.”
“You are whatever the most powerful person in the room needs you to be,” the Raikage countered. “Tonight, you will be the dutiful, satisfied ally. You will sit beside your Hyūga wife, and you will present a united front. The Kazekage is bringing his sister. The Tsuchikage is here with his two bodyguards, the ones they call the ‘Twins of Earth.’ Everyone is showing their assets. Do not give them a weakness to exploit.”
The unspoken threat hung in the air: Do not let them see your discontent.
The grand hall was a sea of murmured politics and clinking porcelain. Lanterns cast a warm, forgiving light over the long tables arranged in a wide semicircle. Sasuke found his assigned seat, a place of honor near the head of the Leaf contingent. Hinata was already there, dressed in formal, layered silks of lavender and white, the Hyūga crest discreetly embroidered at her collar. She looked ethereal, and utterly detached. She did not look at him as he sat beside her, but he felt her body go taut, a minuscule stiffening of her spine.
“Uchiha-sama,” she whispered, the title a brittle formality.
“Hyūga-sama,” he returned, just as quietly.
Across the aisle, Sakura was deep in conversation with Shikamaru, her laughter a bright, familiar sound that cut through the drone of the hall. It struck Sasuke like a kunai to the ribs. Her eyes met his for a fleeting second—a flash of green, a turmoil of emotion he could still read as easily as a scroll—before she pointedly looked away, her smile not fading but becoming fixed. She had seen him sit next to his wife.
The dinner was an exquisite torture. Courses came and went—delicate fish, steamed mountain vegetables, rich meats glazed with sweet sauces. Sasuke tasted nothing. He participated in the necessary conversations, his answers concise, his demeanor coldly polite. He was aware of Hinata beside him, picking at her food, speaking only when spoken to. He was aware of Sakura’s forced gaiety. He was aware of the evaluative stares from the other villages.
The Raikage’s words proved prophetic. As the servants cleared the dessert plates, the Kazekage, Gaara, stood. His calm voice commanded the room’s attention.
“The bonds between our villages are strengthened by such gatherings,” he began, his gaze sweeping the assembly. “But true strength is tested in understanding. A display of unique abilities can sometimes convey more than words.” He gestured, and a woman seated beside him rose. She was elegant, her demeanor confident, with eyes that held a desert-sun intensity. “My sister, Temari, will demonstrate a new application of her fan technique—a dance of wind, if you will.”
It was a challenge, beautifully veiled as culture.
One by one, other villages offered their own “displays.” A Mist kunoichi performed a water dance that formed intricate, razor-thin shapes. A Stone shinobi manipulated a section of the floor into a rising, living sculpture. The air grew thick with not-so-subtle competition.
Then the Tsuchikage, a wily old man with a sharp smile, chuckled. “The Leaf has always boasted of its legendary bloodlines. The Sharingan and the Byakugan, pillars of its might. We have seen the union of these lines seated before us. Perhaps the new Lady Uchiha would honor us? A glimpse of the Byakugan’s precision would be… educational.”
The request, directed at Hinata, was a trap. To refuse would be a sign of weakness or secrecy. To comply would be to perform like a trained animal. All eyes turned to their table.
Hinata’s breath hitched, almost imperceptibly. Sasuke saw her fingers clutch the fabric of her kimono under the table. Before she could formulate a response, Sasuke stood.
“The Byakugan is not a parlor trick,” he said, his voice cutting through the expectant silence. “It is a weapon of war, honed for combat. A ‘demonstration’ would be an insult to its purpose.” He let his own gaze, dark and threatening, sweep the room. “But if the Tsuchikage wishes for an educational glimpse of Leaf capabilities, he need only look to our victory records.”
A tense silence held for a moment, then the Raikage let out a loud, appreciative laugh. The moment broke, shifting into murmured conversations. Sasuke sat back down. He felt Hinata’s stare, wide and shocked, upon his profile.
The dinner eventually dissolved into informal mingling. Sasuke extricated himself, needing air. He found a secluded balcony overlooking the dark gardens. The cool night did nothing to quell the heat of anger and shame coiled in his chest.
He didn’t hear her approach, but he knew her presence. Sakura’s scent, of clean linen and medicinal herbs, enveloped him before her voice did.
“That was… surprisingly decent of you. Protecting her dignity.”
He didn’t turn. “It was protecting the Leaf’s dignity. Nothing more.”
“Is that all it is, Sasuke?” Her voice was soft, closer now. “I saw your face when you sat down. You look like you’re attending your own funeral.”
“What do you want, Sakura?”
“I want to know if you’re okay.” Her hand came to rest on the railing beside his, not touching him. “After everything… to be forced into that…”
He finally turned his head. The moonlight caught the tears glistening unshed in her eyes. The sight was a physical blow. All the cold control he had wielded all evening shattered.
