Chapter 3: A New Routine
The soft click of his laptop closing was what woke her. That, and the absence of his heartbeat under her ear. Megumi stirred, disoriented, her cheek sliding against the soft cotton of his shirt. She was still curled in the hollow of his lap on the wide leather sofa, her legs tucked up. The room was bright now, midday sun cutting sharp lines across the dark floor.
“Back with me, sleepyhead?” His voice came from above, his hand still resting heavily on the crown of her hair.
She blinked up at him. He was looking down at her, his expression unreadable, the crimson of his eyes almost liquid in the light. “Nii-san?”
“You’ve been snoring for two hours.” He traced the shell of her ear with a blunt fingertip. “Like a kitten. Annoyingly cute.”
He hadn’t moved her. He’d just… let her sleep there, trapped in the circle of his arms, while he worked. The thought filled her with a warm, syrupy feeling that had nothing to do with the last dregs of her hangover.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, not sorry at all, and pressed her face back against his stomach. He smelled like clean skin and faint, expensive cologne.
“Don’t be pathetic.” His thumb brushed over her lower lip. “But we’ve got to move. I’ve got a video conference in twenty. You need to eat.”
In one fluid motion, he stood, taking her with him. He didn’t set her down; he just carried her, her legs dangling, into the kitchen as if she weighed nothing. The penthouse was a study in minimalism, all cold surfaces and sharp angles, but the kitchen was warm, sunlight pouring over a bowl of perfect strawberries on the island.
He deposited her onto the cold quartz countertop. “Sit.”
She sat, the hem of his borrowed shirt—his shirt, he’d said she wasn’t allowed anything else—riding high on her thighs. She watched him move, his back muscles flexing under his thin sweater as he pulled eggs and butter from the fridge. He cooked with the same focused, effortless precision he did everything. The sizzle of butter filled the quiet. He didn’t ask what she wanted. He just made her an omelette, fluffy and golden, slid it onto a plate, and set it in front of her with a fork.
“Eat. All of it.”
She took a bite. It was perfect. She was starving. She ate obediently, feeling his eyes on her the entire time. He leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, just watching. His gaze felt like a physical touch, cataloguing every swallow.
When her fork scraped the final bite, his phone buzzed on the counter. He glanced at it, his mouth tightening. “Conference. Five minutes. In my office.” He pushed off the counter and came to her, crowding into the space between her knees. He took her chin, tilting her face up. “You. Stay where I can see you.”
“Where?”
“The living room. Read a book. Watch the wall. I don’t care.” He kissed her, hard and quick, a brand of ownership. “If I come out and you’re not on that couch, there will be consequences. Understood?”
She nodded, her lips tingling. “Understood.”
He smirked, gave her ass a light, stinging slap through the shirt as she hopped down, and disappeared down the hall.
The apartment felt vast and hollow without him. She padded back to the living room and curled into the corner of the sofa where his scent was strongest on the cushions. She could hear the low, indistinct rumble of his voice from behind the closed office door. It was stern, commanding, devoid of the dark warmth he reserved for her. It was the voice he used with the outside world.
A strange, prickling anxiety began to creep up her spine. This was new. This daytime aftermath. The clarity of the alcohol was gone, leaving only the raw reality. She was here. In his home. Wearing his clothes. Under his rule. The immensity of it pressed down on her. She pulled her knees to her chest, hiding in the folds of the soft black cotton.
The call lasted forty-seven minutes. She counted. When the office door finally opened, the sound of his bare feet on the floor was quiet, but she tensed immediately.
He walked into the living room, his expression still sharp from the meeting. He took one look at her—curled into a small, anxious ball—and the sharpness melted into something darker, more predatory. “What’s this?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me.” He was in front of her in two strides. He hooked a finger under her chin, forcing her gaze up. Her eyes were too wide, too blue. “Spit it out.”
Her lower lip trembled. “I just… What am I doing, Nii-san?”
