Page 3 of Demon's Prey

Orcs emerge from the shadows, weapons drawn. My stomach drops—it's a trap. We're quickly surrounded, our weapons knocked from our hands. I swing my fist, connecting with the nearest orc's jaw. The impact reverberates through my bones, but it’s futile. They outnumber us.

An orc grabs my arm, twisting it behind my back. I grit my teeth against the pain, struggling against his grip. Another one slaps iron shackles around my wrists, the cold metal biting into my skin.

Mariel cries out as they bind her too, fear evident in her wide eyes.

"We'll figure something out," she whispers, her voice trembling but determined. "We always do."

I nod, jaw tightening. I can’t let Mariel down. I won’t.

The orcs laugh, a guttural sound that makes my blood boil.

"Tomorrow you'll be at the mercy of the highest bidder," one sneers.

They drag us toward their camp, each step making the chains chafe against my wrists. My heart races, fear clawing at my throat. But I refuse to give up. My mind races for an escape plan. I'm not going to let them sell me like cattle or use me.

The orc camp comes into view—a cluster of ragged tents and makeshift fires casting eerie shadows. They shove us into a small enclosure, the ground cold and unforgiving beneath us.

I stare at the ceiling of our makeshift prison, body aching but spirit unbroken.

"I won’t be a slave," I vow silently to myself. "Not again."

Mariel sits beside me, her eyes reflecting the same resolve.

"We’ll get through this," she murmurs.

I take a deep breath, focusing on the faint glow of my wrist mark—a reminder of my pact with Dazirus and the power within me.

I won't let them break me.

2

DAZIRUS

The arena below me roars with excitement. A ten-headed hydra hisses and thrashes, ensnaring seven hapless humans in its death dance. Blood splatters. Limbs fly. It's a gory spectacle, the kind that sends the crowd into a frenzy.

I yawn.

Not that I don't appreciate a good bloodbath. But once you've seen one man lose his entrails to a multi-headed beast, you've seen them all.

I turn my attention back to my book. An erotic tale of a nobleman and his maid. Now, there's an interesting kind of battle. The play of power and submission, the forbidden lust...it makes the hydra look tame.

"Lord Dazirus," says the little demon to my left.

Zalith, my aide, breaks into my thoughts with his customary disdain. He never did understand the art of leisure.

"The council awaits your decision on the trade agreement, Dread Lord."

"Why would I want to do all of that when I can watch idiots beat each other to death in the arena?" I retort, flipping a page in my book without looking up.

"But Lord Dazirus--"

"No buts, Zalith." I silence him with a wave of my hand. The maid in my story is about to have her corset unlaced by her noble master, and I'll be damned if I let a stuffy trade agreement ruin the moment.

Zalith huffs behind me, his frustration evident in every clipped step he takes around my luxury box. Poor Zalith. He doesn't understand that being a noble demon isn't just about power and politics. It's about savoring every deliciously sinful moment life has to offer.

Like watching men lose their lives to a beast while losing myself in an erotic tale of desire and debauchery.

A particularly loud cheer from the crowd pulls my attention back to the arena. The hydra has claimed another victim, leaving a man's severed arm spinning in the air like a grotesque windmill.

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