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phyx-m · 3 months ago

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Beneath The Silk | True form Sukuna x Reader

🔗 Masterlist

Chapter 23: Rotting Wound And A Hole In The Wall

Content warning: Angst, light cannibalism, slightly suggestive.

🔗 Songs for this chapter:

New Geometry - Ioanna Gika Take The World - She Wants Revenge

Chapter 22 | Chapter 24

Riding against a backdrop of swelling dark clouds, the browning landscape almost seems to brighten to golden by contrast. Twigs and grass crunch under your mare’s weight, the sound mingling with the breeze that drifts past, filling your lungs. You inhale. You need it—to steady yourself, to calm your nerves.

What did he say again?

You cling to things too tightly.

No, that wasn’t it.

Still, your grip tightens on the reins, irritation simmering as you realize the King of Curses perceives the ugly things that even you are unwilling to peel back and see what festers and rots.

Focus on your breath.

That was it.

From low in your stomach, you inhale the scent of the world outside, the shifting seasons, the darkness of the land unfolding around you. It feels good to have the wind on your face and in your hair—crisp and cool, almost calming.

A glimpse of freedom.

Until your eyes drift forward.

Since leaving the shrine, Sukuna has been riding ahead of you for hours, leaving you to stare at the back of his pink head. For the most part, you don’t particularly mind. This journey feels different than when you left with Uraume—there’s less fear of external threats, probably because he is here, but there’s a heavy, unspoken tension pulling between you two.

But then again, when isn’t there?

You are certain—more than certain—that he has no desire to be here, undertaking this journey north. Yet, it must be some twisted sense of duty or pride that drives him, convinced he must extract that damn name from you.

Eyes crawling away from his blush hair, they lower. At least with him in front, you can watch the way he moves on his mount—seamless, as though they are one and the same. Occasionally, one of his upper hands, draped lazily at his side, taps or curls in what appears to be a casual, purposeless motion.

You tilt your head, watching his fingertips move.

Maybe he’s bored.

Neither of you has spoken a word since departing this morning. For whatever reason, he’s still agitated, creating a long, drawn-out silence. But watching his dense, powerful back gives you something to do to pass the time. However, the longer you look, the more distracting it becomes. The muscles in his upper body roll with each stride, his shoulder blades shifting beneath the fabric of his clothing in a rhythm that mirrors the horse’s gallop.

Back and forth.

Back—

And, damnit, the repetitive, heavy motion of his body, so effortlessly seductive, just makes you think of—makes you think of—you pull your gaze away. Looking at him stirs something you haven’t felt in weeks, which is wrong.

He has wronged you.

Hurt you.

He has taken things. Insulted you, your family. Fine, that’s acceptable. You never had much self-respect. But insulting your sister was wrong. Taking your letters was wrong.

He is wrong.

Pulling your eyes back, you stare at his skull as if you can uncover all the intentions he’s harboured since the beginning of this union.

Before, everything he did felt cruel and purposeful. Now… you understand him even less. Now, nothing he does makes sense anymore. Nothing. And thinking about it feels useless because it only makes you angry. And above all else, it leaves you so frustratingly confused and lost.

You sigh.

Focus on something else.

With a shake, you tear your eyes away from him.

More long hours pass in the saddle, your attention completely absorbed by the landscape around you. The trees, their leaves hueing russet. The patchwork of hills and valleys rolling and breathing. The rocky beds of the little rivers and streams. The thick clouds receding, the sun dipping below the horizon, and, finally, the faint glow of the moon, a slender crescent, beginning to peek through. The way—

“We’ll rest here tonight.”

Sukuna’s deep, gravelly voice pulls you from your thoughts, almost startling you as your eyes snap to him. You haven’t heard him speak since this morning or seen his face. He watches silently as you tug Ayana’s reins, steadying her to avoid colliding with his motionless beast. She slows, and you guide her alongside him, side by side.

