Page 16 of Bargain with the Demon King
"This isn't real."
"Doesn't matter." His mouth hovers at my throat, not kissing, just breathing heat against my pulse. "You'll wake aching either way."
The dream shatters.
I bolt upright, sheets twisted around me, skin flushed and fevered. My nightgown clings with sweat. Between my thighs, wet heat that has nothing to do with fear. Everything to do with want.
Through the adjoining wall, silence. But I swear I hear satisfaction in that quiet, as if he knows exactly what kind of dream just broke me awake.
Morning arrives with obligations I can't meet his eyes through.
Court assembly at dawn. I take my position beside his throne, and my body betrays me with memory. Every casual movement—him signing death warrants, tilting his head atpetitioners, drumming claws against obsidian—makes my skin prickle.
His hands. I can't stop staring at his hands. Those same claws that traced my skin in the dream now tap against his throne with casual boredom. When he reaches for a document, I track the movement, remembering how that hand gripped my hip.
"You're distracted." He doesn't look at me, but amusement colors his tone.
"Taking in the scenery." I force lightness into my voice. "All these demons genuflecting really sets a mood."
"What kind of mood?"
Dangerous question. The kind that makes me remember his mouth at my throat, his voice calling me out for burning. "Educational."
"Hmm." His hand settles at my waist, thumb finding the same spot from the dream. Coincidence. Has to be. "Pay attention. Lord Raziel approaches, and he's particularly tedious."
The demon who enters stands taller than most, antlers sprouting from his temples, carved with symbols that hurt to read. His marble skin carries a peculiar sheen, and when he speaks, contempt drips from every grinding syllable.
Azzaron translates, sounding bored. "He questions the wisdom of keeping mortals in the fortress."
"Just the one mortal, Majesty." Raziel switches to the common tongue, his accent thick but words clear. Each one aimed at me. "Your pet. Soft and useless, taking up space meant for those with actual power."
The throne room goes silent. Not quiet—silent. Every demon stops breathing.
"Pet." Azzaron tastes the word. Casual. Too casual. "Is that what you think she is?"
"What else? She cannot fight. Cannot forge contracts. Cannot even speak our tongue." Raziel's eyes find mine, dismissive. "She's decoration at best. A liability at worst. The mortal villages laugh that their king keeps a human toy."
I should defend myself. Say something clever and cutting. But the words stick in my throat because part of me wonders if he's right. What am I here except Azzaron's acquisition? A soul he bought for amusement?
"Adraya." Azzaron stands, and the room collectively steps back. "What would you do with someone who insulted your property?"
Strange question. "I don't own property."
"Hypothetically."
"I'd probably make them apologize. Maybe buy me flowers." I try for levity, but my voice shakes. "Punishment should fit the crime."
"How wonderfully merciful." He steps down from the throne, his boots making no sound on the stone, as if he's not so much walking as he is imposing his will upon the ground. "I am not merciful."
What happens next redefines my understanding of authority.
Azzaron doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't shift to beast form. Doesn't even touch Raziel. He simply exists, and his presence fills the room until there's no air left. Every demon drops to their knees. Some prostrate themselves completely. The temperature plummets.
"You forget yourself." Still conversational. Still calm. But power radiates from him in waves that make my bones ache. "She is mine. My claim. My choice. When you insult her, you challenge my authority."
Raziel tries to speak. Nothing comes out.
"You think her soft?" Azzaron circles him the way he circled me in the dream, but this holds no seduction. Only threat. "She survived selling her soul. She stands in my court while demons cower. She endures what would break you in a heartbeat."
