Page 27 of Bargain with the Demon King
"Even if what's yours doesn't want to be owned?"
"Especially then." He reaches out, one claw tracing my cheek with impossible gentleness. "You're safe now, Adraya. That's what matters."
I want to argue, to rage about the humiliation, the public claiming, the way my body betrayed me. But I'm exhausted, wrung out from performance and pleasure and the weight of being watched.
"I need to sleep."
"Of course." He moves toward the adjoining door, then pauses. "You were magnificent tonight. Truly."
"I was your puppet."
"You were powerful. You brought the Demon King to beast form in public. Do you know how many centuries it's been since that happened?"
"I didn't mean to—"
"I know. That's what makes it remarkable." He disappears into his room, leaving me alone with the echo of what happened.
I collapse onto my bed, still wearing the ruined dress because I can't bear to be naked right now. Every nerve still hums from his touch, from the climax that everyone witnessed, from the dark thrill of being claimed so thoroughly.
The worst part? Tomorrow I'll have to face them all again, knowing what they saw. Knowing what I let happen. Knowing that some treacherous part of me wants it to happen again. Though maybe that's not the worst part—maybe that's just growth. Maybe I'm learning what it feels like to be wanted completely.
Through the wall, I hear Azzaron moving restlessly. The beast must still be close to the surface, fighting his control. Good. Let him struggle with what happened too. Let him wonder why his carefully planned performance became something real, something that brought out the monster he keeps leashed.
But even as I think it, I remember his arms around me, carrying me from that hall. The way he shielded me with his body. The absolute authority in his voice when he called me his. The way his beast emerged not from lust but from the need to protect.
Chad brought me wildflowers. Azzaron brings me to my knees.
Guess which one makes me feel more alive.
Chapter 10
Azzaron
My bones ache with the urge to splinter and reshape. The beast wants out, clawing at the inside of my skin, and it takes every ounce of my will to hold my human form.
Each step away from the dining hall requires conscious effort—muscles locked, breathing measured, claws retracted enough not to shred her skin where I hold her. The demon lords' whispers chase us through corridors, but all I hear is her breathing against my chest, rapid and shallow. The way she trembles in my arms makes the beast want to turn back, paint the dining hall with their entrails for witnessing her vulnerability.
I won't.
Control. Always control. Except tonight I lost it spectacularly, publicly, in a way that will have consequences. My beast hasn't surfaced in court for three centuries. Now every demon in that hall knows the mortal affects me beyond casual ownership.
"I need to stand." Her voice comes out rough, raw from crying my name.
I set her down carefully once we reach our chambers. She sways but catches herself against the wall, that destroyed dress hanging off her, showing too much skin through tears my claws created. Tiny drops of blood mark her thigh—I grippedtoo hard, let the beast too close. The sight makes something violent rise in my chest. Not at her. At myself.
"Go." The word comes out layered, beast and man occupying the same throat. "Sleep."
She disappears into her room without argument, and I hear the soft thud of her collapsing onto the bed. Still wearing that ruined dress. Still carrying my scent, my touch, the memory of what I did to her in front of the entire demon court.
I enter my own chambers and strip off the formal coat, throwing it into the fire. It carries the stench of the dining hall—arousal, blood, fear, the wet sounds of demons using their humans. But mostly it carries her scent, sweet and mortal and utterly wrong for my world.
The mirror reflects what I've become. My form flickers—man, beast, something between. Horns elongate then recede. Skin ripples with scales that shouldn't exist on this plane. My shoulders broaden, narrow, crack with the effort of containing what wants out. The soul-marks across my chest pulse in agitation, thousands of desperate bargains etched into my skin. But hers burns brightest, spreading further than it did this morning, creeping toward my heart with stubborn inevitability.
I trace her mark with one claw. It responds to touch, warming, almost purring against my palm. No other mark has ever behaved this way. They're supposed to be static, dead things. Receipts of transaction. Hers moves, lives, reaches through my skin toward her presence in the next room.
The performance worked. No demon will dare touch her now, not after seeing my beast emerge. But the cost—
I press my palms against the mirror, watching my reflection fracture. She came apart in my lap, crying my name while they watched. The memory makes my cock harden again, but rage follows immediately. I did that to her. Reducedher to entertainment. Made her perform pleasure for their amusement.
