Chapter 1: Breakfast in His Lap
The air in the penthouse kitchen smelled of sugar and expensive tobacco. Soft jazz wove through the silence, a thread of saxophone under the hum of the sub-zero fridge. Megumi’s bare feet didn’t quite touch the polished concrete floor as she sat perched on Sukuna’s lap, the cool marble of the kitchen island a sharp line in her peripheral vision.
She was naked beneath the robe, a slip of crimson silk so sheer it was just a heated whisper against her skin. His body was a solid wall of heat behind her, one heavy arm looped around her waist, his hand splayed possessively across her lower belly.
“Open.”
His voice was a low vibration against her ear. She obeyed instantly, lips parting. He brought a fat, perfect strawberry to her mouth, its tip glistening where he’d dipped it in dark chocolate. She took it, the sweet burst and bitter edge mingling on her tongue. A droplet of juice escaped the corner of her lips.
His thumb, rough and warm, caught it. He smoothed it over her bottom lip, his gaze fixed on the motion. “Messy,” he murmured, but it wasn’t a reprimand. It was a compliment. He liked her messy. He liked her dependent.
“Sorry,” she breathed, her voice barely audible. She leaned back, letting her head rest against his shoulder, her body molding itself to the hard planes of his chest. Her small breasts, barely a curve against the silk, pressed against his forearm. The sensation—the friction of the fabric, the solidness of him beneath it—sent a warm, familiar throb through her. She shifted, a tiny, seeking movement.
He chuckled, a deep sound that rumbled through her. His free hand, which had been resting on the island, came up to grip her thigh. His fingers spanned almost the entire width of it, squeezing gently, then not so gently. A claim. “My good wife,” he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “All mine. Every last, precious piece.”
A shiver that had nothing to do with cold raced down her spine. Her eyes fluttered closed. His words sank in, warm and heavy, filling the hollow places. His. It was the only thing that made the world make sense anymore. The before-time was a blur of noise and confusing faces. This—his lap, his hands, his approval—was clarity.
“You made these for me?” she asked, looking at the plate of strawberries. He’d done that. For her.
“Who else?” he said. He lit a cigarette with his free hand, the initial flare of the match highlighting the sharp angles of his face. He took a long drag, then let the smoke curl out away from her. “My little bunny only gets the best.”
The pet name made her heart squeeze. She nuzzled her cheek against the worn cotton of his shirt. She could smell him—clean linen, smoke, and something deeper, uniquely him. It was the scent of safety. Of ownership.
“Thank you,” she whispered. She turned her face, pressing her lips to his jaw in a shy kiss. She felt him smile.
“Cute.” His hand on her thigh slid higher, pushing the silk robe aside. His palm was hot on her bare skin. “You thank me so prettily.”
His touch was everywhere, dominating her senses. The jazz swam in her head. The marble was cold and hard somewhere far away. Only here was real. Only his weight, his heat, the gradual, deliberate journey of his hand. She made a small sound, a soft moan caught in her throat, and pressed herself more firmly into his touch, into the rough cradle of his hand.
He laughed again, a quiet, satisfied sound. “Eager today.” He fed her another strawberry. This time, she made sure to catch it cleanly, her eyes wide and fixed on his as she chewed, wanting to please him. He watched her throat work as she swallowed.
“Good girl,” he said. The praise lit her up from the inside. She preened, stretching against him like a cat, offering her neck. He bent his head, not kissing, just breathing her in, his nose tracing the line from her ear to her collar. His cigarette sat smoldering in the ashtray, forgotten.
The intercom from the penthouse foyer buzzed, a harsh, digital bleat that shattered the intimate cocoon.
Sukuna didn’t move. His hand stilled on her thigh. His face, which had been relaxed, smoothed into an impassive mask. Megumi went rigid, a spike of irrational fear shooting through her. An intruder. Someone to take this away.
“Ignore it,” she pleaded softly, her fingers clutching at his sleeve.
He didn’t answer. The buzzer sounded again, insistent. He sighed, a whisper of exasperation that wasn’t for her. Slowly, he withdrew his hand from her robe, pulling the silk closed over her legs. The loss of contact felt like a blanket being ripped away.
“Duty calls, little one,” he said, his voice different now. Cooler. The voice he used with the world. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing, setting her on her feet on the cold floor. She swayed, unsteady, suddenly conscious of her nakedness beneath the flimsy silk, of the sticky sweetness on her lips.
He stood, towering over her, and adjusted the cuff of his shirt. He glanced down at her, and seeing her lost expression, his eyes softened for a fraction of a second. He hooked a finger under her chin, tilting her face up. “Go wait in the bedroom. I’ll be there soon.”
It wasn’t a request. She nodded, her dark hair slipping over her shoulders. She turned, padding silently out of the kitchen, the robe floating around her. She paused at the doorway, looking back.
He was already at the intercom, his broad back to her. “Yes.” His tone was flat, authoritative.
A staticky male voice filtered through. “Package for you, sir. Requires a signature.”
“Leave it with the concierge.”
“Sender specified hand-delivery, sir. It’s… personal.”
Sukuna was silent for a long moment. Megumi held her breath, clinging to the doorframe. “Five minutes,” he finally said. He disconnected and turned. His eyes found her in the shadowy hallway. “Go.”
She went.
In the vast, dim bedroom, she climbed onto the enormous bed, curling into the pillows that smelled like him. The emptiness was loud. She focused on the lingering feeling of his hands, the taste of chocolate and strawberry, the sound of his praise. My good wife. She repeated it in her head, a mantra to quiet the vague unease.
Down the hall, she heard the solid thud of the front door closing. He was back. Her body tensed, waiting for the sound of his footsteps coming to her.
They didn’t come.
Instead, after a minute, she heard a low, sharp curse from the direction of his study. A sound she’d rarely heard—one of genuine, cold anger.
Then, silence.
Megumi sat up, the silk pooling around her waist. The warm, hazy glow from the kitchen was gone, evaporated. Something was wrong. The package. The voice. A sliver of her old self, a girl who knew fear from a month ago, prickled at the base of her skull.
She slid off the bed, her feet soundless on the plush rug. She crept to the bedroom door, easing it open just a crack. The hallway was dark. A slant of light spilled from the slightly ajar door of his study.
She shouldn’t. He’d told her to wait.
But he was upset. And she was his wife. Wasn’t it her role to… to what? To soothe? To help?
Driven by a need deeper than fear, she drifted down the hall. She peeked through the gap in the door.
Sukuna stood by his sleek steel desk, his back to her. In his hand was not a package, but a single, glossy photograph. He was utterly still, but the energy radiating from him was violent, a contained storm. The ambient light from a single desk lamp glinted off something else on the desk—a small, neat stack of more photographs.
As she watched, his shoulders tightened. He crushed the photo in his fist, the sound crisp and final in the quiet room.
“Disappointing,” he said to the empty air, his voice a blade of quiet steel.
He didn’t say another word. But Megumi, frozen in the darkness of the hall, understood. The disappointment wasn’t in the room with him. It was out there, somewhere in the city. And Sukuna did not tolerate disappointment.
A cold different from the marble floor seeped into her bones. She backed away, returning to the bedroom on trembling legs. She climbed back onto the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin, trying to find the warmth from before. The taste of strawberries was now cloying, sickly sweet.
She waited, listening for his footsteps, wondering who had sent the pictures, and what price they had just unknowingly agreed to pay.