Chapter Text
Satoru paced restlessly through the bedchamber. Outside, the storm roared, its fury mingling with the crackle of fire in the hearth and the somber piano music drifting from Sukuna’s office. The king had been playing gloomy nocturnes for hours. Those fingers, always in motion across the ivory and ebony keys, never paused. Sukuna was a king by day and a ghost by night. Demons tugged at his limbs, pulling him away from his regal composure once the sun vanished and the kingdom fell into slumber.
Rainy nights like this one brought out his other self. As autumn crept in and the leaves began to bleed, the king revealed new layers of his soul. He was as complex as the seasons themselves. Satoru still remembered the gentleman descending the curved staircase. The red carpet beneath his feet blazed like fire, like a sunset bending to his will. He wore his decree coat, nothing ostentatious, just a purple satin cloak fastened with a sword-shaped brooch over his left shoulder. His attire was black, his boots gleamed, and his dark hair, streaked with pink, was swept back. He looked as though he had stepped out of the very books Satoru read in secret. Yet when Satoru met his gaze, there was no horror, only gentleness.
The king smiled, brushing his cape aside and offering Satoru his left hand at the foot of the staircase. The left hand, closest to the heart, a symbol of trust and affection.
Satoru took it with his right, a mistake that dimmed the light in the king’s eyes. Still, his smile did not falter. He held Satoru’s hand with care and led him up the stairs himself. No servants, no advisors, no courtiers. Only the king came to claim his future consort, his chosen mate, the mother of his future children.
After those first few nights in the castle, Satoru quickly realized that Sukuna would walk beside him like a shadow. It did not matter where he went or what he did. Sukuna was always near, even when the maid insisted His Highness was in the throne room. Once, Satoru cut his finger on the sharp edge of a book page, and moments later, the library door creaked open. Sukuna entered, his expression clouded with concern.
That was the king of the North. A legend among monarchs. He wore ice as his garments, yet his eyes burned with unspoken passion, whether his lips frowned or smiled.
A year had passed since Satoru became the king’s consort. The second truth he learned about Sukuna was how swiftly joy could vanish from his eyes. Though he rarely showed emotion, his gaze betrayed him. It revealed how quickly sorrow descended upon his soul.
Over the past year, Satoru had witnessed the highest peaks and the deepest valleys of his husband's soul. There were days when fear of his king crept into Satoru's heart, and he chose solitude over companionship, retreating to the vast castle library or wandering the garden paths alone. He felt most alive when burdened with responsibilities, organizing seasonal balls, preparing banquets, and welcoming foreign guests. But such tasks were rare. Sukuna disliked pomp; he never hosted celebrations without a meaningful cause.
In the beginning, Satoru spent his days in quiet isolation. He feared that speaking too freely with courtiers or servants might stir unwanted rumors. Each morning, he woke drained, burdened by a growing inner turmoil. His longing for connection was stifled by caution. As the consort, he had to be mindful of every interaction.
Yet Satoru was not made for solitude. He was a joyful soul by nature, drawn to warmth and conversation. That cautious approach could not hold him for long.
Gradually, he began to move through the court. The courtiers remained reserved, offering only polite exchanges, but even those brief moments of civility helped keep him from unraveling beneath Sukuna’s silence. Still, his deepest desires and thoughts remained unheard, locked away in the quiet chambers of his heart.
Sukuna was consumed by the demands of ruling and constant travel, while Satoru remained locked within the castle walls, friendless among the court. But every time he was present, he held Satoru's hand gently, smiled, and kissed him in front of the whole court. His display of affection made the courtiers envious and bitter, making them despise Satoru quickly. To them, he was nothing more than a country lord who had somehow captured the king’s heart. They whispered behind his back, slandered him openly, and poisoned Sukuna’s ears with their venom. Sometimes, long weeks passed before Sukuna returned. That was enough time for envious whispers to grow into full-blown scandals, each one crafted in shadow and delivered to the king’s weary ears the moment he stepped across the castle threshold. Irritation would rise quickly in him. He resented everyone and demanded the truth from Satoru with a sharpness that left no room for doubt.
Yet the brightest point in their marriage was Sukuna’s resistance to influence. He had grown up surrounded by courtly games and learned to see through them. Skepticism had become his shield. Satoru often found himself surprised by how deeply Sukuna trusted him, despite their differences and Satoru’s repeated refusals to open his heart.
