Chapter 13
THE WEDDING
Three days before the wedding, Sasuke's apartments began to change—quietly, but noticeably. A team of contractors arrived just as he was leaving for the day, and every night when he returned, the space seemed a little less like his.
On the first night, the shift in furniture caught his attention immediately. The austere, minimalist style he'd always preferred was subtly invaded by a new aesthetic. His once-plain sofa was now laden with decorative pillows and plush throws, much like the ones he'd seen in Sakura's quarters. The curtains had changed too—there was now a delicate, wispy white layer beneath his usual blackout navy ones. He stared at them for a long minute before sighing and heading to bed.
The second night hit him harder. The lighting had completely changed. Gone were his sharp, functional ceiling lights, replaced by a maze of soft, scattered lamps. Floor lamps, desk lamps, table lamps—there were more lamps than he'd ever thought possible for one room. Even the lighting strips, tucked along the edges of the walls, cast an unnecessary ambient glow that, frankly, made him feel uncomfortable in his own space. It was softer, warmer, and though part of him appreciated the coziness, the sudden change jarred him.
But the final night? The plants were the last straw. Bold, leafy greens popped up in every corner of his suite, and the texture—the textures!—on the floors irritated him beyond reason. Where his polished hardwood had once shone with a sharp, cold gleam, there were now floor rugs. Rugs! They lined the space beneath his desk, his coffee table, and even beside his bed. He paced the floor, his annoyance building with every step until he finally ventured toward his closet and noticed that half the space was no longer his.
Sakura's clothes, neatly hung and folded, took up the entire left side. The sight of a delicate blouse or a small dress in between his sharply pressed shirts unsettled him. But it was the drawer of lingerie that really made him panic. He slammed it shut, eyes wide, and retreated to his workstation as fast as his legs would take him, locking the door behind him as if the invasion of personal space could somehow be kept at bay.
For two solid hours, Sasuke buried himself in the affairs of his kingdom, poring over the latest budget Naruto had proposed. He meticulously reviewed each line in an Excel sheet, highlighting notes in red and scrutinizing the figures until his anxiety began to ebb. Focusing on the familiar calmed him, but by the time he went to bed, he felt like crap. This is happening too fast.
He lay there, staring up at the ceiling in the dim lamplight, his mind racing. You've had a year to prepare for this, he chastised himself, but the truth was that everything felt like it was spiraling out of his control. He had bet his future on a woman who had literally challenged him to consummate their relationship on the wedding night, and despite the time he'd had, Sasuke still wondered if he'd made the right decision.
He thought back through all their interactions, sifting through her character like a prosecutor looking for flaws, trying to find something he could point to that would justify his sudden panic. But every attempt failed. Sakura had been nothing but steadfast—almost pioneering, in the way she'd handled her position with grace and adaptability. The only thing that lingered, unresolved, was the emotional aspect, and even then, Sasuke grudgingly admitted that his own aloofness had played a part in that.
His thoughts were spinning, his chest tight. He hadn't prayed in years—hadn't believed in asking for guidance from anything outside himself—but tonight, in the quiet of his altered room, he closed his eyes and sent a small plea to the gods. He prayed that he'd made the right decision—not for his sake, but for his kingdom, for Itachi's legacy.
And, perhaps, just a little bit, for himself.
The day before the wedding, Sakura was led through a series of pampering rituals designed to soothe her body and ease her mind. It started blissfully enough—a relaxing massage that loosened the knots in her shoulders, followed by a solid mani-pedi session that had her hands and feet looking their best. Her hair was treated with care, soaked in rich oils and rinsed until it shone. She closed her eyes and reveled in the comfort of it all, letting herself drift through the peaceful sensations, telling herself to forget the enormity of the day after.
But then came the waxing room—a deceptively calm interior that masked the excruciating process that lay ahead. Sakura had never imagined one could be groomed quite like this. With each strip, she had to suppress a pained yelp, her body tensing and relaxing in turns as every last bit of hair was ruthlessly removed. By the end, she felt as though she had survived some strange rite of passage, her skin tingling with both smoothness and the aftermath of the ordeal.
Hinata was waiting for her when it was done, ever the gentle presence, her smile soft as she helped Sakura gingerly walk back to her suites. It was her last night there, and the space already felt half-empty. Sakura let out a sigh, the weight of the following day starting to settle heavily on her shoulders. Tenten had sent over a giant pack that morning detailing all the logistical details of the wedding, but Sakura hadn't yet had the courage to fully dive into it.
She sat in front of the mirror, practicing the expressions Deidara had drilled into her—expressions that were meant to convey subtle, contained emotions for the media. But as she stared at her reflection, trying to evoke a tear-filled, heartfelt gaze, she couldn't help but purse her lips in thought. Barely contained emotion? There was no way Sasuke's face—or any part of him, for that matter—would be swimming with any emotion, let alone barely contained ones. The thought made her amused, then concerned—a little bit for the success of the event, but mostly for what that meant for her, her relationship with him, and soon she found herself sinking into nerves once more.
