Chapter 1: Drunk Princess in Pink
The key clattered in the lock, a harsh sound in the silent, expensive hallway. Sukuna shoved the penthouse door open, the weight of the city night clinging to his shoulders like a cheap coat. He kicked his shoes off, not caring where they landed. The stench of some overpowering, cloying perfume rose from his collar, mingling with the faint bite of sweat and bar smoke. Another nameless face, another empty release that left nothing but a metallic taste of boredom in his mouth.
He moved through the dark living room toward the sanctuary of his bedroom, already mentally stripping off the clothes that smelled of someone else.
He froze in the doorway.
The last ember of a jasmine candle pulsed on the nightstand, throwing frantic, dying light across the mess. The sleek black sheets were a tangled sea. And in the center of it, a pale island.
Megumi.
She was sprawled across his king-sized bed like a fallen angel, one arm flung above her head, the other resting on her stomach. The sheer pink chiffon of her dress was rucked up high on her thighs, revealing the soft, glistening skin beneath. It was cheap lingerie-store chiffon, nothing like the expensive silk he bought her. Her long black hair fanned out across his pillow, and her lips, slightly parted, were still stained with the berry gloss she favored.
A low growl started deep in Sukuna’s chest, vibrating the silence.
She was drunk. He could see it in the utterly relaxed slackness of her limbs, in the slow, deep rise and fall of her chest. An empty highball glass lay on its side on the floor next to a discarded garter belt—black, not hers. A relic of his earlier, pathetic attempt to feel something.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word a rough scrape in the quiet.
He approached the bed, the polished mahogany floor cool under his feet. The scent in here wasn’t just jasmine anymore. It was her sweet, vanilla-laced skin, and the sharp, clean vodka on her breath. His little sister. In his bed. Waiting.
A possessive heat, immediate and all-consuming, swept through him, burning away the last remnants of the night’s indifference. That whore earlier was just a way to pass the time. This. This was what he’d been coming home to without even knowing it.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, the leather of his pants creaking. He didn’t touch her yet. Just looked. Her eyelashes were dark fans against her cheeks. So trusting. So fucking his.
“Megumi.” His voice wasn’t gentle.
Her eyelids fluttered. Soft, hazy blue peered up at him, unfocused and dreamy. A slow, drowsy smile touched her lips. “Nii-san… You’re home.”
“What are you doing in here, baby?” He reached out, his thumb brushing over her lower lip, smearing the gloss. His touch wasn’t soft. It was claiming. “You’re a mess. You smell like a distillery.”
“M’not a baby,” she murmured, but she nuzzled into his rough hand, turning her face to press a sleepy, open-mouthed kiss to his palm. The gesture was so instinctively submissive it made his blood roar. “Waited for you. Got scared alone.”
“Scared.” He snorted, his other hand coming down to her thigh, his big palm spanning the soft skin. He squeezed, not enough to hurt, but enough to make her breath hitch. “You drink half my bar because you’re scared? Stupid girl. Anyone could have walked in here. Anyone could have found you like this.”
He was leaning over her now, blocking the faint candlelight, casting her in his shadow. His wild red hair fell around his sharp face, his crimson eyes gleaming in the dark. He could see the pulse fluttering in her slender throat.
“But it was you,” she whispered, her words slurring with sleep and alcohol. Her small hand came up, patting the air clumsily until it found the front of his shirt, fisting in the fabric. “Knew it’d be you.”
That undid him. That absolute, worshipful certainty.
With a sound that was more animal than man, he closed the distance, his mouth crushing down on hers. It wasn’t a kiss of tenderness; it was a brand. A reclaiming. He licked the taste of vodka and Megumi from her lips, his tongue delving deep, and she made a tiny, choked sound of welcome, her body arching up into his.
He broke the kiss, breathing harshly. “You’re wearing that trash I bought for her, aren’t you? That cheap shit.” His hands were at the straps of her dress, yanking them down her shoulders. The flimsy material gave way easily, baring her to the waist. “You shouldn’t be in her things. You’re not like her. You’re not like any of them.”
“Nii-san,” she whined, a thread of confusion in her drowsy tone. Her eyes were half-closed, seeing only him.
“Quiet.” He leaned down, nuzzling into the curve of her neck, inhaling her true scent beneath the alcohol. His teeth grazed her pulse point. “You don’t get to talk. You just get to take it. You came here for this, didn’t you? To be my good girl.”
She nodded, a frantic little movement, her hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders. He made quick, rough work of the rest of their clothes, his own joining the discarded garter belt on the floor. The feel of her bare skin against his—so infinitely soft, so completely yielding—unleashed something feral in him.
He didn’t prepare her. He knew her body, knew the slick heat he found with his fingers, knew the little drunken gasp she gave when he pushed inside in one relentless, claiming stroke. She was tight, so impossibly tight around him, and so wet. She cried out, a broken sound that he swallowed with another kiss.
“Mine,” he snarled against her mouth, his hips setting a brutal, driving rhythm. The bedframe slammed against the wall with every thrust. “All mine. This is where you belong. Not in your little girl room. Here. In my bed. Filled with me.”
She couldn’t answer. Her world had narrowed to the crushing weight of him, the heat, the overwhelming sensation. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, but she wasn’t sad. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her legs around his waist, clinging with a strength that belied her delicate frame. She was everywhere, her scent, her sounds, her surrender.
His hand found hers where it gripped his shoulder. He pried it loose, lacing their fingers together, pressing their joined hands into the mattress above her head. He always let her hold his hand. It was the one concession, the one thread of tenderness in the violent tapestry of his possession.
He buried his face in her hair, his pace becoming erratic, desperate. The insults fell away, replaced by guttural, truthful sounds. “Megumi. My Megumi. Gonna keep you here. Gonna put a baby in you so you never forget who owns this sweet cunt.”
The climax tore through him violently, a white-hot wave of possession that had him driving into her one last, deep time, spilling himself inside with a ragged shout. He held himself there, pulsing, claiming, as she trembled beneath him, her own quiet climax a soft, shuddering aftershock.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. The candle ember died, plunging them into complete, humid darkness.
Slowly, carefully, he collapsed beside her, pulling her limp, pliant body into his chest. He kissed her damp temple, her closed eyelids, nuzzling the top of her head. His big hand splayed possessively over her stomach.
She was already slipping back into unconsciousness, her breathing deepening. As sleep took her, she mumbled something incoherent, her hand tightening weakly around his fingers where he still held them.
He stared into the dark, feeling a terrifying, perfect calm. The emptiness was gone. For now, it was full. She was here.
“Sleep, princess,” he whispered, his voice raw. “I’ve got you.”
And outside the penthouse, the city lights glittered, cold and indifferent, unaware of the fragile, doomed universe contained within the walls of that sleek, black bedroom.