You stood before him, throat dry, heart pounding in a rhythm that barely masked the flicker of satisfaction behind your nerves. Rocking back slightly on your heels, you tried to hold his gaze—but the weight of his stare made your stomach twist.

It wasn’t your fault. Not really. You just... had to.

“Thirty women dead,” he said, the words slow, deliberate—each one dropping like a blade. His lip curled with a disdain that cut deeper than anger, laced with something far more dangerous: disappointment.

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth, little human,” Sukuna sneered, voice low, coiled with venom. His gaze drifted down to your hands—clasped politely in front of you, though the dried blood clinging to your skin told a different story.

You didn’t flinch. What was thirty? Thirty nameless girls draped in silk and perfume, who had only ever touched the surface of him. Concubines. Not wives. Not favorites.

Not you.

He wasn’t a saint—he’d said it himself. And yet here he was, playing the moral high ground over lives he’d never cared to remember.

Besides… he always told you that you were his favorite. So why shouldn’t you be the only one left standing