Page 17 of Bargain with the Demon King
"Majesty—"
"You're dismissed. If you speak of her again—if you so much as think her name—I'll hang your entrails from my throne as decoration." He pauses. "Since you're so concerned with the aesthetic value of my choices."
Raziel flees. Actually runs from the throne room, abandoning all dignity.
Azzaron returns to his throne, settling as if nothing happened. His hand returns to my waist, possessive now. Claiming. Every demon in the room sees it, understands it.
"You didn't have to do that." My voice comes out smaller than intended.
"Yes. I did." His thumb strokes once, deliberate, over the fabric. "No one questions what's mine."
The word sends heat straight through me. Not fear. Something worse. It's the dizzying, terrifying thrill of being a treasure he would kill to protect.
Chad never defended me. Not once. When merchants overcharged, he'd tell me not to make a scene. When drunks made crude comments, he'd pull me away, tell me to ignore them. Always the path of least resistance.
But Azzaron just threatened to eviscerate a lord for calling me soft.
The remainder of court passes in a haze. I catalog every shift of his body, every drum of his claws, every subtle claim of ownership. When he dismisses the assembly, his hand slides from my waist to my lower back, guiding me from the room.
"You're pleased." He observes as we walk. "Why?"
"No one's ever defended me without hesitation before."
"Your precious Chad doesn't leap to your honor?"
"Chad prefers to avoid conflict." The admission stings. "He says it's strategic."
"It's cowardice." We reach my chambers. "Will you join me for dinner?"
The question stops me cold. After the dream, after his protection, after the way my body still hums from both—I can't. Sitting across from him, pretending I didn't wake up aching, pretending his defense didn't thrill me in ways that have nothing to do with gratitude...
"I'm tired." The lie tastes wrong. "The court session was... intense."
His expression shifts—there, then gone. Disappointment? "As you wish."
He leaves, and I hate how empty the space feels without him.
My dinner arrives, but I can't eat. The dream keeps replaying. His hands. His voice. The accusation that I burn for monsters.
Through the wall, I hear him moving. The soft clink of glass. The scrape of his chair. Alone again, because I'm too much a coward to face what's building between us.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to block out the memory of gold-threaded black, of claws that could destroy but don't, of protection that asks for nothing except acceptance of ownership.
Chad would be horrified. Sweet, safe Chad who brings wildflowers and writes terrible poetry. Chad who loves me, who I saved, who must be desperately worried.
But Chad never made me feel like this. Protected and endangered simultaneously. Valuable enough to threaten lords over. Worth defending without question or hesitation.
When did the Demon King become my safety?
When did I start wanting to burn?
The questions follow me to bed, where I lie awake, terrified to sleep. Terrified of what dreams might come. Terrified of how much I want them to. But a sliver of curiosity cuts through the fear. What happens next? Finding the angle, the unexpected advantage, is what I do. And if I must find a silver lining, I'll find it even in a demon's dream.
Through the wall, that same satisfied silence. As if he knows exactly what war I'm fighting.
As if he's already certain who will win.
Chapter 7