He stared at her for a long moment. Then he laughed, a single, sharp exhale. “You’re existing. For me. That’s your only job.” He sat beside her, the leather sighing under his weight. “You got scared, didn’t you? Hearing me talk to other people. Remembering there’s a world out there.” He pulled her into his lap, rearranging her like a doll so her back was against his chest, his arms locked around her waist. “Forget it. That world has nothing for you. You need groceries? I order them. Clothes? I’ll buy them. You want to see the sun? That terrace is fifteen meters away. Everything you require is within these walls.”
His hand slid under the shirt, his palm warm and flat on her belly. “Your body is mine. Your time is mine. Your fear is mine. So if you’re going to be afraid, you be afraid of me. Not of anything else. Understood?”
The words should have chilled her. Instead, they wrapped around her like a blanket, smothering the vague anxiety. The boundaries were drawn. The cage was defined. It was a relief.
“Understood,” she whispered.
“Good.” He nuzzled her hair. “Now. We’re going out.”
She stiffened. “Out?”
“Don’t sound so horrified. I have to be seen. And you need proper clothes.” His voice turned teasing, cruel. “Can’t have you walking around in just my shirt forever. Tempting as that is. People might talk.”
An hour later, she was wearing a simple dress he’d pulled from the back of her old closet—pale blue, modest, something she’d owned for years. It felt foreign. He’d watched her put it on with a scrutinizing gaze, as if assessing a package.
The department store was a temple of marble and muted light, excessively quiet. Sukuna moved through it like a shark, his hand a firm pressure on the small of her back, guiding her. Sales associates flocked to him with hushed, eager greetings. He ignored them.
He didn’t ask for her opinion. He pointed at racks, at mannequins. “That. That. Not that one, it’s ugly. This color. Silk, not polyester, feel the difference, Megumi, learn.” His selections were all soft textures, elegant lines, but in a palette he dictated: creams, blacks, deep greens, the occasional splash of crimson. Nothing too bright, nothing childish. All of it expensive, the fabric whispering of money.
In the lingerie section, he was explicit. He held up a slip of black lace so sheer it was nearly invisible. “This. You’ll wear things like this. Under the clothes I pick. So I know what’s underneath. So when I take them off you, it’s a revelation just for me.”
Her face burned. The attendant pretended not to hear.
He bought everything without looking at the total. As they exited onto the bustling evening street, a cool wind kicked up, and she shivered. Immediately, he shrugged out of his tailored jacket and draped it over her shoulders. It swamped her, warm from his body, the scent of him enveloping her completely.
“Still cold?” he asked, his arm slipping around her to pull her into his side.
She shook her head, burrowing into the jacket. “No.”
He stopped walking, right there on the crowded sidewalk. He turned her to face him, his fingers under her chin. People flowed around them like water around a stone. His eyes scanned her face, then dropped to her neck, left bare by the dress. A possessive gleam lit his gaze.
“A mark,” he said, more to himself than to her. “Everyone should see.”
Before she could process his words, he bent and pressed his mouth to the tender spot where her neck met her shoulder. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a slow, deliberate suction, his teeth grazing the skin. She gasped, her hands flying up to clutch his arms. He held her there, in public, for a long, claiming minute. When he pulled away, his lips were slick. Her skin felt hot, throbbing.
He studied his work—the beginning of a deep, crimson bloom—with satisfaction. “There. Now you’re perfect.” He wiped his thumb over the damp, marked skin, then brought it to her lips, smearing the trace of his saliva there. “Let’s go home. I’m tired of sharing the air with you.”
As they walked the final blocks, his arm a steel bar across her back, she touched the fresh bruise with her fingertips. It stung. It was a flag. A branding. The jacket, the clothes in the bags his driver carried, the very air in his penthouse—they were all just extensions of this one, definitive mark.
She held his hand the whole way, her small fingers lost in his, and felt the last lingering threads of that other world, the one of separate rooms and polite distance, snap and drift away into the city’s indifferent night.