Still, it was a cycle. Satoru’s life moved like the seasons. Days of warmth gave way to gloom, then returned. There was a time when he believed he was pregnant. Hope bloomed briefly, only to be crushed when it was discovered that a court lady had poisoned his food. She was executed on the third day. Sukuna watched her head roll across the stone courtyard while Satoru turned away.
The castle, which had shimmered like a fairy tale in Satoru's childhood dreams, was slowly turned into a gilded cage, a prison where Satoru was held with his greatest enemies. He had no choice but to let go and step into the court only when Sukuna was present.
That decision to stay unconflicted led to isolation. It gnawed at Satoru until madness crept in. Sleep abandoned him, and in its place came restless wandering. He roamed the corridors at night, dazed and vulnerable, sometimes injuring himself against the cold stone walls. Servants, if they found him in time, would guide him back with quiet concern.
He always returned to the bed beside his king. Sukuna lay still, pretending to sleep, but his scent lingered in the air and betrayed his wakefulness. The pillows beneath Satoru’s head felt like stone when he realized that his husband remained unmoved by the anguish that haunted Satoru's soul.
There came a time when Satoru longed to escape. The polite love Sukuna offered through glances and touches no longer sustained him. Satoru wanted to open the king’s heart and see whether a fire burned there too, or if it remained locked away, just as Satoru was locked within these walls.
A warm hand would sometimes rest atop Satoru’s own, a gesture meant to comfort, yet it only weighed him down with the quiet promise that escape was no longer possible. Sukuna’s touch carried many things. At times, it held sorrow. At others, it brimmed with rage so solid it left Satoru bruised after their nights together. But he never complained. He took the rough love into his heart and swallowed it like a bitter offering. In those moments, Sukuna’s hands did not press him into the earth. They held him close, wrapped him in a passion so raw that Satoru clung to it like salvation. Yet once it ended, he fell again, back into the bottom of his cage, into the dirt and humiliation.
Sukuna kept driving him toward despair. His tongue was made of diamonds, each love confession crafted with precision, tailored to Satoru’s longing. Jewelry boxes filled with glittering gifts lined the table, and drawers overflowed with letters tied in ribbons, each one read and reread in silence. But Sukuna’s affection felt like a ritual, a duty an alpha must fulfill for his omega. He wanted Satoru to feel safe, yet kept himself always at a distance. His heart remained sealed.
It seemed no door had ever been carved into Sukuna’s heart. How could he love someone who refused to open up, to share, to be vulnerable? Satoru saw the sadness and rage in him but rarely the reasons. He could not help what he did not understand. Sukuna chose isolation. Satoru had it forced upon him. The final blow came when Satoru was failing to conceive.
Satoru felt utterly trapped, but to challenge the king was to invite death. Yet for someone who wandered the castle like a ghost, unable to conceive, unable to truly live, death would have been a mercy. Any fire Sukuna could offer, so long as it was not rage or silent affection, might have saved him.
All the torment of the past months had led Satoru to this moment. He paced the room in circles, his heart bursting with each beat, echoing the thunder that roamed outside. His bare feet grew cold against the carpet, while the music Sukuna played seeped into his bones like frost. Satoru had once believed that nothing was worse than Sukuna’s silent love, but his quiet anger proved far more terrifying. It loomed like a long, sinister shadow, mute and ever-present, bending over Satoru and following him wherever he went.
That shadow became part of his existence. It was sewn into his soul, the blood that filled the cracks of his broken heart. It was the night that fell over him and never lifted.
From the beginning, Satoru had known he could never love someone as cold as Sukuna. He had told the king plainly, made it clear that their intimacy was born of duty, not desire. He hated being in the castle, hated the silence masquerading as love, and hated how Sukuna treated him like property one moment and then, in the next, fell to his knees. The king would bury his face against Satoru’s womb, pleading with the gods to bless them, to grant them a child.
Satoru despised those moments when Sukuna so openly revealed his longing to become a father. The sight of it made his stomach twist, because Satoru's worst nightmare was slowly becoming true. He was cursed with barrenness. For an entire year, they had shared a bed each week, yet no child had come.