“All right,” you mumble, looking away from his vacant expression and taking in the surroundings.

The horses stand within a ring of large, moss-covered rocks and towering trees, hidden away from the main roads—a forgotten corner of some forest, where dampness clings to everything. This time, with the extra mount, two straw mats have been packed, offering a small measure of comfort for sleeping. Sukuna’s horse has been carrying them.

Without so much as a glance in your direction, he dismounts, removes one mat, tosses it to the ground, picks up the other, and strides off to settle down for the evening.

It’s the last interaction you share that day.

The following morning brings more of the same: Sukuna leads, and you follow, eating in the saddle. Neither of you speaks.

Hours drift by in silence. Yet, there is some small enjoyment to be had. The sun appears briefly, the rays pulling apart the clouds and warming you against the chill. The other comes during a rest break, where you stretch your legs—but not before Sukuna warns you to stay close, mentioning something about cursed spirits.

Having spent most of your life isolated within the Kasai compound, you’ve only heard of them but have never seen one. Though, when you and Uraume passed through that massacred village weeks ago, the howls you heard might have been from one or two—or something similar.

Keeping within sight of the monster, you wander through the trees, and you’re sure his gaze follows you, steady and unrelenting, its intensity pressing hot against your back as if he means to carve a hole into you. It’s both suffocating and drowning all at once.

Too much.

You stray further to escape it. But after a while, you drift back, and as you do, you notice your mare giving the King of Curses a hard time as he attempts to lead her to an eroding stream for water. But she resists, digging her hooves into the soil as he tugs the reins with his lower left hand. Skittish as she is, his presence does little to help, towering over her.

For a moment, you wonder how the hell he managed to get her to the shrine if she’s this nervous around him.

“All right, Amaya, or… whatever the fuck my foolish wife has named you,” Sukuna grumbles, speaking to your horse as if they’re discussing a complex strategy. “You’re thirsty. Here’s water.” Cocking his slitted eyebrow, he gestures grandly to the stream with his upper arms, still holding the reins in his lower. “Simple enough, yes?”

Ayana chuffs, unmoving.

Tugging the reins again, Sukuna tries coaxing her to the water’s edge. They make it closer, closer, closer, only for her to dance backwards at the last second. His nostrils flare, and you sense his energy shifting with mounting frustration.

Watching him struggle like this—entertaining as it is—you decide to step in, hoping to ease the tension that sits heavy.

Stepping from your vantage point and into the clearing, he flicks you a wordless glare.

“Here, my Lord.” You gently take the reins from his grasp, your fingertips brushing his knuckles—gloved hands meeting bare skin.

He tenses so severely you could easily mistake him for one of the surrounding trees.

“Ayana is comfortable with me,” you mutter, eyes darting away.

Guiding her to the stream and at your back, you feel his orbs tracing the curve of your neck, murmuring until she finally dips her head to drink.

“Good girl.” Patting a flank, you watch her lower further, the water parting for her light muzzle to sink below the surface. “See, my Lord, she just needs—”

“We’re leaving.”

You turn, lips falling to a thin line, finding Sukuna mounted on his horse.

“But my Lor—”

“We’ve already lost time with your dawdling. Get on the horse.” Saying nothing else, he nudges his mount once before riding off.

You watch him go.

Arrogant man.

Impossible man.

Stupid fucking man!

Swallowing back a furious groan and resisting the urge to shout after him, you quickly pull Ayana close. Mounting her in one swift motion, you follow after him.

Later, when the moon rises, the night unfolds much the same as before. You both stop riding, dismount, and spread out your mats in a spot of his choosing. Settling down with a chasm of space between you, you pull your blankets over, turn your backs, and ignore each other until morning.

On the journey’s third and final day, the landscape changes to something familiar, and a sickness takes root inside your stomach.

Closer.

More leaves pull away from the trees, drifting down to the earth and turning to dead mulch. The dark clouds that have been ever-present now promise a downpour.

