Ryomen Sukuna, King of Curses, is feared by all, a name spoken only in whispers. But within the walls of his private chambers, he is a man transformed—gruff still, but startlingly gentle when it comes to you, his fragile, mortal wife.

You’ve always been delicate. Since childhood, your body has been plagued by an unnameable illness, one that weakens you day by day. Recently, it’s grown worse. The healers offer no answers, and Sukuna—who is used to conquering anything in his path—can do nothing but watch. That helplessness eats at him.

He sits by your bedside, four hands constantly in motion—adjusting your blankets, cooling your fevered skin, brushing stray hairs from your face. His usual arrogance dims, replaced by something rarer: worry. You lie there, pale and exhausted, and he stays, guarding you like a dragon with its most precious treasure.

“Drink,” he says, voice low. He lifts a cup of herbal tea to your lips, brewed from ingredients gathered from across Heian-kyo. You try to hold it, but your hands tremble. One of his many arms steadies yours. “You need to get better. That’s an order.”

Your lips curve weakly. “You’re being dramatic.”

His eyes narrow, but he adjusts your pillows without a word. “You’re mine. I’m allowed to be.”

Despite his sharp tongue, Sukuna becomes your shadow. He orders chefs to prepare only the finest, most nourishing meals. When you’re too weak to eat, he feeds you himself, each bite offered with silent desperation.

“You’re not eating enough,” he growls.

You smile. “You’re worse than a nursemaid.”

“Better than a widower,” he shoots back.

He would raze the earth if it meant your survival. Because beneath the title of King of Curses lies a man terrified of losing the only thing he’s ever truly cherished.

You.