It was not only the confinement of being a consort in a castle that tormented him. It was the way he was treated, as if he were a failure. The alpha, who should have loved his mate without condition, now looked at him with eyes that once held softness but had slowly turned to pity. Satoru’s dream was shattered quickly. His marriage was not a love story. It was a transaction.
Satoru stopped abruptly in his pacing when the music ceased. His heart pounded in his ears. He stared at the door, counting the seconds, waiting for footsteps, waiting for it to open, and for Sukuna to finally speak about their hurtful fight a week ago. Sukuna was furious, asked Satoru if he was blasphemous and if those rumors the courtiers spread about his sinful behavior were, actually, true. He told Satoru that the gods had forsaken them for his behavior and made Satoru barren. Barren. That word echoed in his mind. He could not give the king an heir. He was useless as a consort, nothing more than a burden.
The king should now decide. Either keep Satoru or propose an execution. If what burned in Sukuna’s eyes was truly love, then why did he retreat into the library to ponder his choice in silence?
Perhaps Satoru should make it easier for him.
To his absolute horror, the music resumed. A new nocturne spilled into the silence between the storm and the fire. Satoru’s chest rose sharply, and he clutched at his heart. Sukuna’s behavior was driving him mad. It was enough that the past year had already unraveled his sanity, but now this cold shoulder from his king felt like a blade driven straight into his chest.
“Enough,” Satoru cried, gripping the brocade of his heavy robe as it slipped from his shoulders.
Tears welled in his eyes, mirroring the weeping world beyond the windows. The music sounded like a funeral march, each note a nail in the coffin of his hope. He was tired of this slow decay. He wanted to wither away like a flower overnight and be free.
“Enough!” He screamed again, this time from the depths of his soul, praying that Sukuna would hear him.
The music stopped. Not gently, but abruptly, as if a wing had snapped mid-flight. Satoru’s eyes widened with fragile hope. His stiff limbs finally moved. Heavy feet carried him to the massive, ornamented door, and he flung it open with trembling hands.
The guard stationed behind it remained motionless, his gaze fixed ahead. He had been ordered to ignore whatever transpired between the royal couple, and he obeyed without question.
Satoru’s steps quickened as he neared the library. Only two walls separated him from it. He clung to his determination, afraid it might slip away if he slowed down. As he reached the handle, the music resumed, and something inside him shattered.
Desperation surged through his veins. He tried the door, expecting resistance, but it yielded beneath his touch. Relief flooded him, mingled with dread.
Sukuna had invited him in.
The door creaked open to reveal the private library, now transformed into a study. Towering shelves lined the walls, carved from rich cherry wood and filled with books, scrolls, and maps. Two tall candlesticks flanked the windows, their flames flickering against the heavy purple velvet drapes. To the left stood a work table, darker in tone, crafted from oak. To the right, near the window, gleamed a black piano, polished to a mirror-like gloss.
Sukuna sat there, his posture regal and composed. His fingers moved across the keys with practiced grace, each note falling like a drop of ink on parchment.
This man was Satoru’s everything, though he loved so little about him. They were bound for life, cursed by each other’s cold presence. Yet Satoru longed for his love more than anything. He wished to be wanted, needed so deeply that even death would not sever the bond.
The melody faded naturally. The nocturne ended, and Sukuna gently closed the cover over the piano keys. He rose from the stool and turned to face Satoru, who lingered in the doorway like a stray cat unsure whether the human’s call was safety or a snare.
"You screamed as if the gates of hell had opened," Sukuna said, his voice deep and velvety, smooth and soothing, a balm to Satoru’s ears wounded by long silence.
"And yet you didn’t come to help me."
"I believe you are strong enough to protect yourself," he replied, walking to his desk and pulling out a plush chair with dark purple padding, offering it to Satoru.
"Not from you," Satoru answered coldly. He regretted the sharpness instantly when Sukuna sighed, weary and wounded.
"Why are you here, Satoru? Have you come to torment me again?"
Satoru gasped, his eyes wide with disbelief. "I torment you? You—"
"You asked me to leave you alone," Sukuna cut in, his tone firmer now. "So I left our bed and went to sleep alone in a guest room, like some abandoned dog, a secret lover cast aside."
The words left a bitter taste in Satoru’s mouth. He turned his gaze away, pressing his lips together to keep another argument from spilling out. Sukuna was the king. He could do as he pleased, even cast Satoru from the royal bedchamber. Yet he had chosen to leave instead. That choice unsettled Satoru, shaking the fragile foundation of their bond and leaving him to question everything.