“I am not okay,” he ground out, the raw truth tearing from him. He saw her breath catch, saw the compassion and love in her face he had spent years pushing away and yearning for in equal measure.
It happened too fast for reason. His hand came up, cupping the back of her neck, pulling her to him. Their mouths met not in a kiss, but in a collision of pent-up anguish and desperate need. It was salty from her tears, harsh and hungry. She whimpered into his mouth, her hands flying to his chest, not to push him away, but to clutch at his robes.
He backed her into the shadowed recess where the balcony met the tower wall, hidden from the hall’s light. The politics, the duty, the cold marriage bed—it all burned away in the furnace of this illicit touch.
“Sakura,” he growled against her lips, his hands sliding down to her waist, gripping hard.
“Someone could see,” she breathed, but she was arching into him, her body a line of heat against his.
“Fuck them.” His mouth trailed down her jaw, to her throat. He tasted the pulse hammering there. One hand moved from her waist, over the curve of her hip, grasping the back of her thigh to hike her leg around his waist. The feel of her, real and wanting and his in a way Hinata could never be, drove a spike of possessive fury through him.
He fumbled with the tie of her formal obi, the intricate knot yielding to his impatient fingers. The heavy fabric loosened. He pushed the layers of her kimono apart, his hand finding the warm skin of her stomach, sliding upward until his palm covered her breast through the thin barrier of her under-robe. She cried out, a sharp, swallowed sound, and her head fell back against the cold stone.
“You still want this,” he murmured, his thumb circling her nipple, feeling it peak instantly. “You still want me, after all I’ve done.”
“Yes,” she gasped, her own hands now dragging at his own clothes, pulling his robes open, her nails scraping down his bare chest. “God, yes, Sasuke, please—”
He spun her around, pressing her front against the wall. He shoved her kimono and under-robe up over her hips, exposing the swell of her ass, the bare skin of her thighs. The night air was cool on her heated flesh. He didn’t pause, didn’t tease. He undid his own trousers, freeing his erection, already fully hard and throbbing with a relentless, years-suppressed need.
He spat into his hand, slicking himself roughly. He heard her ragged breathing, saw her fingers splay against the stone. He positioned himself at her entrance.
“This is what you waited for,” he said, his voice a dark whisper in her ear. He pushed inside.
She was tight, wet with her own desire but not enough, and he had to force his way. She gasped, a sound of pain and overwhelming pleasure, her back arching. He buried himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke, his hips flush against her ass.
“Fuck,” he groaned, the sensation blinding. He held there for a second, engulfed by her heat, by the forbidden rightness of it. Then he began to move.
There was no tenderness, only a raw, driving rhythm. Each thrust slammed her into the wall, the impact jolting through them both. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh, holding her in place for his punishing pace. The sounds were obscene in the quiet night—the slap of skin on skin, their choked, mutual gasps, the low grind of his body against hers.
“Harder,” she begged, the words muffled against her arm. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare stop—”
He obeyed, his thrusts becoming more frantic, less controlled. He leaned over her, his chest against her back, his mouth on her shoulder, biting through the fabric. One hand left her hip and snaked around her front, delving between her legs to find her clit. He rubbed rough, fast circles there, matching the tempo of his deep, driving cock.
Her body tightened around him like a vice, her inner muscles fluttering wildly. She came with a shattered cry he had to stifle with his own mouth over hers, her whole body shuddering violently against him. The convulsing squeeze of her orgasm pulled his own release from him. He drove in one last, deep time, burying himself as deep as he could go, and spilled inside her with a guttural groan, his seed pumping hot into her depths.
For long moments, there was only the sound of their labored breathing, steaming in the cool air. He stayed inside her, spent, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades. The reality of what they had done—the profound betrayal, the political catastrophe it represented—began to seep back into the void left by his climax.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled out. She winced, and the sound felt like a dagger. He adjusted his clothes with clumsy hands. Sakura smoothed down her kimono, her movements shaky. She didn’t look at him.
When she finally turned, her face was pale, her lips swollen. The look in her eyes wasn’t regret, but a deep, devastating sorrow.
“This changes nothing,” Sasuke said, the words tasting like ash.
“I know,” she whispered. She reached out, her fingers brushing his cheek, a touch so fleeting it might have been imagined. Then she walked away, back into the glittering hall of alliances and lies, leaving him alone in the dark.
He stared at the moon, its cold light now feeling like an accusation. The Raikage’s warning echoed in his skull. He had just given the world the most dangerous weakness of all. And as he fastened his robes, he knew with a chilling certainty that it was a weakness he would kill to protect, damning himself and the fragile peace entirely.