Page 54 of Bargain with the Demon King
Power floods through me—not mine, but conducted through me. The sensation burns cold, like swallowing starlight, like drowning in reverse. The merchant gasps, back arching, eyes rolling white. I feel his essence, pathetic and thin, eager to detach from his worthless flesh. It tastes like spoiled wine andfestering disappointment. I want to pull it free. Want to tear it from his body and crush it between my fingers. The hunger for it makes my teeth ache.
But I can't complete the extraction. Don't have that ability. The power builds, burning through my veins, begging for release.
Azzaron steps behind me, his chest against my back, his hand covering mine where it grips the merchant's. His claws trace my wrist, deliberate and possessive, and suddenly the extraction completes. The soul tears free in a rush that makes me gasp. He shapes it against my palm—my hand under his, learning the motion—into a stone so dim it barely qualifies as light. Weak yellow, like piss diluted with water.
"Pathetic," he murmurs against my ear, still pressed against me. "Barely worth the effort. But you did beautifully."
The merchant scrambles away, not even thanking us. Probably rushing to the nearest brothel to test equipment that won't work any better young than old. I wipe my hand on my dress, trying to remove the memory of his clammy touch, but the hunger lingers. That dark satisfaction of holding someone's fate and finding it wanting.
"How did that feel?" Azzaron asks, pulling me back against him for the return journey. His hands settle on my waist, thumbs pressing into my hip bones.
"Like taking candy from a particularly stupid baby who deserved to starve anyway."
He laughs—sharp, genuine, surprised. The sound vibrates through his chest where I'm pressed against him. "You're developing quite the edge, little optimist."
"I'm not an optimist anymore. I'm a realist who's discovered most people are worth less than the meat they're made of." The world tears again, rebuilding as demon stone andeternal twilight. "The merchant's soul barely glowed. He's worth almost nothing."
"Most aren't. Genuine value is rare." We materialize in his chambers rather than mine. He releases me slowly, hands dragging across my waist, claws catching fabric. "You, however, handled that with impressive cruelty."
"You helped. The crying during sex was a nice touch."
"Truth usually is." He moves to his desk, pulling out a ledger, but his eyes stay on me. "You wanted to tear his soul out yourself. I felt it."
"I wanted to crush it. Watch it crumble." The admission should horrify me. Instead it just sits there, honest and sharp. "Is that wrong?"
"That's evolution." He sets down his pen, turns to face me fully. "You're growing teeth. Learning to bite. The question is what you'll devour first."
"Maybe merchants who grab at my ankles."
"You already did. His fingers will ache for weeks." He approaches, movements liquid and predatory. "The way you applied just enough pressure to cause pain, but not enough to break bone. You measured his suffering down to the ounce."
"You have a thing for women stepping on people?"
"I have a thing for you taking control." He stops just close enough that I feel his heat. "For you discovering how good power tastes. For the way your eyes went dark when he reached for you."
"They did not."
"They did. Almost black. Like you were deciding whether to break his wrist or his dignity first." His hand rises, fingers ghosting along my jaw without quite touching. "You chose dignity. More lasting damage."
"Speaking from experience?"
"Speaking from observation." His thumb hovers over my bottom lip. "You're becoming something dangerous."
"I'm becoming something cruel."
"Same thing, prettier word." He leans closer, and I smell ash and power and that dark spice that makes rational thought difficult. "Cruelty suits you. Makes your eyes bright. Makes you stand straighter. Makes you look like you could devour the world and laugh while it burns."
"That's not who I am."
"That's exactly who you're becoming." His fingers finally touch, trailing from my jaw to my throat, pausing at the twilight necklace. "And I find it fucking magnificent."
The profanity from him—rare, deliberate—sends heat straight between my legs. "Azzaron—"
"Dinner?" But he doesn't step back, stays close enough that I have to tilt my head to meet his eyes. "Here. Unless you need distance to process your newfound bloodlust."
"It's not bloodlust. It's just... appreciation for justice."
"Justice." He smirks, fangs visible. "Is that what we're calling it?"