She spent the rest of the night poring over Tenten's pack, reading every last detail until the words began to blur. Her eyes grew heavy, and at some point, she fell asleep at her desk, the papers fanned out around her.
It was Hinata's gentle touch that woke her. "My lady," she said softly, her hand resting on Sakura's arm. Her smile was kind, comforting in the quiet morning light. "Today's the day."
And with that, the ritual of getting ready began. At exactly 7 a.m., a team of cosmetology and makeup specialists filed into her room, moving with the precision of an army. They applied makeup meticulously, layer after layer, until her skin glowed. Her hair was sculpted into an elaborate style that took hours, adorned with the most exquisite kanzashi accessories.
Once her makeup and hair were done, they began the painstaking process of dressing her in the wedding kimono. It took seven layers—each more intricate than the last—before they finally stepped back, allowing her to take in her reflection. Sakura stared at the woman in the mirror, her breath catching in her throat. The glowing, beautiful bride before her hardly seemed real.
For a moment, she felt like someone else entirely. But then she blinked, and it was still her—just a version of herself she had never seen before.
Sasuke had decided to get ready in Itachi's apartments, wanting the quiet, familiar space to center himself. His preparation team was lean, with only a few key members on hand to assist. Team Hebi, his security detail for the day, stood guard at the doors, casting sharp, unwelcoming glares at anyone who dared to enter without a direct task. They were mean, silent sentinels, ensuring that nothing disrupted the proceedings.
Sasuke chose to don his wedding hakama himself, though he struggled with the ties. He hadn't realized just how intricate the knots were supposed to be until he stood in front of the mirror, frowning at his reflection. The sash hung awkwardly, far from perfect, but he gave a small shrug and stepped out of the dressing room, ready to face the day.
To his surprise, his father was there.
Fugaku stood tall as ever, scraggly and sharp as ever on Itachi's side. Itachi, for his part, had been helped into his own formal attire and now sat in a wheelchair, his ubiquitous IV bag and catheter still in place. An aide hovered beside him, keeping a watchful eye. Sasuke had made sure that a full medical team and ambulances were on standby—just in case anything went wrong. He had a sinking feeling in his gut that Itachi wasn't doing as well as he let on, but his brother's face, calm and composed, betrayed nothing.
Then, something unexpected happened. Fugaku, who had always been distant and critical, stepped forward without a word. He reached for Sasuke's sash, deftly retying it with practiced hands. His touch was firm, but there was a gentleness in the action that Sasuke wasn't used to.
"You've done well, Sasuke," Fugaku said quietly.
It was the most emotional recognition Sasuke had ever received from his father, the man whose approval he had sought for as long as he could remember. For so long, Sasuke had felt like he could never live up to Fugaku's expectations—especially after being forced to step into Itachi's shoes. That simple statement sent a wave of relief through him, though he swallowed the emotions, unwilling to show just how much it meant.
Taking a deep breath, Sasuke stood to his full height, his expression composed and unreadable. "Let's go."
In the living room, his mother and Izumi were already waiting, both dressed in their elegant ceremonial attire. Mikoto's face glowed with a mix of pride and quiet worry, while Izumi smiled gently, though her eyes carried the weight of Itachi's condition.
As they prepared to head out, Sasuke's phone buzzed with a call from Naruto. The moment he picked up, Naruto's voice, off-key and overly cheerful, blasted through the line, singing, "Why do birds suddenly appear, every time, you are neaaarr~"
Sasuke promptly hung up.
A second later, the phone rang again. "What?" Sasuke snapped, exasperated.
"Nothing," Naruto replied, though Sasuke could hear the grin in his voice. "Best of luck, bastard," he added before hanging up himself.
Sasuke stared at the screen, shaking his head. He wondered, for a fleeting moment, if Naruto might have been more present as a friend in his wedding party—if he had been just a prince, and not the king. The thought, full of longing for a simpler past, quickly dissipated as he focused on the present. There was no time for hypotheticals now.
Today, his life was about to change irrevocably, and the only thing left to do was move forward.
As the procession to the sacred Uchiha grounds made its way through the city, Sasuke sat in the back of his sleek, black car, watching the scenery flash by. Outside, the streets were lined with joyous faces—cheering crowds, waving banners, and smiles as far as the eye could see. Media drones buzzed around his vehicle, capturing every moment for the world to witness, while cameramen perched on nearby buildings for the perfect shot.
Sasuke kept his face carefully blank, his profile tilted just out of sight, exactly as Shikamaru had instructed him. He had been advised not to engage too openly, not to acknowledge the throngs of people or the media. Everything had to be calculated—controlled. And he was always good at control.
Taking a deep breath, Sasuke closed his eyes. He couldn't afford to think about what was coming. He recited the constitution in his mind, going over the passages he'd memorized in his youth, letting the familiar words drown out everything else. It was better than letting his thoughts drift to Sakura—what she might be feeling, how she would look today, or the enormity of the commitment he was about to make.
He'd spent a year preparing for this—telling himself it was all for the good of the kingdom, to repair his fractured public image. And yet, the weight of what he was about to do pressed down on him. Marrying someone for strategic reasons, to protect the monarchy and restore public trust... It should have felt like a victory. But as the sacred Uchiha grounds drew closer, doubt crept in, and he willed himself to suppress it.