The north is close, and the scenery mirrors your mood—dour and uneasy.

Eyes trailing up to the familiar expanse of your husband’s back, you study him. This could very well be your last day with him.

Maybe that’s a good thing?

Unfamiliar pain tightens your chest.

Remember what he’s done.

Beyond that thought, you wonder who will be there to greet you both upon arrival. Will Sukuna demand Onishi’s name right away? Has a husband been chosen for Yuna? And will your father be pleased that you’ve brought—or perhaps lured—the King of Curses to his doorstep?

There are so many questions and too many uncertainties.

At one point, you nearly lose the battle to vomiting over the side of your mare, but somehow, you hold it in, pushing the lump of sick back to your belly.

By late midday, still riding in silent formation, you follow Sukuna into a narrow trail that descends into a rocky ravine. Sheer rock, moss covered walls rise tall on either side, their surfaces streaked with dark veins worn into stone.

You’re only traversing for so long when—

Drip…

... drip…

drip…

Tilting your head toward the dark sky, a drizzle mists your face.

“Perfect,” you mumble, fingers knotting around the reins.

It’s bound to break any moment.

Sukuna keeps moving, so you keep following. Your eyes focus on the raindrops dampening his pink hair.

Drip—drip—drip.

The rain grows heavier, pecking steadily at the stone as tiny rivulets of water weep down the rock walls.

Drip—drip—drip.

He keeps moving. You keep moving. But Sukuna’s mount begins to churn the mud, thickening it into a slick silt that Ayana struggles to navigate. Her steps grow hesitant, each one slower than the last.

Then—

Drip, drip, drip, drip.

The sky releases its hold, and a torrent descends.

“Shit,” you breathe, barely able to see in front of you.

Cold rain snakes past the edges of your cloak, trickling down the bumps of your spine, icy and wet.

Clenching your teeth, you tighten your grip on the reins, hoping to gain more purchase, but your leather gloves are already damp and slippery.

You and Sukuna begin to separate.

Fuck.

Ayana’s hooves continue to sink deeper into the growing mire, mud clinging like hands, each step stumbling.

“Come on, girl,” you urge, hoping to coax her forward but failing.

The downpour intensifies, hurtling down like a weighted curtain, narrowing your world to little more than a few blurred shapes ahead.

“My Lord!” you shout, straining to be heard above the rush.

No answer.

The rain deepens as if the heavens are determined to drown you, the King of Curses, and the land itself.

“My Lord!”

Again, louder and again, nothing.

He either can’t hear you or is choosing to ignore you.

“Lord Sukuna!”

Nothing.

“SUKUNA!”

Through the sheet of water, you can barely see him, but there’s movement—a sudden swivel—and then the distinct glow of red eyes falling on you.

“I can’t keep going,” you shout. “We should take cover!”

No answer.

He only stares, unamused and unimpressed. Then, the bastard turns away, pushing his mount forward.

Desperate, you try to follow, but it’s useless.

Ayana whines.

You stop.

“Fine,” you mutter, teeth chattering. “Keep going.”

Squinting through the rain, you scan the cliff face, searching for anything—a crag, a cut in the rock, somewhere to take shelter.

Further up the ravine, you spot something: a dark overhang, a hollow carved into the stone.

Gently digging your heels into Ayana’s sides, you guide her in a wide turn toward it. Her hooves move clumsily before finding their footing, and together, you manage to reach the refuge.

Once inside, you slide free from her back and look around.

The ground is a mix of packed earth and loose stones, damp from mist and rain but largely protected from the direct downpour. You breathe easier here, though droplets continue to trickle down past your garments, pulling up goosebumps.

Ayana huffs.

You reach up, rubbing her drenched coat, and she shakes off the water with another huff. Her warm breath is a comfort, and you rest your forehead against her neck, allowing yourself a brief moment to gather your thoughts.

It doesn’t last long.

It never lasts long.