Sukuna did not merely conceal the alpha within. He was a predator cloaked in velvet, his teeth and nails sharp beneath the softness. As a ruler, he was a master of manipulation, precise and calculating. He was a warrior who wielded both sword and bow with pride. On horseback, only the most seasoned messengers could hope to match his speed.
He was the embodiment of a perfect king and alpha, yet his heart remained elusive. It wandered far, returning only when Satoru least expected it.
Satoru drew in a deep breath, smoothing the folds of his robe over his chest. “You hurt me with your words and actions.” He muttered, barely steady.
“Come inside. Don’t stand there as if you were my enemy,” Sukuna muttered, gripping the backrest of the chair. “You wanted my attention, so don’t shrink away now.”
“I wanted you to stop playing the piano. It’s late, and I wanted to sleep.” The lie slipped from Satoru’s lips too easily, but even to his own ears, the tone rang false. The truth was far more fragile. He was nervous, uncertain, and afraid to face Sukuna after a week of silence between them.
One of Satoru’s holy duties was to serve Sukuna as an omega and give him an heir. They made a deal after Satoru grew reluctant to share the bed with the king. They would try for a child every seven days. What had begun as passion soon turned into obligation. Satoru knew this shift wounded Sukuna deeply, yet the king never opposed him. He allowed it to happen, playing his cards with subtle precision, knowing that Satoru’s own choices would eventually turn against him.
And they were turning already. The gods themselves seemed to conspire. When Sukuna lay beside him, Satoru at least felt safe. Now, alone in bed, he was consumed by regret and loneliness beyond withstanding. He had driven Sukuna away. His fierce decisions, once made in desperation, were costing him more than he had imagined.
“Satoru, my heart, my soul…” Sukuna lowered his head slightly, the gesture heavy with disappointment. He shook it slowly, revealing his disapproval. “Even now, when our marriage hangs by a thread, you cannot be honest with yourself.”
Satoru held his silence, stubborn and trembling. His eyes still glistened from the tears shed in the bedroom. They stung, but the ache in his chest was far worse. He folded his hands over his stomach, only to be reminded of the womb that had failed him. The gesture brought fresh tears, another cruel reminder of why he had come.
He had come to hear Sukuna’s decision, to learn what fate awaited an infertile consort. Yet as he stood beneath the dim glow of flickering candlelight, he wished he had never opened the door. Sukuna’s expression carried the weight of mourning, and his scent filled the room like cathedral incense. It was sweet, almost sacred, a final comfort offered to a wounded creature before the blade descended.
“I gave you everything.” Sukuna lifted his head. His shoulders straightened, his posture regal once more. The fire in his mahogany eyes still burned, perhaps brighter than before. Or perhaps Satoru was mistaking it for anger again.
“Maybe it wasn’t as much as you needed,” Sukuna continued, stepping forward and leaving the desk behind. “A fierce soul like yours needs love and warm embraces. I tried to give you that. I loved you with passion, but you rejected it. You called me a beast and pushed me away.”
Satoru clutched the brocade of his robe, his chest rising sharply. With each step Sukuna took, Satoru wanted to flee, yet his feet remained rooted to the floor, cold and heavy. The king’s words stirred something deep within him, a primal ache that whispered of longing. They were intimate and personal, and for Satoru, they carried a fragile hope. Perhaps someone might learn to love him properly one day. If such a day ever came.
“When I asked what you needed, what I could give you…” Sukuna reached him at last, towering above. His scent was overwhelming, rich, and consuming, so intense that Satoru had to hold his breath. “You told me you needed nothing from me.”
Sukuna must have seen the resistance in Satoru’s posture, the defiance in his silence. The fire in his eyes twisted, and one brow twitched with restrained fury. Yet he remained composed, his voice measured and calm. His gaze swept over Satoru with devouring intensity. Then, slowly, he lifted his hand. Warm, long fingers curled around Satoru’s chin.
“You let me know I was unwanted the moment our eyes met!” Sukuna said lowly and strained. “But that is all right, Satoru. A king does not marry for love. I do not need your pity. Hatred is better than indifference.”