Now was not the time for second thoughts.
The room was still as Sakura entered, her heart thudding loudly in her ears. She was greeted by the collective gaze of her parents, Ino, Hinata, and Kurenai, the head designer, who was making the last-minute adjustments to her wataboshi. Mebuki, had tears shimmering in her eyes, her smile trembling with emotion, while Kizashi, didn't even try to hide the tears rolling down his cheeks. They both looked at her with so much pride, but neither dared to embrace her, afraid of ruining the perfection of the bridal attire they'd worked so hard on.
Ino stood a few feet away, her hair pinned up elegantly, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. For once, words failed her, and she merely pressed her lips into an emotional smile, clutching her own kimono as if holding herself together. Sakura could feel the deep emotion radiating from her best friend, and she was overwhelmed by the unspoken bond between them.
Then there was Hinata, standing quietly in the background, her soft smile offering comfort, as though silently saying that everything would be alright. Her presence was a quiet reassurance amidst all the emotion swirling in the air.
The atmosphere in the room was heavy with unspoken words, love, and awe, and Sakura felt the pressure of it all wrapping around her. Kurenai finished adjusting her veil, a sheer fabric that gently clouded her vision, adding a hazy, dreamlike quality to everything she saw.
But just as quickly as the quiet moment had settled in, it was shattered by Tenten's whirlwind arrival. Bursting into the room with her assistant, she hurriedly went through a checklist, ticking off tasks and reminding everyone what needed to happen next. The wedding was a well-orchestrated machine, and Sakura was swept up in the activity, her mind racing as she was ushered to the car.
Sakura barely registered the crowds lining the streets, cheering as her car passed. Her nerves were frayed, and despite knowing they couldn't see her through the tinted windows, she felt oddly exposed. It felt like an out-of-body experience, as if she was watching herself from afar, being led toward the next step in a destiny she couldn't fully grasp.
When they finally arrived at the sacred Uchiha grounds, Sasuke was waiting. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of him. He looked arrestingly handsome in his formal montsuki, the sleeves of his haori dipping low as he extended his hand to receive her. His expression was unreadable, but his presence was grounding, even as the nerves threatened to overwhelm her.
She glanced to the side and saw her father standing with Fugaku, who was solemn and composed as ever. Her heart ached when she saw Itachi, sitting in his wheelchair, pale and frail, breathing through an oxygen mask. Izumi stood vigilantly by his side, her hands clasped tightly together. Itachi's mere presence, despite his condition, felt like a miracle. It was a bittersweet moment—joy mixed with the sharp sting of grief for what might come.
The procession began, the sanshin leading the way as they made the slow, deliberate walk to the shrine. The weight of her garments made each step feel like an effort, and she was grateful for Sasuke's steady arm as she held onto him for support. The small gesture meant more than she could express.
As they reached the main chamber of the shrine, the ceremony began. Everyone in attendance bowed as the priest performed the Shubatsu-no-gi, purifying the bride, groom, and assembled party. Sakura held her breath as the priest touched her head with the purification branch, praying that her headpiece wouldn't tumble off with the movement.
The Norito-sojo began, the priest holding out a scroll of ancient text as he announced their marriage to the Hachiman Okami deities. Sakura's legs began to cramp as the prayer dragged on, but she remained still, focusing on her breathing. She risked a glance at Sasuke and saw him watching her, quietly cognizant of her discomfort. Not wanting to speak, she reached out and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, silently telling him that she was alright.
Then came the san san kudo—the ritual exchange of sake. They stepped toward the altar, sipping three times from three different cups, the act symbolizing the union of their families. Their movements were perfectly synchronized, a testament to the countless rehearsals, and in that moment, Sakura felt a strange unity with Sasuke, a connection she hadn't anticipated.
When Sasuke turned to her with the scroll, ready to recite their vows, Sakura's heart fluttered, because they'd never rehearsed this part - always glossed over it, as if the words might become tainted if spoken before their time. Now, his voice rang clear, loud enough for everyone to hear as he spoke their promises.
"We make this vow respectfully, before the Hachiman deity," he said, his eyes briefly flicking to hers. "We, Haruno Sakura and Uchiha Sasuke, are humbled to be able to make our vows on this auspicious day and to become husband and wife with the blessing of Kami-sama."
Sakura's breath caught as he continued, his voice steady yet somehow personal, as if the words were meant for her alone.
"We swear before Kami-sama to love and respect each other forever and to strive to bring our family - and people - prosperity," he said, his gaze locking with hers. "Moreover, we swear never to veer from the true path of matrimony."
The weight of his words settled deep within her, and Sakura felt tears prick her eyes. It was his silent promise to her—a vow that no matter how this marriage had come about, it was real. They were bound, and this was not something to be taken lightly.
They bowed, offered their prayers, and exchanged rings. Sakura's hands trembled as she slipped the band onto Sasuke's finger, her heart racing. It was done. She was done.
