Page 21 of Bargain with the Demon King
"That was cruel." But she doesn't sound surprised anymore. She's adapting, learning the shape of true cruelty.
"That was a waste of my time." I start walking back through the veil between worlds, feeling her follow. Her presence tugs at me through the bond, warm and insistent. "Not every bargain is a love story, little optimist."
"His poor wife." She matches my pace, and I slow slightly to keep her close enough that I can smell her—lavender soap and mortal warmth. "She's probably been dealing with his gambling for years."
"She's been fucking his brother for years. They deserve each other." The fortress materializes around us, familiar shadows and soul-light. "Does that bother you? That I enabled him?"
"You gave him what he asked for. That's not enabling, that's just... transaction." She surprises me with the pragmatism. "Besides, you said he'll get the luck he deserves. That sounds appropriately ominous."
"Perceptive." I stop in the main corridor, considering. She's been here long enough to know the basic layout. Time to test both her and my court. See what she does with marginal freedom. See who's stupid enough to touch what's mine. "You may explore the keep on your own for the next hour."
Her entire face transforms—pure joy that makes something in my chest tighten. "Really?"
"Don't make me regret it." I wave her off, watching how excitement makes her practically vibrate. "Stay within the fortress walls. And Adraya?" She turns back, eyebrows raised. "If anyone bothers you, scream. I'll hear you."
The promise hangs between us, heavy with meanings she doesn't fully grasp. She nods and practically skips away, and I force myself not to follow immediately. Let her think she has privacy. Let the court think she's unguarded.
I return to my chambers, stripping off the shirt that reeks of the gambler's desperation. His sweat, his piss, the stench of greed—it clings to fabric and makes my skin crawl. Pathetic creatures, these desperate mortals, leaving their weakness on everything they touch.
The mirror reflects what seventeen thousand years of bargains have done to me. Each soul claimed marks my skin in spreading patterns—geometric sigils that pulse faintly with trapped light. Every inch from neck to feet carries someone's desperation made permanent. They layer so densely onmy torso that bare skin is memory. My arms are sleeves of overlapping scripts. My legs bear seventeen millennia of accumulated need. Even my fingers carry delicate chains of marks, wrapping each digit in proof of bargains sealed. My toes, the arch of my feet, the hollow of my throat—all claimed by spreading signatures of souls taken.
Only my face remains untouched. That was my one rule, my single vanity. Let them mark everything else, but my face stays mine alone.
The oldest marks have faded to silver scars against ash-pale skin. The newer ones still burn gold. Where they overlap most densely—across my ribs, down my spine—they create topographies of greed and love and terror made visible.
Some overlap, creating dense networks where particularly powerful souls were claimed. Warriors leave thick, bold lines. Lovers leave delicate scripts. Parents trading for their children create protective circles. Each bargain etches itself according to its nature—the soul's essence deciding its own memorial on my flesh.
My fingers trace the newest addition, just below my left collarbone. Adraya's mark burns different from the others—not gold or silver but something between, shifting like dawn light. The pattern is a beautiful, chaotic heresy against the rigid geometry of the others. It loops and spirals, spreading wider than any single soul should, as if it's alive and actively resisting the order of my skin.
It still glows as if fresh, though it's been days. Usually, the marks settle within hours, becoming part of the permanent collection. But hers pulses with stubborn life, warm under my fingertips. Sometimes I swear it moves, spreading another fraction across my skin when I'm not watching. Yesterday it reached my shoulder. Today it's creeping toward my heart.
Through the bond, I feel her wandering the fortress—that bright pulse of her essence that calls to me through the connection forged when I claimed her. She greets servants who don't know how to respond to her cheerfulness. She finds the music room and gasps at instruments that shouldn't exist. She hums to herself, off-key but earnest.
I think about her curves in that blue dress, the way fabric clings to her hips, the shadow between her breasts when she leans forward. How she bites her lower lip when concentrating. The way her pulse jumps at her throat when I get too close. My body responds to the thoughts, and I force myself to focus on getting dressed rather than what I'd like to do to her.
I pull on a clean shirt, black fabric sliding over the testament of centuries. The marks disappear beneath cloth, but I still feel them—especially hers, throbbing with each heartbeat. A constant reminder of what I've taken. What I hold. What makes her mine.
The sensation of her mark against my skin is different from the others—not just warmth but something alive, almost aware. As if her ridiculous optimism infected even the physical manifestation of our bargain. It pulses when she laughs. Burns hotter when she's near. Sometimes I swear it reaches for her through my skin.
Then her emotions spike—sharp, sudden fear that cuts through her usual warmth. The terror tastes metallic through our bond, and beneath it, revulsion. Disgust. Someone has dared—
I move without thinking, letting the fortress shadows carry me toward her. The fear intensifies, and I hear her voice now—"Please, I need to go"—and then a laugh that isn't hers.
I find them in the eastern corridor. Lord Malphas has her pressed against the wall, his bulk caging her in. His handsare on her—one at her waist, claws catching the fabric, the other reaching for her breast while she tries to twist away.
"Such soft skin for a mortal." His claws catch her dress, and I see the tear forming, exposing the curve of her hip. "The King keeps you close, but he's not here now, is he? I can smell how warm you are. How sweet you'd taste."
Adraya tries to duck under his arm, but he blocks her, pressing closer. His hand slides up her ribs, and she makes a sound—half fear, half disgust—that makes something in me snap.
Not break. Snap. Like bones between teeth.
I cross the space in one movement, grabbing Malphas by the throat and hurling him into the opposite wall. Stone cracks under the impact. My beast form flickers through—claws extending, horns elongating, vision sharpening until I can count every drop of his blood as it wells.
"Your Majesty—" He chokes, scrambling backward.
"You touched what's mine." My voice comes out layered, a bass rumble and a human snarl occupying the same throat, the sound vibrating the very stone under my feet. "You put your worthless hands on her. You made her afraid."
"She's just a mortal—"