Satoru kept his gaze lowered. He had always been a fierce omega, a child of the countryside who knew labor better than Sukuna ever would. He had slept on moss and learned the names of flowers in Latin. He had never feared anyone. Until he met the king.
Sukuna never needed to demand respect. It came naturally to him, drawn from those who approached, and Satoru had been no exception.
But Satoru was not just anyone. He was the king’s consort, his mate, the one who had seen the many faces Sukuna wore behind closed doors. Although Satoru’s knowledge of his husband was limited, it was still deeper than anyone else's in the court. No one knew the king better than he did. That was why Satoru dared to challenge him, dared to fight where others would have faced certain punishment.
For Satoru, Sukuna was like an unexplored wilderness, vast and dangerous, filled with shadows and monsters. Yet Satoru wanted to walk through it. He wanted to be the first to reach the heart of it and uncover the truth, whatever it might be.
“I am your king, and you should obey me in every way. But the gods know I would rather end myself than reduce you to a mere carpet,” Sukuna declared, his grip on Satoru’s chin tightening. “You, Satoru, are my life. I loved you from the moment I saw the portrait your parents sent. They may have given you to me against your will, but I was never your enemy.”
Satoru felt his stomach drop, his knees weakening beneath him. The presence of his alpha was overwhelming. No matter what he felt, their bond remained strong, demanding submission. However, beneath the layers of duty and expectation, there was something softer. A touch that longed to be desired. A love that might have been returned, if only Satoru allowed himself to believe in it.
If he believed someone out there could learn to love him, then perhaps he could learn to love Sukuna. These thoughts were dangerous. They clashed with everything expected of him, everything required.
There was no need to love the king. Only to give him what he needed. And if Satoru could not do that, then his love held no value either.
“My words hurt you, but you hurt me with your actions. Every rejection feels like a knife to the heart,” Sukuna hissed, his thumb pressing into Satoru’s jawbone. “Was I not patient? Was I not loving? Did I not give you what you asked for? Do I not deserve respect as your lover?”
Satoru closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. His senses were overpowered by the bitter sweetness of Sukuna’s pain, leaking from him like honey from a fractured hive.
“I do respect you,” Satoru murmured, his lips barely moving.
“Oh yes, you do. You bow your head when I walk to the throne. You fulfill your duties as consort without fault. But when it comes to seeing me as a man, you fail.”
Satoru’s brows furrowed, his lips sinking into a frown. “Just as you fail to see me as more than an omega.”
The movement was swift and commanding. Sukuna turned Satoru’s head to face him, and Satoru obeyed without resistance. Their eyes locked, and the silence between them grew heavy. Satoru’s heartbeats counted the seconds, each one louder than the last.
“You refuse to be more than my omega,” Sukuna hissed, tightening his grip on Satoru’s chin. “So I reduce us to nothing but breeding animals. A child is all you are willing to give me.” He raised his voice, desperation bleeding through every word.
Satoru’s lips trembled, and fresh tears welled in his eyes. “No more,” he whispered, broken and hollow. “I can’t give you anything anymore.”
The change in Sukuna was sudden, like lightning cleaving the night sky. His face twisted with hurt and disappointment. Satoru knew that whatever came next would be venomous, words that would either shatter their bond or forever alter how he saw the king.
“I stood before a decision,” Sukuna said coldly, yanking Satoru’s head to the side before releasing him. “To let you remain my consort or to execute you for failing your duty to give me an heir.” His words rang out, desperate and raw, echoing against the stone walls. “I must choose between my love for the kingdom and my love for you.”
Satoru’s tears streamed down his flushed cheeks. He could still feel Sukuna’s fingers pressing against his jaw, the roughness of his touch lingering like a bruise on his soul. It haunted him, a reminder of how grave their situation had become.
“If you had opened your heart to me, I know everything would have been different!” Sukuna exclaimed, his voice trembling slightly. He stepped back, gaze faltering, unable to meet Satoru’s eyes. Rage and sorrow clung to him, thick in his scent and etched into every gesture.
“But you refuse me. You reject everything I am. You are so spiteful that you deny me the one thing I long for most.”
Another wave of hot tears welled in Satoru’s eyes. “How can you say that? You who walk like a ghost around me! You claim I fulfill my duties as consort perfectly, then accuse me of failing the most sacred one on purpose?”