As the applause roared around them, Sakura felt lightheaded. Sasuke's arm was around her waist in an instant, steadying her before she could stumble - she wondered for just a split second if the movement was rehearsed, but a quick look at him and she could tell it wasn't; no, there was honesty in his touch as he helped her right herself, a firm gentleness that anchored her to the moment. The world seemed to blur around her, and through the veil of the wataboshi, she caught Sasuke's eyes once more. For a moment, they shared a silent understanding—a glimpse of what their future might hold.
And while the cameras captured every moment, the world watching with bated breath, behind the scenes, Shikamaru and his team monitored the data, the approval ratings climbing steadily. The crowds were eating it up, and everything was going according to plan. But for Sasuke and Sakura, this was just the beginning of something far more profound than either of them could have anticipated.
After the ceremony, the room fell into a hushed silence as Itachi was brought forward. Everyone's attention shifted, the gravity of the moment settling over the space like a thick, tangible presence. Sasuke's chest tightened at the sight of his brother, so frail now, a shadow of the powerful man he had once been. Itachi, pale and gaunt, was seated in his wheelchair, an oxygen mask pressed to his face, his IV bag trailing beside him. His hand trembled visibly as he reached for Sasuke and Sakura.
Sasuke stood still, his body locked in place, watching Itachi with an intensity he couldn't mask. Each movement from his brother seemed to take monumental effort, his once-strong hand now weak and shaking as he raised it slowly to touch Sasuke's head in blessing. Sasuke could feel the heat of anger simmering beneath the surface, boiling at the sight of Itachi's struggle. His blood surged with emotion, a mix of sorrow and fury, at how illness had ravaged his brother. He had to actively suppress it, focusing on the calm exterior he had learned to master. Still, his fingers twitched to signal the aides, ready to intervene the moment it became too much.
But Itachi, with his unwavering will, persisted. His palm finally rested on Sasuke's head, trembling with the weight of the gesture. The entire room watched, captivated, as the once-great king, a man of unwavering strength, offered his blessing to the new couple. The moment was heavy, laden with the unspoken acknowledgment of Itachi's passing his legacy to his younger brother.
Sakura's heart ached as she stood by Sasuke's side, witnessing the sheer effort it took for Itachi to give his blessing. His skin was clammy, and even under the delicate lighting of the ceremonial hall, it was clear to all just how poorly he truly was. Tears stung her eyes, but she held herself together, knowing this moment was more important for Sasuke than for anyone else.
Sasuke's fingers discreetly signaled the medical team to stand by, and within moments, aides moved closer, ready to take Itachi away the moment he showed signs of collapse. But for now, Itachi held on, his gaze lingering on them both, a faint smile on his lips—a bittersweet smile that felt like a final gesture of peace and hope.
Far away from the emotional pulse of the room, in the palace's media monitoring center, Shikamaru watched everything unfold on his screens. His eyes scanned the data in real-time, but it was the live feeds from the crowd that gripped his attention. The reaction was immediate and raw. The public, who had long speculated about Itachi's illness, now witnessed its true depth for the first time. Tears fell freely from the faces of onlookers lining the streets, emotions overwhelmed by the sight of their beloved former king, broken but still fighting to bless his younger brother.
The sentiment was undeniable—a collective ache and admiration rippled through the crowds. On social media, tributes began pouring in, tweets and posts flooded with words of reverence and grief. "Our king, our Itachi," one post read, accompanied by an image of Itachi's trembling hand resting on Sasuke's head.
For the public, this was no longer just a wedding, but a poignant reminder of Itachi's enduring legacy and the weight Sasuke now carried as king. This emotional exposure, though unintended, worked in Sasuke's favor in a way none of his advisors could have predicted. It humanized him, made the kingdom see him not only as their leader but as a brother, standing at the edge of loss, just like any other person. The vulnerability of the moment softened even his most ardent critics.
It was a dark, bittersweet victory, one built on the pain of losing Itachi, but it solidified Sasuke's place in the hearts of the people, reaffirming their faith in his leadership. Shikamaru watched the sentiment data rise and settle—Sasuke's image, already on the mend from his earlier struggles with public perception, had soared to new heights. But the price of that triumph weighed heavily on everyone present.
As Itachi was finally taken away for medical assistance, the room remained suspended in its emotional heaviness, the memory of his frail blessing etched into everyone's mind. Sasuke, standing tall but utterly hollow, glanced at the retreating figure of his brother. His emotions were a storm, but on the outside, his face remained composed. He was a king, after all. The people needed him to be.
The mechanized carriage glided down the streets, its regal design a stark contrast to the throngs of people lining the route, waving flags, flowers, and banners, their faces alight with joy and emotion. For Sakura, the ride was nothing short of surreal—thousands of strangers, their emotions worn so openly, some with tears streaming down their faces, cheering for a union they had no personal stake in but had come to celebrate as if it were their own.
Sitting beside Sasuke, it took every ounce of Sakura's self-control to maintain the expressions Deidara had drilled into her—soft smiles, delicate nods, the occasional wave. Fear bubbled beneath her polished surface, but she suppressed it, knowing that any crack in her composure would be noticed, dissected, and broadcasted. Every movement felt deliberate, orchestrated, like a piece of choreography she had practiced over and over again, only now, the stakes were impossibly higher.
