Page 37 of Bargain with the Demon King
"Tell me about the whispers." Azzaron's voice stays conversational, but his hand tightens on my waist.
"Nothing to tell."
"Adraya."
"What do you want me to say? That demons scratch at my door? That they whisper about what you do to me? How the King's whore must be exceptional to earn such privilege?" I laugh, and it sounds like breaking. "They're not wrong. You did fuck me in front of everyone. Might as well wear the title."
His claws extend slightly, pricking through fabric. "You're not—"
"Not what? Not your whore? Then what am I? Your pet? Your entertainment? Your proof that even demon kings make mistakes?"
"You're mine."
"Right. Your nothing." I pull away from his touch. "Court's almost over. Can I go back to my room and continue not existing?"
He doesn't answer. When the session ends, I leave without dismissal. The corridors blur past, stone and shadow and soul-light all running together like watercolors in rain. My chambers offer no relief, just familiar emptiness with better walls.
The green dress pools on the floor where I drop it. I pull on something shapeless and crawl into bed though it's barely midday. The ceiling has thirteen stones. I count them because counting is safer than thinking. The thirteenth has a crack that means nothing. Like everything else.
Through the wall, Azzaron paces. The sound should comfort—proof someone exists nearby. Instead, it reminds me that I'm keeping the Demon King awake with my persistent nothing. Even my emptiness inconveniences others.
A knock at the adjoining door. Soft. Almost hesitant.
"I'm asleep."
"No, you're not." He enters anyway, and I don't bother sitting up. He stands at the foot of my bed, this creature of impossible power reduced to watching me count ceiling stones. "This can't continue."
"Watch it continue." Stone nine has a weird discoloration. "I'm excellent at continuing things that should stop. Ask Chad."
"Stop mentioning him."
"Why? He's the reason I'm here. The reason you own me. The reason for everything." I finally look at him directly. "Did you know? When you took my soul, did you know he was already fucking her?"
The question lands like a blade. He goes still, and that tells me everything.
"You knew." Not an accusation. Just truth. "You knew I was trading everything for nothing."
"I knew he pushed you toward danger. I knew he was a coward. I didn't know about the woman."
"But you suspected."
"I suspected he wasn't worth your soul. No one ever is."
"Then why didn't you stop me?"
"Because you wouldn't have believed me. You needed to see it yourself."
The logic of it sits heavy. He's right. I would have defended Chad, painted Azzaron as the liar, found silver linings in gold-threaded warnings. The optimist in me would have twisted truth into palatability.
"I hate you for being right."
"I know."
"I hate him for making you right."
"I know that too."
"I hate myself most of all."