“Because you are so full of venom that even when you try, your body refuses,” Sukuna snapped, stepping forward and slamming the door shut behind Satoru. “Am I so repulsive to you, dear consort, that you cast out my seed the moment it touches you?”
“You are so vulgar,” Satoru cried, stumbling back from him, his words cracking under the weight of humiliation.
“That is the only language you understand,” Sukuna growled, following Satoru as he backed away until his spine met the cold windowsill. The storm outside raged louder, and the chill of the glass seeped into the room, crawling across Satoru’s skin.
“I offer you my hand, and you bite it like a feral creature. I try to love you, and you throw hatred back at me. So I will speak the only language you seem to hear.” He seized Satoru’s shoulders and shook him, his grip firm and trembling.
Satoru was unraveling. The weight of his own perceived uselessness crushed him, and Sukuna’s desperation bent him further. They were walking the same path, yet always in conflict, always colliding. It was absurd to believe that his bareness was born of emotion. Even more absurd was the idea that he did not want the child.
He wanted it more than anything.
A child would have brightened his darkest days and brought warmth to the cold corners of his fading life. It would have been a light, a reason to breathe, a promise that something beautiful could still grow from the ruins.
“I want to,” Satoru cried through his tears. “I want to give it to you.”
“No,” Sukuna breathed out harshly, his grip tightening on Satoru’s shoulders. “You only wish to have it, but it would not matter if the child were mine or belonged to someone else.”
Satoru’s eyes widened at the accusation. He stared into Sukuna’s maddened gaze, searching for the man who had once held out his left hand and guided Satoru up the staircase, watching each of his steps with care. That man was gone. In his place stood a desperate beast, suffocating beneath the weight of duty and the crown’s demands.
Suddenly, Satoru understood. There was no time left. One year had been the limit, and the rule was clear. Either he conceived within that year, or he would be executed for failing the most sacred command of the gods. Sukuna was not pleading for another chance. He was venting his frustration, his fury, and the agony of a decision already made.
There had never been a choice. The bond would be severed. Satoru would be executed, and another omega would be chosen to bear the heir.
The realization silenced Satoru, bringing with it a strange, hollow solace. Sukuna’s candle scent and the nocturnes now made perfect sense. He was already mourning.
“Be merciful,” Satoru whispered, distant, as if it belonged to someone else. “Please…” He collapsed against Sukuna, clutching the embroidered golden birds on his vest with trembling fists.
Sukuna caught him. His large hands gripped Satoru’s waist, firm and unwavering. They fit around him as if they had always belonged there and nowhere else. The warmth of his touch seeped through the heavy fabric, but nowhere in the castle had Satoru ever felt so trapped. He was like a bird that had escaped the predator, only to return when a greater evil came chasing.
“My king,” Satoru pleaded, tears spilling from his eyes. “Mercy. I swear on my life, my barrenness is not by choice.”
“Mercy?” Sukuna’s voice turned cold, chilling Satoru to the bone. His body froze.
Without hesitation, Sukuna yanked him away by the waist. “I have given you nothing but mercy, and you spat on my kindness.”
Satoru sank to his knees, hands raised in open prayer. “I would never betray my holiest duty. The gods are testing our bond. They are testing us.”
“Our bond?” Sukuna looked down at him, voice laced with mockery. “Our bond is nothing but a transaction.”
Satoru’s heart shattered. He bowed his head, tears streaming down his cheeks, his sobs catching in his throat. A fear so raw and consuming surged through his veins, burning and freezing him all at once. It pulsed in his temples and rotted in his gut. Nothing in his life had ever felt so terrifying. If the gods had chosen this fate for him, if they had ordained that he die by the hand of the man who once loved him, then Satoru could not fight it. He could not defy the king, chosen by divine will.
At least he had known love. Twisted, incomplete, and never given the chance to bloom, but love nonetheless. It was his fault, the torment he had brought upon Sukuna. He had known the first rule, the reason kings married, yet pride had blinded him. There had never been a choice. Only his naive heart had believed otherwise.
“I quoted your words,” Sukuna shrugged, his tone softened, but the sharpness prevailed underneath, always ready to snap back. “Your harsh words that cut deep. And now you ask for mercy.”
Satoru bowed deeper, his spine curving in reverence and regret. His trembling hands reached for Sukuna’s boot, fingers curling lightly around the ankle as his forehead pressed against the polished leather. Shame and pride boiled together in his tears, scalding and relentless, until his body felt hollow, emptied of everything but sorrow.