Stealing a glance at Sasuke, Sakura saw exactly what she had expected: a man who had mastered the art of emotional control. He wasn't projecting any of the exaggerated expressions Deidara had practiced with her. There was no warmth, no exuberance; instead, he carried a quiet, calculated poise. He waved to the crowds sparingly, nodded at angles so precise they seemed part of a royal protocol. He was every bit the composed king, not a single misstep or crack in his demeanor.
But underneath that, Sakura could feel it—the weight of the day, of everything that had transpired. Itachi's deteriorating condition back at the temple had shaken her, but she knew Sasuke had taken the brunt of it. She could feel the tension radiating off of him, the burden of carrying not just his brother's frailty, but the expectations of the kingdom on his shoulders. His outer calm was impressive, but there was a tumult underneath that no amount of nodding or waving could conceal from her.
Sakura felt a pang of sadness for him. Sasuke was being forced to carry this immense load while still projecting an air of celebration and joy that, frankly, didn't exist in either of them. Her heart ached at the thought of how alone he must feel, so she resolved, in her own quiet way, to shoulder some of the burden for him. She leaned slightly forward, took a deeper breath, and emoted twice as much—smiling more, waving more frequently, giving the crowd the warmth and connection that Sasuke couldn't.
It wasn't much, but it was her way of trying to help, to shift the focus onto herself so he didn't have to feel the weight of all those eyes on him. For the first time since their wedding began, Sakura felt not just the pressure of her role as queen, but the desire to be a partner—to help him carry what was too heavy to bear alone.
The reception at the grandest hotel in Nippon Koku was a whirlwind of activity, each moment carefully orchestrated to perfection. As soon as Sakura and Sasuke arrived, they were swept into a flurry of events that left Sakura barely able to catch her breath. A round of photos with family, friends, and dignitaries—some of whom she recognized only from the detailed dossiers she'd studied—kicked off the evening. There was little time to absorb anything; everything moved in a blur.
Then, Sakura was whisked away to change into her western wedding attire. The gown was a stunning contrast to her earlier kimono, a sheer, almost translucent fabric that seemed to fuse with her skin. Delicate, ivy-like floral designs cascaded from her shoulders to her waist, where they met a voluminous skirt that trailed behind her like a dream. Her hair, now free from the heavy ornaments, flowed down her back in soft waves. By the time the team was done, she barely recognized herself in the mirror. She looked ethereal.
The secret garden-themed reception was in full bloom when she entered, her eyes immediately catching on Sasuke. He was already waiting, dressed in a sleek, black tuxedo that made him look almost unreal, his striking presence breathtaking even in the dim glow of the evening lights. The tension between them was palpable as they posed for more photos, this time alone. Every time Sasuke's hand rested on her waist or their gazes met on command, there was an undercurrent of something electric, something almost unbearable.
The touch of his hand on her waist sent sparks through her, and the simple act of holding eye contact for the camera became more charged than it should have been. She could feel her crush on him, once muted by his cold demeanor, rushing back in full force, overwhelming her senses. Every moment they spent close, her heart raced, wondering if he was feeling it too, but Sasuke's face betrayed nothing, his control of his emotions as impeccable as ever. Still, Sakura couldn't help but let her gaze linger on him, trying to read some hint of his thoughts, hoping for some sign that he might be as affected by the proximity as she was. But there was no time to decipher his feelings—cameras flashed, and Tenten's urgent commands echoed around them, pushing them through the evening's relentless schedule.
The rest of the night passed in a haze of orchestrated PR moments. Sakura, standing at Sasuke's side like the perfect accessory, smiled and accepted congratulations from world leaders and dignitaries, all of whom were given no more than five minutes each with them. Tenten, ever-efficient, had planned for every eventuality, including backup distractions if a guest overstayed their welcome. She had barely a moment to breathe, let alone process anything.
Naruto, one of the few familiar faces, managed a quick, sincere exchange. "You did well, Sakura," he said softly, his smile as genuine as the warmth in his voice. It was over too soon—he was whisked away before she could even reply.
They cut a towering wedding cake, and at some point, Sakura found herself eating something—though she couldn't recall what it had been. The endless smiling, the formalities, and the constant stream of people left her feeling utterly drained. By the time the night drew to a close, her face ached from the effort of keeping her expression pleasant, her soul feeling almost hollowed out from the day's demands.
The ride back to the palace was quiet, a stark contrast to the chaotic energy of the evening. Sasuke sat next to her, his laptop open, headphones on as he absorbed updates from his team, already shifting back to his role as king. His focus on his work left Sakura in her own world, watching the night slip by through the tinted windows. Security bikes flanked them as protocol dictated, but Sakura barely noticed. She leaned her head against the glass, closing her eyes, and let out a soft sigh of relief that the night was finally over.
The walk to their new shared quarters crackled with anticipation. While the car ride back had been a quiet reprieve from the fast-paced life-changing events of the day, now every step felt heavier, charged with the knowledge of what the night was meant to hold. Sakura trailed behind Sasuke, her heart racing as her pulse quickened with every passing second. The tension between them had been building ever since they exchanged their vows—every moment, every glance was loaded with unspoken promises.