A heavy crunch of hooves on wet stone sounds. You glance up, pulse thumping.

Sukuna rides up, drenched. He reins in his horse just shy of the overhang and dismounts, all that weight pressing into the soaked earth.

Dipping his head, he steps inside, tall enough that the stone ceiling barely clears his skull. With him here, the space shrinks, and the air thickens with the anger he carries.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His demand echoes off the walls, slicing through the steady drumming of the storm.

You pull away from Ayana.

The King of Curses steps closer, rainwater dripping from his pink hair, plastered to his forehead, giving him an almost boyish look.

Almost.

Because that crimson gaze of his cuts dangerously over the bridge of his broad nose, snapping your spine straight.

“Finding shelter,” you reply, with an incline of your chin. “Since you ignored me, I took matters into my own hands.”

His jaw tightens.

“You were supposed to stay close,” he growls. “Not ride off in the complete opposite direction.”

“If you’d bothered to listen, you’d know I couldn’t continue,” you retort sharply.

Idiot, don’t argue with him.

Sukuna steps forward until he’s an arm’s length away.

“And instead, you disobeyed like a cocky little shit,” he snaps, sweeping a frustrated hand through his hair, pushing it all back. “Now we’ll lose more time.”

You eye him.

Leftover rainwater seeps through the grooves and ruts of his disfigured mask, pooling briefly before dripping to the ground.

“We can make up for it tomorrow morning,” you concede softly.

“Yes,” he hisses like a snake. “And I’ll have to drag this whole damned journey out even longer”—he jabs two fingers in your face—“with you.”

Anger swells in your stomach, your face twitching.

With me.

Of course. Because to him, you’re nothing more than a sickness.

Swallowing, you attempt to push most of the anger down, try to breathe, try to act composed, polite—but in the end, it’s useless.

You step closer, footwear scuffing the ground.

“How many times do I have to say this?” Your voice rises. “Can’t you offer me some shred of civility once? Just once?”

Why do you seem to want me only to hurt me tenfold?

“Civil?” he growls, top lip peeling back. “You expect me to be civil? Is that what you truly expect? When you’ve called me a monster—a vile creature—countless times. Isn’t this what you wanted to see?”

Yes. That sounds about right.

Your teeth clack together harder, your body shivering—whether from your emotions or your soaked clothing, you’re not sure, but now you can’t hold back no matter how hard you try.

“Because you are a monster!” You hurl the words at him, hoping they’ll hurt, sting, do something—anything.

Does this thing even have the capacity to feel pain? Suffering? Sadness?

Twitching, red eyes flare at you. You can see he understands—even as his jaw tightens and the cords in his neck strain.

“Insulting what’s important to me, taking away my letters.” His nostrils flare at that. “How could I possibly think anything else when all you’ve done is prove it time and time again?”

“Then stop expecting kindness! I am what I fucking am!” he snarls, grabbing your wet cloak and hauling you toward him, forcing you to stumble over rocks. “You knew exactly who and what you were bound to the moment you crossed my path.”

I knew?

His words fill your ears, a steady thump reverberating through your head, moving to your throat, sliding down and settling heavily in your belly.

I knew?

Your gloved hands tremble, wanting to pull free from his grip. You seize the fabric he holds and yank it away, stepping back to create distance.

The world narrows to the man standing before you, framed by the overhang.

“Oh, I knew, did I?” you breathe. “Did I know exactly what you would do to me the first time we met?”

Red eyes dart across your face, and you pause as if trying to keep buried what should remain hidden.

But it’s no use.

It claws its way up your throat, tearing and scraping, until you open your mouth and let it escape.

“Did I know what humiliating cruelty you would inflict on me that day in that fucking forest!?” The words burst out, loud, unrestrained, stripped of softness or pretense.

Sukuna tenses.

Stills.

Quiets.

There it is—one of the many things you’ve been clinging onto.