“I know I can give you a son,” he muttered, voice trembling like a dying flame.
“That should have been easier than loving me,” Sukuna replied, his tone colder than winter stone. “But you failed at the simplest thing. If you are truly barren, then you are only wasting our time.”
The words sliced through Satoru’s flesh, burrowed into muscle, and cracked against bone. They exposed his heart, raw and bleeding. Sukuna had never spoken with such cruelty. He had always been a master of elegant wounds, weaving insults into silk, crafting pain with precision. But these words were jagged, rusted, and brutal.
Still, Satoru refused to surrender. His life would not be taken so easily. They would have to drag him from the castle, kicking and screaming, only after every attempt had failed. He would bear a child, even if he had to beg the devil himself to make it happen.
“If the gods tested our bond and love, then we failed. A child should not be born from business but from a loving marriage.” Satoru kept his voice as steady as he could, determined to show composure in the face of death. Every word he spoke came from the deepest part of him.
He lifted his head slightly and pressed his lips to the polished leather of Sukuna’s boot. “Be merciful, and I will return your kindness by giving you a healthy and strong son.”
A heavy silence fell between them. The rain outside beat against the glass like execution drums, each drop echoing the dread in Satoru’s heart. He knelt in his own prelude to hell, kissing the feet of his lord, his king, the one marked by divine favor. If Sukuna forgave him, perhaps the gods would show mercy too.
He prayed without words, offering his whole heart. He vowed to love the alpha, the king, and the husband as he deserved. He would cast aside his pride, abandon his childish dreams, and become the consort the crown demanded.
“Raise your head.”
Satoru was unsure whether the command had come from his king or the plea from his husband. The outcome would reveal who had won the battle within Sukuna, whether the ruler would defy tradition and bend the law for love, or uphold the decree that had ruled generations. Sukuna was powerful, revered, and bound by duty. He had to think of the kingdom’s safety, its legacy, and its future before all else.
Satoru had always known he came second. Only one thing could rival the crown, and that was the promise of a child.
“I will give you a son,” Satoru whispered, the words falling like a prayer. He raised his head slowly, sitting back on his thighs, eyes lifted to Sukuna with quiet desperation.
“I swore before the gods and the kingdom,” Sukuna said steadily, “that I would cherish and protect you in joy and sorrow. I cannot be a good ruler if I deny mercy to my mate. No one else in this kingdom bears this rule. Only a consort.”
Satoru swallowed hard, his throat dry, brows drawn tight with fragile hope. Fingers curled together in his lap, he waited through tormenting silence, knowing that Sukuna’s next words might not be final, but they would shape everything. The kingdom was not ruled by the king alone. A council stood behind him, powerful and watchful. They could influence him, or worse, strike at Satoru from the shadows.
“It is a harsh rule,” Sukuna began, his voice rising with regal weight, as though addressing the entire court. “But it reminds us that our lives are never truly our own.”
He paused, gaze heavy. “I will be merciful, Satoru. I have ensured that no one will lay a hand on you…”
Tears welled in Satoru’s eyes, shimmering with gratitude. He clasped his hands together, relief flooding his chest. Shakily, he crawled closer, knees trembling beneath him. His face pressed against Sukuna’s crotch, vulgar, raw, lips brushing the line of buttons. He inhaled sharply, drawing in the raw, intoxicating scent of his alpha, letting it fill his lungs like sacred incense.
“…for one year,” Sukuna finished, his cold words falling slow like snow settling on his corpse. “You have one year to conceive.”
A soft hand settled atop Satoru’s head, grounding him. The touch felt like a stone pressing him into his waiting grave. He closed his snowy lashes, willing himself not to think, only to be grateful for the chance to live, even if just for a year.
“You'd better allow me back to our marital bed, Satoru,” Sukuna murmured, his fingers stroking through pale strands. “Let me love you. Let me create life inside you.”
“I promise,” Satoru whispered against the fabric of Sukuna’s pants. There was nothing left to resist. This was no longer a matter of pride or defiance. It was life or death. And perhaps, along this thorned path, he might learn how to cradle the small flame of affection he held for Sukuna.
In the end, surrounded by rules and machinations, they had no one else. Only each other.