When Sasuke unlocked the door to his private suites—her new home—the guards remained outside. They were alone, and Sakura felt the weight of that realization crash over her.
Her heart thudded in her chest as she walked into the space. It was warmer, more lived-in than she had expected, with earthy tones and soft lighting—a blend of the minimalist sharpness she associated with Sasuke, mixed with more familiar, comforting textures. The scent of roses lingered in the air, the room bursting with floral arrangements she hadn't asked for. Her eyes followed Sasuke as he threw off his coat and loosened his tie with a practiced ease, making no acknowledgment of her presence as he moved toward the bedroom.
Her nerves buzzed. She didn't know what to do with her hands, the fabric of her wedding dress suddenly feeling too heavy, too restrictive. As he disappeared from view, she scrambled to follow, her legs almost tripping over the long skirt. When he stopped abruptly, she collided with him, nearly losing her balance.
In an instant, Sasuke turned, his hands instinctively catching her wrists, steadying her.
For a breathless moment, everything was still. His hands were warm against her skin, and their faces were so close—close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath. The air between them seemed to hum with an electric charge. Sakura's heart pounded in her chest, her pulse thrumming with the anticipation of what was to come. This was it—he was going to kiss her, she thought, her eyes fluttering shut in expectation.
But instead, nothing.
When she opened her eyes again, Sasuke was watching her with a frown, his cheeks faintly flushed. His grip on her wrists loosened, and he stepped back, breaking the moment. The disappointment hit her hard, and frustration flared within her.
"Your Majesty," she called, her voice steady but edged with irritation. "We had a deal."
Sasuke stopped in his tracks, his shoulders stiffening. He turned just enough to glance over his shoulder at her, his eyes dark and unreadable. For a moment, he said nothing. Then - "You're sure you won't regret letting me have my way with you tonight?"
It wasn't a question—his voice was laced with mockery, as if challenging her. The subtle arrogance in his tone made Sakura's blood boil.
"Your Majesty," she said through gritted teeth, trying to keep her anger in check. "You'll be disappointed to know that this is not the Regency era."
One of his brows raised slightly, intrigued.
"We live in the 21st century. I'm certainly not asking you to rip my bodice and lose all control."
His other eyebrow rose at that, but she saw the flicker of amusement in his eyes.
"But I have been impatiently waiting to be ravished," she said, her voice dripping with challenge. "I've found that pleasuring myself leaves me unsatisfied in ways I can't define." She locked her gaze with his, her smirk daring him. "I had hoped his Lordship might rise to the challenge."
Sasuke's expression remained stoic, but his gaze sharpened, his eyes darkening at her words. The tension between them grew, palpable in the air.
"Or," she continued, her voice soft and mocking, "perhaps you aren't as confident as you seem."
Sasuke's eyes narrowed just a fraction, his jaw tightening. The challenge hung between them, and for a moment, Sakura wondered if he would rise to meet it. There was a shift in his expression—a flicker of something beneath the calm exterior, something she couldn't quite place.
The tension was palpable between them, and Sakura could see by the tight line of his lips that she had struck a nerve. The simmering annoyance was subtle, buried under his usual restraint, but it was there, crackling in the air between them. It thrilled her, knowing she had the power to test his limits, to push him just enough to see how far he'd let her go.
He took a slow, deliberate step forward. One. Two. Three.
She stood her ground, refusing to break eye contact. Her heart raced, and her breath quickened, but she didn't move. Not yet. Not until he did.
Sasuke leaned in, his breath warm on her face. She fought the urge to rise onto her tiptoes, to close the remaining space between them and press her lips to his. She knew the kiss would be like a match striking dry wood, igniting everything. But she waited, watching his every movement, feeling her pulse thrum with the anticipation of it.
Then, in a move as infuriating as it was controlled, he smirked. Just a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, not even a full smile. And instead of giving her what she was silently begging for, he pressed his lips to her cheek. The kiss was slow, hot, lingering—and maddeningly chaste. His arm slid around her waist, pulling her closer while his other hand cupped her cheek.
Sakura's breath caught in her throat. Her heart hammered so loudly she was sure he could hear it. She found herself melting into his touch, her body leaning into his as if magnetized, her eyelids heavy with longing.
"As my lady wishes," he whispered, his lips brushing her ear, sending a shiver of electric anticipation down her spine.
Sasuke's voice was low, almost a whisper, but it carried the weight of promise. "I will take my time, Sakura."
His arm around her waist tightened, pulling her closer until their bodies were flush. His hand spread against the bare skin of her lower back, his fingers warm on the sensitive spot just above where her dress dipped low. The simplicity of the touch, his skin against hers, sent shivers racing down her spine, each nerve ending alight with sensation. She steadied herself by placing her hands on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under her fingertips. It was a grounding pulse that she clung to, determined not to be undone by him so easily.
"In turn, I will take my time with you, Sasuke," she whispered, her voice betraying none of the frantic energy surging through her veins.