The words seem to echo off the walls, then fade into the quiet, until the only sounds are the rain outside, falling on the dying autumn forest and the heavy thud of your heart colliding with bone

The King of Curses doesn’t move. He only stares down at you in the tight, dark space of stone.

Suddenly, his silence and your vulnerability are too much. You drop your chin, hiding behind the damp curtain of hair that clings messily to your face and shoulders.

At last, Sukuna’s mouth twitches.

“Yes,” he murmurs, lifting his head. “When we first met.” The words are nothing but mutterings to himself.

Running a hand through his wet, pink hair, he inhales before fixing you with four steady eyes.

“I never intended for that encounter to scar you.” His voice drops so low you must hold your breath to catch it. “If it had been anyone else, it wouldn’t matter. But with you…” Another swipe, slower this time, as if holding himself back.

Your eyes burn. Unsure how to respond, you stay silent.

“Don’t misunderstand,” he grinds out. “I’m not looking for forgiveness, nor do I need it. But—” A crease spills across his brow. You’re unsure if it’s an illusion, but his features soften. “The regret remains, even if it changes nothing.”

A quiet inhale, heart aching in your chest.

“But the one thing I will not regret is taking away your correspondence.”

The expression on your face falters.

There’s a pause.

Silence.

Only the sound of the rain on rocks and moss.

A notch forms between your brow.

“But why?” you whisper. “Why take that away from me?”

With four arms folding over his chest, Sukuna says nothing, avoiding the question.

You smother a huff.

“You once spoke of wanting to know me… now, I want to understand why you’ve done this to me.”

Another long stare. A hint of an underlying threat.

Your huff escapes.

You want to kill him. Possibly slowly. That is the point of all this, after all.

A heartbeat passes.

Sukuna's upper right hand suddenly reaches out. Lifting a wet lock of hair from your cheek and tucking it aside to see your face better.

He dips his head until his eyes are before yours.

You stare at him. Red irises sinking in deep.

His expression is almost unbearable to look at because under that agonizingly beautiful facade lies something dark, cruel, and filled with things you hope never to understand—even as a treacherous part of you yearns to.

“Know that everything I’ve done and everything I will do has a purpose, one far beyond this burning hatred you feel for me,” he says quietly, calm.

You blink. Teeth chattering.

None of it makes sense. He doesn’t make sense. You can’t grasp his motives or the meaning behind these words.

Your gaze drops to his hand resting close to your cheek. He withdraws it, fingers flexing as though the touch he just laid on you burns.

“Stay here with the horses,” he mutters, turning toward the entrance of the rocky overhang. “We’ll remain here for the night.”

Your brows fold in confusion.

“Where are you going?” you ask, taking one step after him.

He moves past the mounts and into the ravine. Feet pushing into the downpour that only soaks his garments further.

“To find wood that isn’t drenched. So you don’t freeze to death before morning.” He glances back over his shoulder. “I’d rather not drag your pathetic little corpse north, if it’s all the same to you.”

Quickly, he turns away, slipping out of sight, and you watch him go.

* * * * *

With the King of Curses disappearing to search for firewood, you pace inside the stone shelter. Your mind a mess. A dark maze you can’t find your way out of.

Everything I’ve done and everything I will do has a purpose, one far beyond this burning hatred you feel for me.

Those words. Those confusing words.

Frustrated, you head outside to tether the horses to a sturdy rock, giving them space to lie down under the overhang, though the ground is far from comfortable.

With a quick haul, you lift your trunk from Ayana, strip off your wet garments, and toss them aside. Your soaked leather gloves come next—yanked off with a sharp tug and flung to the ground. You pull on a plain yukata from your trunk; it’s hardly warm, but it’s better than nothing.

Stomping back toward the mounts, you retrieve the mats and spread them out, hoping they’ll dry soon before darkness falls.

Then, you sit and wait, hunching into a squat, pulling the fabric of your yukata taut as you rub your arms, trying to regain warmth. Yet the chill crawls everywhere.

You shiver.

