Page 24 of Bargain with the Demon King
"Well, if you're going to be nearly naked, might as well own it." I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin. "Maybe this is empowering. Maybe I'm starting a demon fashion revolution.Chad would faint if he saw me in this—he gets nervous when I wear my hair up because it shows too much neck."
The adjoining door opens without warning.
Azzaron fills the doorway, dressed in formal black that makes his ash-pale skin glow. His horns catch the firelight, wickedly sharp, and his eyes—those impossible black depths with gold threads—track down my body with the patience of a predator who knows the prey is already caught.
"Turn around."
I do, slowly, feeling his gaze like touch everywhere the fabric isn't. When I complete the circle, his jaw works, muscles tensing, and something dangerous flickers through his expression.
"Those parts—" His hand rises, claws ghosting just above where the solid fabric covers my breast, not touching but close enough that I feel the heat radiating from his palm. "These are mine alone. No one else sees what belongs to me."
"Possessive much?" I try for levity. "Though I suppose it's sweet, in a 'I'll eviscerate anyone who looks' kind of way. Very romantic."
"Completely." His claw traces the air above my hip, following the line where sheer meets solid. The almost-touch makes my skin prickle, every nerve reaching toward him. "You're about to walk into a room full of demons who see humans as entertainment. This dress makes you untouchable—clearly marked as mine, too valuable to test."
"Or it makes me look exactly like what they expect—your toy."
"Would you prefer that, or would you prefer Malphas's hands on you again?" His voice drops to that dangerous register, and his fingers finally make contact—the briefest touch against my bare shoulder that sends electricity shooting down my spine."Because those are your options. Be mine publicly, or watch me kill anyone who thinks you're available."
"Some choice. Though I appreciate the murder option. Very thoughtful." I swallow hard, trying to ignore how my body leans toward him. "Chad would just tell me to ignore unwanted attention. You're offering a massacre. It's weirdly touching."
"The only choice that keeps you alive." He steps back, offering his arm. "Ready?"
"Do I look ready to be paraded nearly naked through your court?"
"You look—" He pauses, and something raw flashes across his face, gone before I can catalog it. "Devastating. Exactly what you need to look."
I take his arm because what else can I do? His muscles are stone beneath the fabric, coiled so tight I can feel the tremor of something barely restrained. Good. At least I'm not the only one affected by this insane situation.
The walk to the dining hall stretches forever. Every demon we pass stops, stares, catalogues. Their eyes track the exposed skin, the way Azzaron's hand rests possessively on my lower back, how my body moves under the gossamer fabric. Some sneer. Some look hungry. All of them understand the message: I belong to the King.
"Almost there," Azzaron murmurs, thumb stroking my spine through a sheer panel. The touch sends sparks straight to my core. "Remember—you're entranced by me. Devoted. Your world begins and ends with my pleasure."
"Right. Your magical sex thrall. Every girl's dream role." I force brightness into my voice. "At least it's memorable. No one else can say they've played the Demon King's consort. That's definitely going on my résumé."
"Some would consider it an honor."
"Some have terrible taste in honors. But I'm choosing to see it as performance art. Very avant-garde."
His chuckle rumbles through his chest, vibrating where our bodies touch. "That's the last defiant thing you can say until we leave that room. Understood?"
"Understood, Your Majesty." I put a breathless quality in my voice, testing the performance.
His fingers tighten on my back, claws pricking slightly through fabric. "Dangerous game, little optimist."
The dining hall doors open, and my performed breathlessness becomes real.
The space transforms at night—soul-stones pulse in waves across the walls, creating undulating patterns of stolen light. Long tables overflow with demon nobility lounging in decadent excess. Food that shouldn't exist gleams on platters—meat that bleeds purple, fruits that glow from within, bread that steams without heat. Wine runs black in crystal goblets, thick as blood but smelling of burnt sugar and nightshade.
But it's the humans that make my chest tight.
They're everywhere. Serving food with empty eyes. Kneeling beside chairs, heads bowed. Some wear even less than I do, displayed across demons' laps, being fed by hand or touched casually, possessively. One woman sits motionless while a demon with spiral horns runs claws through her hair, occasionally pulling hard enough to make her gasp. Another man kneels between a demoness's thighs, and I force myself not to think about what's happening under the table.
"At least they're alive," I whisper to myself, finding the silver lining with effort. "Maybe some chose this. Maybe they're writing mental poetry about the experience."
"Focus on me," Azzaron commands softly, guiding me toward the head table. "Only me."
I force myself to look at him, to lean into his body the way someone enchanted would. His arm slides around my waist, pulling me against his side. The heat of him burns through the nothing-fabric, and I have to remember this is performance. Just performance. Chad gets uncomfortable holding hands in public—Azzaron is about to claim me in front of hundreds.
