Page 53 of Bargain with the Demon King
"The bar for success gets lower every day." I step back from his embrace, adjusting my dress with hands that barely shake. His eyes track the movement, lingering where fabric clings to my hips. "Where's our desperate merchant?"
"Behind you. Try not to laugh."
I turn and immediately understand why. The man kneeling in the dirt makes the muscles in my back tighten, an old, familiar revulsion I no longer have to hide. Sixty, maybe. Soft in that way that speaks of indulgence without effort. His clothes cost more than most families see in a year, but sweat stains spread from his armpits, and something that might be wine or might be vomit crusts his collar. When he looks up, his eyes go straight to my breasts, linger, then drop to my thighs, then back to my breasts.
"Please," he wheezes, and his breath carries the stench of rotting teeth and sour wine. "I need—I deserve—I've earned—"
"Stop." I circle him slowly, noting how his eyes follow my hips. "Let me guess. Your wife left you for someone who doesn't sweat through silk. Your son won't introduce you to his friends because you leer at them. And his fiancée—pretty little thing, probably half your age—won't let you within ten feet without witnesses present."
His mouth falls open. "How did you—"
"You reek of rejected privilege." I complete the circle, stopping just outside his reach. His fingers twitch toward my skirt. "You had forty years to develop a personality beyond'has money.' Instead you just accumulated flesh and expected everyone to pretend it's attractive."
"That's not—you don't understand—Celeste would want me if I was younger—"
"Celeste. Your son's fiancée." I crouch in front of him, maintaining distance but forcing him to meet my eyes. "The one you cornered at your wife's farewell party? Offered her diamonds to sit on your lap?"
He pales. "She told you?"
"Everyone knows. She laughed so hard she cried. Your son had to physically remove you from the room while you kept insisting she was 'playing hard to get.'" I stand, brushing imaginary dirt from my skirt. "Youth won't fix that humiliation. You'll just be young enough that her rejection hurts worse."
"You're wrong! If I was handsome again, virile—"
"You were never handsome. Your wife confirmed that in her leaving letter. What was it she wrote? 'Thirty years of closing my eyes and thinking of literally anyone else.'"
Azzaron makes a sound that might be suppressed laughter. His shadow falls across me, and when I glance back, his eyes burn bright gold, tracking my every movement with an intensity that makes heat pool low in my belly.
"She's vicious today," he observes, voice pitched for my ears. "I like it."
The approval makes something savage bloom in my chest. I turn back to the merchant, who's now reaching for my ankle. I step on his fingers. Not hard enough to break. Just enough to make him whimper.
"Don't touch. You haven't earned it." I grind my heel slightly. "Tell me what you really want. Not youth. What you actually think youth will buy you."
"Women! Young women! They should want me—I have money, power—"
"You have an estate built on your father's success and breath that could peel paint." I release his fingers, watch him cradle them. "But fine. Your soul for youth. Physical youth only—your mind remains exactly as limited as it currently is."
"What about—will I be handsome?"
"You'll be young. Handsome is a different bargain entirely. So is a functional penis, before you ask."
"But—"
"Actually, let me be specific." I lean down, letting him smell my perfume but keeping just out of reach. "You'll have the body of twenty-five. The same face, just less weathered. The same penis, just attached to tighter skin. Celeste still won't fuck you. Your son will still be embarrassed. Women will still cross streets to avoid you. But you'll be young while it happens."
"That's not what I—"
"It's exactly what you asked for. Youth. Take it or leave it."
He looks at Azzaron, seeking male solidarity. "Surely we can negotiate—"
"The lady's terms are final." Azzaron's voice carries dark amusement. "Though I would have mentioned your tendency to cry during sex. That's not changing either."
"I don't—"
"Three witnesses say otherwise. Your wife, her sister, and that servant you paid to pretend you satisfied her." I extend my hand. "Your soul for youth. Decide."
He grabs my hand, fingers clammy and grasping. "Yes! I accept! Youth for my soul!"