Why should you care what he says or does?

You shouldn’t care.

You do care.

Damnit.

Movement at the entrance catches your attention.

You look up to see Sukuna returning. His massive silhouette fills the entrance before he ducks under the low ceiling. The rain has now softened to a mist, sky to dusk.

Stepping further inside, he pauses. The two of you lock eyes.

Wet garments cling to him like a second skin. Raindrops have darkened the fabric, so every line of his frame is defined. His eyelids sink low, slitting the red gaze beneath. It drops to you, pausing on the thin garment, barely concealing your shivering body. A wave of goosebumps prickles your skin, your nipples already stiff from the chill, responding to his heavy stare. Quickly, you fold your arms across your chest, fingers curling around your shoulders.

His focus narrows to your bare hands, then turns to the mats on the ground. The tight space of the overhang leaves little choice. You’ll be sleeping close tonight.

He shifts.

And so do you.

With his four arms full of half-dry kindling and brittle branches, he places the collection to the ground, then crouches. Carefully, he arranges them, stacking smaller twigs and tucking bits of dry moss underneath. Once it’s complete, he pauses, eyes sweeping over it, and you realize he might be searching for a way to ignite it.

“Here,” you say, offering your tantō, which had slipped from your obi when you changed.

He glances at it, his mouth twitching with annoyance.

“Tch, idiot. It will dull the blade if used recklessly.”

You frown.

Apparently, he’s still a moody bastard, even after stepping out into the rain and back into the shelter.

Withdrawing the tantō, you watch as he lifts his upper right hand. Middle and index fingers extending, he swipes the air once, then twice, directly beyond the overhang’s jagged threshold. The air cuts, slices, invisible. When he draws his hand back, a small flame flickers at his fingertips.

Fire?

You stare. Entranced.

For some reason, a strange awareness blankets you—a memory of warmer days but cool grass, the smell of earth and blood. And of a blaze dancing across your vision.

“I didn’t know… you could…” The words drift off. His lower eyes flick toward you, then back to his hands.

Kneeling closer to the pile, Sukuna lowers his burning fingers to the dry moss. It ignites easily—a faint, ember wriggles to life. He leans forward, cupping his lower hands around the newborn flame, using his breath to encourage it. Slowly, the kindling catches, painting firey shadows over the space with much-needed warmth.

It’s clear he’s done this countless times before.

Sitting back, Sukuna watches it before his gaze shifts to you, curled up with your legs pulled tightly to your chest, awkwardly huddling across the fire.

“Keep it burning,” he mutters, catching your eyes. “Start with the smallest branches, feed it slowly. Let it breathe—smother it, and it’ll die.”

“All right.” You nod faintly, gathering a few sticks and carefully placing them onto the flame.

The fire crackles, brightening and spreading more warmth over your cold, damp skin. You keep nursing it, gently stoking and adding wood bit by bit, helping it grow.

The King of Curses’ mouth pulls into a subtle smirk, his eyes squinting, almost proud.

Odd.

You dip your chin.

Satisfied it will hold, you watch him step away and walk behind you. Turning your attention back, you continue feeding the smouldering embers, using the rhythm of the flames to steady yourself and to ward off—

Slap!

Wet fabric hits stone nearby. You tilt your head.

Sukuna’s soaked kataginu lies sprawled on the ground, streams of water trailing from its edges.

Slap!

Another patter of cloth hits stone behind you—the sound pulling prickles of heat up your neck.

Slowly, still huddling on your haunches, you turn your head.

With his back to you, Sukuna sheds his sodden kimono, his upper body exposed. Firelight bathes him in shades of gold and red, a wet sheen glistening on his skin. Tabi socks and sandals lie discarded in a pile on the ground. Your eyes follow his hands as the upper ones weave through his hair, while the lower drop to the knot of his obi. His fingers linger for a moment before pulling it loose, and the soaked fabric falls to the ground with a quiet thud against stone.

