Page 98 of Prince of Demons
Georgia’s stomach twisted. The weight of the gathered demons’ attention pressed down on her like a second collar.
“Once a victor is named, his reward must be claimed before us all. Twist her ring to claim her cunt, seed her womb in the arena to cement your victory, and none shall be able to challenge your right as her mate for the rest of eternity.”
A tremble worked its way through Georgia’s body. Her throat felt too tight to swallow. Her first rape would take place in front of all of them. The subsequent ones would last for the rest of her existence.
The King raised his arm. “Begin!”
A voice rang out from the stands. “One million euros.”
Another answered, fast and sharp. “One-point-two.”
The crowd stirred, hungry for the game. The King said nothing, only stood beside her like a curator beside his prize.
Georgia didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her clit still ached between her legs from the last tug, nerves tight and raw. She swallowed the lump in her throat, the ruby-encrusted collar around her neck constricting the movement. Her wrists throbbed in their gold shackles. She kept her gaze on the floor ahead, on a crack in the marble no one else would notice.
“Three-point-four,” someone called, raising another rumble amongst the lords.
Then a third voice—smooth, certain—cut through them. “I challenge.”
Silence fell.
From the front row, Prince Aragalan rose. He adjusted his leather bracers and stepped down toward the arena floor, his eyes never leaving Georgia.
He smirked at her as he passed her platform. No leering. No filth. Just confidence. Like he already knew what her body would feel like submitting under his.
The lump in Georgia’s throat became too big to swallow past the collar. Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked rapidly, willing them away. It didn’t help.
The other demon lord—the one who’d bid three-point-four million for her—stepped into the arena after the Prince.
The two faced each other, nodded once, then looked to the King, waiting for the signal.
The King raised his hand, then dropped it sharply.
The arena erupted.
The two demons surged toward each other, bare fists crackling with shadow. Magic spilled from their skin like smoke—black and thick, twisting around their limbs as they collided. The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed off the marble walls. Georgia flinched.
A fist connected with Aragalan’s side, sending him skidding across the blood-slick floor. He snarled, rising to his feet, mouth already smeared with red. The magic around him coiled tighter, denser now, wrapping him like a second skin.
The other demon advanced, but too slow. Aragalan moved like a blade. He ducked the next blow, caught the other’s arm, and drove his elbow up into the joint with a sickening crack. The man screamed. Then Aragalan shoved him back with a blast of shadow, slamming him into the ground so hard the stone beneath cracked.
The crowd cheered.
Blood streaked the arena floor now. The other demon lay groaning, one arm bent wrong, blood leaking from his mouth.
Aragalan turned toward the stands, chest heaving, hands still dripping.
“Challenge me,” he said, voice low and thick with triumph. “And I will use your blood to lubricate my cock when I claim the Breeder as mine. There is no besting me. There is no outbidding me. There is only defeat.”
Silence stretched, heavy and taut. No one moved.
Then—“Four million,” someone called from the upper tier.
The crowd stirred again. All eyes turned to Aragalan.
His lip curled. “Then come and take your chance,” he snarled, already pacing toward the center, blood still slick on his hands.
The challenger rose, stepping down the marble stairs with deliberate calm. His gaze locked with Aragalan’s, power rising in dark tendrils from his skin.
