Page 11 of Bargain with the Demon King
"Every shift of your body against those sheets. Every little sigh when you thought of him. That particularly interesting sound you made around midnight." He leans down, breath hot against my ear while his horns brush my hair. "Did you touch yourself thinking of your precious Chad? Or was it something else keeping you restless?"
I can't breathe. Can't think.
"I didn't—"
"No? Then perhaps tonight you will." He straightens, runs one claw along my jaw, stopping just short of drawing blood. "The walls are thin, little mortal. I hear everything. Every. Single. Sound."
He leaves me standing in the courtyard with demons watching and Shadowsteeds breathing their impossible breath. The hollow in my chest throbs, reminder of what I've lost.
But worse is the ache between my thighs, the ghost of his claw on my skin, the knowledge that tonight he'll be listening to every sound I make.
And the darkest truth: part of me wants him to hear.
Chapter 5
Adraya
The black blood won't leave my mind.
Not because it horrifies me—though it should. Because of how efficiently Azzaron protected those humans. Swift, decisive, no hesitation. He saw a threat to innocent people and eliminated it. There's something noble in that, beneath all the violence.
I follow him through the fortress corridors, trying to memorize the route while watching how his jaw tightens with each step. The way his horns catch the light makes them look less like a weapon and more like a crown. Which makes sense, really. He is a king. A king who protects his subjects, even the human ones.
"You're staring." He doesn't turn, but I hear amusement in his voice. "Fascinated by demon justice?"
"Fascinated that you have justice at all. The stories make demons sound like mindless monsters."
"Disappointed?"
"Actually, no." I skip a step to keep pace with his longer stride. "I love that there are rules here. Structure. That you care enough to enforce them."
He stops at a massive door, different from the others—thicker, older, humming with a power that vibrates deep in my bones, making my molars buzz. "Care is a strong word."
"What would you call it then?"
"Practicality." His hand hovers over the door's surface, not quite touching. The hum intensifies. "Chaos is bad for business."
"You totally have a soft spot for humans and won't admit it."
"Perhaps you'd like to test that theory." He pushes the door open. "Welcome to my vault."
The sound hits first—not heard but felt, vibrating through bone and blood. Thousands of heartbeats that aren't heartbeats, thousands of breaths that aren't breaths. The vault stretches into darkness, walls lined floor to ceiling with soul-stones. They pulse in rhythm, creating waves of light that make me dizzy.
"Every bargain ever made with my bloodline." His voice cuts through the oppressive thrum. "seventeen thousand years of mortal desperation."
I step forward, and the sensation doubles. Each stone holds someone's essence. Someone who stood where I stood, made the same choice I made. The rough crystals glow with inner light—some bright as stars, some soft as candles, all of them beautiful in their own way.
"seventeen thousand love stories." The words escape before I can stop them.
Azzaron turns sharply. "Love stories?"
"Look—" I point to a cluster of stones pulsing in sync. "Those ones are keeping time together. They must have known each other. And that bright one there, it's practically singing. Someone traded their soul for something that made them that happy."
"That's not how soul-stones work."
"How do you know? Have you asked them?" I move deeper into the vault, drawn by the strange beauty of it all. "Oh, they definitely tell each other stories. I can feel it."
"They're fragments of essence trapped in crystal. They don't have consciousness."