Naked.

Suddenly, your mouth dries.

Suddenly, you forget how to breathe.

Shadows mingle with the firelight, carving out every hard dip and muscle.

There’s so much of him—his towering height, broad frame, smooth skin, his extra limbs splitting below the other pair. Your gaze drops to the small indentations that lead to his perfectly defined ass, the tapered curves at his sides flexing with only the smallest of movement, and the thick, banded black tattoos encircling the middle of his corded thighs.

If he were wedged between your spread legs, they would need to be opened… wide. Wide enough to accommodate his body. Probably wide enough that they would draw back and touch the ground. Knees pulled up to your shoulders, or knees repeatedly knocking into rock as he holds them apart and thrusts into you.

Fuck.

Heart lodging in your throat, you swallow, feeling it sink down, lower.

What must he look like from the front?

No…

Stop staring at him.

He starts to move, virile body turning to the side, all those sinews tightening. Before you can catch a glimpse of what you've been told—two thick cocks stacked between his thighs—a red lower eye peeks over at you. You quickly whip your head back, drawing in a sharp, silent breath as your bare hands roll into fists.

Heat moves through you.

Eyes fixed on the flames, your pulse thrums, wetness starting to grow slick between your legs. You squeeze them in tightly.

Dry fabric rustles behind you, followed by heavy footsteps. Sukuna steps around to the other side of the fire, now dressed in a plain white kimono. He holds the two small wooden boxes with your food for the journey in his lower hands. Barefoot, he crouches down, a devious smirk on his face.

“Hungry, brat?” His voice, smooth and dark, washes over you.

Your cheeks flush.

“W-what?” Shifting your gaze away, you focus on the wood blackening—anything but his face and the thought that he may have caught you staring at his stupid, perfect body.

Above you, he tilts his head. You glance up just in time to catch his mouth curving up even more as he opens one of the boxes.

“I asked if you were hungry,” he drawls, unwrapping preserved meat from bamboo leaves. “You look hungry. Eyes all wide, almost drooling. But I wonder if you wanted something else?”

“I—” You clear your throat. “Yes, I’m hungry.”

He chuckles, crimson eyes dropping to your lips as he extends a hand across the flames, a piece of dried meat pinched between his fingertips.

You stare at it, embarrassment fading quickly.

“Which one is that?” you ask, watching his lower hands open the other box, while still holding the food out to you.

“Which one is what?”

A slight narrowing of your eyes.

“You know what I’m asking. Which box did it come from—yours or mine?”

His shoulders swell in a lazy shrug.

“Yours.”

Narrowing your eyes further, you reach forward and pluck the cured strip from his grasp, giving it a thorough inspection.

You sniff it, and his arrogant grin widens.

“If this is human flesh.” You lift it for emphasis. “I swear I will stab you in your sleep.”

He raises an eyebrow, baring all his teeth in a sneer.

“Oh, my dear wife. I’d love to see you try,” he coos arrogantly.

Retrieving another piece of meat from the second box, he sets it aside and bites into it. Instantly, his body seems to relax, sinking down until he’s fully resting on the ground.

If anything brings him comfort, it’s food—flesh or otherwise. It might be the only thing you’ve truly learned about him. By now, you’d think there would be more. Perhaps there is, and you’re just choosing to ignore it.

Between the crackling noises, the two of you sit quietly and eat. Once you’re finished, you retrieve your dried mat, and slide it closer to the fire before bringing Sukuna his. Without a word, he gestures for you to place it near the entrance, leaving you to sleep in the back, where it narrows and is a bit warmer. You’re not sure how to digest this small awareness he shows—just one more thing to push aside. After setting it down, you retrieve your blanket and settle, pulling it tight around you as night falls. A light breeze drifts in from outside, chilling the rocks and stirring the fire, though here, between the two of you, there’s a small pocket of warmth.

The two of us, here.

The stomach ache from earlier begins to creep back.