The night unfurled slowly, deliberately, as Sasuke's fingers worked the intricate buttons of her gown. Each release was followed by the brush of his lips against the tender skin of her neck, slow and searing, leaving behind trails of heat that made her toes curl in anticipation. Sakura's own hands began their exploration, sliding over the firm planes of his chest, tracing the lines of muscle as she removed his waistcoat with a breathy kiss between each unbuttoning. She clutched his sides, her hands trembling slightly as their mouths met, and the world around them seemed to blur.
The kiss was electrifying. It ignited something primal in her - every nerve in her body lit up as his lips moved over hers, their breath mingling, their mouths exploring, devouring each other. She was dizzy with the lack of air, drunk on the intoxicating sensation of his closeness.
When his fingers slid the straps of her dress off her shoulders, the fabric fell in a soft whisper down her body, pooling at her feet. For a moment, her bravado faltered. A wave of vulnerability crashed over her as she stood there, exposed, semi-naked before him. This was different—more intimate than she had anticipated. For the first time, she was revealing not just her body, but the part of herself she had kept guarded, even from him. This wasn't just seduction anymore. It was raw, personal, and terrifying in its intimacy.
Sasuke's eyes flickered with something she couldn't quite place, his gaze holding hers for a moment longer than she could bear. "Scared?" he asked, his voice maddeningly steady, laced with a hint of cockiness that only he could pull off in a moment like this.
Sakura met his gaze, her breath heavy in the charged air between them. "His lordship wishes very much," she replied, her voice immediate but her arms still held awkwardly over her chest, instinctively shielding herself.
He let out a soft scoff, low and unimpressed, his eyes never leaving hers. There was a tension there, a kind of magnetic pull that held her gaze, making it impossible to look away. Sakura couldn't help but wonder when he had become so irresistibly compelling—or if he had always been this way and she was only now seeing it.
"Perhaps not," he murmured after a beat, and before she could question him, he leaned down, capturing her mouth in another deep, open-mouthed kiss. It was the kind of kiss that stole her breath, that made her lose herself, and her body reacted instantly. His hands began their journey down her arms, over her hips, sliding back up to trace the curve of her waist. Then, without warning, his touch found her breast, his thumb brushing across her nipple, and the sensation was so intense she hissed, gasping into the kiss.
Her mind blanked out as her moans mixed with his name, echoing in the charged space between them. The feel of him against her, the way his hands moved with such deliberate intent—it was enough to make her dizzy with need. His lips left her mouth, kissing a path down her neck, and she was so lost in the haze of pleasure that it wasn't until her legs hit the bed that she realized they had moved.
In a swift, fluid motion, he gently pushed her down onto the mattress. The coolness of rose petals beneath her bare back made her shiver, heightening her awareness of everything—every touch, every breath, every inch of his body hovering over hers. His leg slid between her thighs, and he balanced on one elbow, his weight pressed against her as his gaze locked onto hers once more.
"Scared yet?" he asked, his voice teasing but laced with something deeper. There was concern there, hidden beneath the playful challenge.
Her breath came in shallow gasps, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she met his eyes with equal intensity. Despite everything, she found herself grinning, her hands gliding over his chest, then reaching up to cup his face. "No," she whispered, her voice breathless but certain. And then, with a playful edge, she added, "Ready to be ravished, my lord."
"Hm." His response was low and gruff, almost amused. He studied her, his gaze devouring her with the same intensity she had come to expect from him. Then, without another word, he kissed her again—brief but demanding—before his hands returned to her body. The way he touched her now was different, each movement deliberate and slow, designed to drive her wild. His hands skimmed her skin, teasing and kneading her breasts, sending jolts of sensation through her.
Sakura moaned, the sound breaking from her lips unexpectedly, her body arching into his touch, giving herself fully to the moment, to him. And with every second, with every brush of his lips and hands, she could feel herself unraveling, helpless against the torrent of emotions and sensations overwhelming her.
She found herself writhing, just a being of sensation and nothing else as his hands cupped, squeezed, and explored her breasts. She wasn't ready when he leaned away and she felt the wetness of his mouth sucking away at her aereolas. She keened softly as he pulled a bud with his teeth. Her hands fisted into the sheets, the breath became short, and her body felt like pure sensation as he swirld his tongue, sucked, and flicked her nipples again and again until she felt her vision blurring.
When he came up for a kiss again, she felt the wetness of his mouth feeling cold against the skin of her breasts. "More," she moaned into the kiss, taking his mouth with ferver, wrapping her arms around his neck, roaming her fingers in his hair, and feeling like a firecracker that had just been set aflame.
She keened her disapproval when he pulled away, but barely had any time to do anything as he slid down her thong. The vulnerability hit once more, but this time, he didn't give her room to pull away or even think or blink because his head was immediately between her legs, and his tongue was tasting a long, savoring line up her seam.
She gasped out, seeing stars behind her eyes, forgetting to breathe for a few moments, and then inhaled sharply as he kissed her right on top of her mound. She felt the wetness pooling in, being lapped again and again as his lordship licked away every single time.