Maybe he did mislead you into eating human skin.

Hell, maybe you should try to kill him tonight. Imagine the freedom that would bring. You could ride home, run away with Yuna, and find somewhere nice and quiet to live.

But freedom wouldn’t mean escape from your father. He’d hunt you both down. Perhaps then, he’d finally decide to kill you.

Freedom seems elusive.

“Tell me about your clan’s little harvest festival.” The sudden question catches you off guard. Your eyes come away from the embers to find Sukuna tearing strips from the meat he holds. “What joys await me tomorrow?”

You shift slightly.

It’s a festival, yes, but more than that, it’s a stage for boasting and indulgence.

“It’s… a bit different than what is considered traditional,” you begin, your voice wavering just shy of hesitation. “My clan has their own way of celebrating.”

The fire crackles, and tiny balls of red snap into the air before fading out.

“Go on.” He chews thoughtfully before swallowing, then takes another bite.

“There’s music, but not the courtly kind. More… lively. And a lot of sake. Also… entertainment.”

A scene of pure hedonistic pleasure, perfectly divine for someone like him.

“Lively music and drinking?”

You nod.

He grins like a feral beast.

“Performers brought in to amuse drunken men?”

Another nod.

“How refined,” he drawls, taking one last bit of flesh and finishing it.

“And verses, sometimes, though not exactly the type meant for noblewomen’s ears.”

You wrap the blanket around your shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric, smoothing it between your hands.

“Ah, so this is the noble tradition of your clan? Drinking and depravity masquerading as festivity?”

“It’s not exactly that way. It’s just… different.”

“Different. With concubines, I imagine?”

The fire crackles again.

You clear your throat.

“Yes.”

“Ah, the Kasai clan at its finest. And I suppose the women look on approvingly. Admiring their lordly husbands?”

“You’re one to talk,” you say with a click of your tongue. He shoots you a sharp look, and you almost wince, regretting the slip—since, apparently, he no longer has other women or a string of lovers he fucks.

You swallow.

“But yes, the women serve drinks and are mostly kept to the side,” you continue quickly.

“Of course, they are, all the women, all conveniently out of the way while the men indulge their whores.”

Your mouth twitches at the remark.

“It’s just the way things are done,” you mutter, gazing at the light cresting the walls, casting odd shapes on stone.

The space feels warmer now.

“And I suppose they’d have you joining them, pouring drinks like some servant?” His voice lowers.

Yes, you did in the past, and it was awful—the men leered, and tried to touch while slurring disgusting words at you. But none of them got close. Your sister made sure of it.

“They’d find it strange if I’m not—”

“No.”

Your eyes dart to Sukuna as the harsh command stills the air from your lungs.

A new intensity enters his eyes. His upper hands rest idly on his knees, the lower ones loose, though a finger taps insistently at the ground near his mat.

The fire crackles.

“No,” he repeats, eyes flicking up to you. There’s anger there and something else, something you can’t figure out. “You’ll do well to remember your place, and you will remain by my side during our stay. I won’t have you drifting alone. Not there.”

Not have you alone in your own household?

“You… want me to stay with you?”

But remaining at his side the entire time will not be possible. You’ll need to speak privately with your father, and you’ll desire time alone with Yuna, too.

“You will,” he growls loudly enough that his teeth flash.

“Why?” Staring at him, you can’t help but ask the question.

His eyes flare. He taps his finger to the ground again, red orbs taking you in.

The way he looks at you…

“Because,” he says lowly. “You belong to me.”

That strange ache in your chest grows, but for all it’s worth, you push it aside.

Crack!

The fire splits.

A burst of embers spirals into the open air between you, and the colour of his eyes becomes lost with it.

“Okay, my Lord,” you whisper, imbuing the words with as much softness as possible. “I will remain with you.”

It’s a lie. One, you force yourself to believe in more ways than one. Because lying in this game has always been, and always will be, the safer choice.

🔗 Chapter 24

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