"Hnnnnnghhh," she moaned, arching into his mouth, away from the mattress, letting her hands fist into his hair.
His lordship took his time, flicking her clit, rolling his tongue on her mound, teasing her with the tip, the wetness, the sensitivity, his breath, as she gasped and moaned and arched into his mouth, feeling herself coiling tighter, getting wetter, and having her vision seeing black spots.
She writhed when he fully slid his tongue inside her, moaned loudly as he swirled it, pulled out, and did it again and again until the coil inside her tummy sprang loose. The wet sounds, the incessant sucking, the sheer sensation of her pussy being devoured so thoroughly made her buck with pleasure. She rolled her hips in tandem with his tongue until finally her vision went completely blank and the coil loosened. Her entire body stretched out into a juddering orgasm and she rode it out on his mouth.
She felt robbed of all her shame as he came up again. He was breathing just as fast and short as her, and she was glad to see that his gaze was just a tad unsteady, glazed over with desire. His lips gleamed with her wetness and she rubbed her thighs together because it was turning her on again. "Enough ravishing, wife?" he asked, almost mockingly.
She had to take a few moments to organize her thoughts. "N-no," she breathed when she'd finally gathered the jumbled pieces of her mind. Her hands reached out, trembling, unsteady, but she was sure. She started unbuttoning his pants, and felt a quick lick of satisfaction when his eyes widened – just a fraction, just the tiniest fraction, but she was an observant woman. "I believe we still have the main event, my Lord."
There's no preamble as she freed him from his slacks, as he kicked away his briefs and positioned himself over her - just a single, electric nano-second where they locked eyes, breathing heavily as he finally took her. The first time he buried himself inside her was painful – for both of them. Her breath caught as she felt her hymen tearing, her womb welcoming the fullness of him, and a stark shock of pain that she felt all the way up her spine.
By the time he was fully inside her, both of them were panting hard. Their bodies are slick with sweat, pressed against one another, and Sakura didn't know where the pleasure ended and pain began. She felt hot. She felt wanton with need. She found her eyes tearing and her legs wrapped around his hips to find a more comfortable position. She could tell that he was gritting his teeth, trying to hold still for her, and found her arms wrapping tightly around him.
They stayed like that for a few, infinite moments until she felt the pain settling, felt the intense urge of her body to experience the thrust of his hips against her own, the friction of his dick inside her pussy. She knew it was time. "Now," she whispered.
He didn't hold back – pulled all the way out and plunged in balls deep and she cried out in pleasure-pain as he did it again and again and again until she felt the coil tightening within her once more, winding tighter and tighter until she'd reached her peak and the orgasm shuddered through her again. She felt her pussy tightening around his cock, as he thrusted a few more times, then came deep inside of her. She could feel him explode inside, felt the wetness slicking down her legs – blood and semen and pleasure – as he pulled out and fell beside her. Her pleasure was an intense thing – coursing through her veins, electrifying and satisfying each nerve ending as she found herself giving in to tiredness and falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.
When she woke up, he was gone.
The sun filtered through the window, warming her bare skin, but it did nothing to comfort her. The room is too quiet, too empty without him. She blinked, trying to shake off the sleep, only to be startled by the sound of footsteps and the arrival of her personal attendants. They bustled in without so much as a glance, seeing her completely exposed beneath the sheets, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. Before she could even process what was happening, they were leading her to the bathroom, talking amongst themselves in professional, clipped tones.
Sakura, half-awake and still in a haze from the night before, felt the blush spread across her cheeks, reaching the roots of her hair. It felt medieval, like she was royalty from an ancient era being herded around. When they moved to follow her into the bathroom to assist, she snapped out of her daze. "Out. Please. Just... I can bathe myself." Her voice was firmer than she felt, and to her relief, they noded and left her to her privacy.
Alone in the steaming bath, she let out a long breath, sinking into the water, hoping to wash away the confusion and the strange mixture of emotions that had been swirling since last night. What now? She was married. Her life, her identity, was no longer just hers.
When she emerged, refreshed but still uneasy, they walk her through her quarters and introduce her to her wardrobe—one that was far more luxurious than anything she could've ever imagined. Her eyes glided over the clothes, the expensive fabrics and designs, and all she felt was a growing weight in her chest. It qA beautiful, yes, but it all FELT foreign, as if she was slipping into someone else's life, not her own.
Then, there was her personal assistant. Temari, efficient and sharp-eyed, handed her a thick schedule, filled to the brim with appointments, meetings, lessons, and responsibilities. Sakura barely glanced at it before the sheer weight of it hit her like a brick. "What if I die tomorrow?" she muttered under her breath, staring at the impossibly long list. The thought wasn't as dramatic as it seemed; it felt like she'd been scheduled for the next four years of her life.
Temari, overhearing her, calmly reshuffled a few items, adjusting her calendar with the ease of someone who was used to dealing with crises. But even that doesn't help the growing sense of unease clawing at Sakura. It was cold here, colder than she ever imagined. The luxury, the opulence, the servants—they did nothing to warm the icy pit of loneliness that's settled in her chest.
Unwelcome. Unprepared. And most of all—alone.
tbc
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