Page 64 of Bargain with the Demon King
"Tell the King he can eat his own dreams since he's so fond of consuming things that aren't his!" I pick up another goblet, weigh it in my hand. "Actually, tell him exactly that. Word for word."
"Miss, please—"
The goblet explodes against the door. "GO. AWAY."
They do. Finally. Leaving me with broken glass, scattered pages, and the taste of him still burning my tongue. My body betrays me with sense memory—his mouth between my thighs, the way he growled my name, how his control shattered when I took him in my mouth. The power of making the Demon King come undone, balanced against the violation of him witnessing my most private moments without consent.
"At least this is excellent cardio," I tell the ruins of my room. "Very cathartic. Should probably thank him for the therapeutic rage opportunity. 'Dear Azzaron, thank you for violating my dreams so I could discover my passion for interior demolition. Please find enclosed one broken chair as a token of my appreciation.'"
Hours crawl by. The soul-stones in my walls pulse differently when I'm angry—faster, brighter, feeding on emotion. The eternal twilight outside shifts through its limited spectrum, purple to gold to that color that doesn't exist in my world. Everything here operates on different rules. Privacy, apparently, chief among them.
The third knock comes near midnight. I'm sitting in the wreckage of my room, building a small monument to violation from broken things. Seventeen chair pieces. Forty-three book pages. Eight goblet shards large enough to cut. The door opens without permission.
It's Lyssa, one of the senior servants, the one who actually looks me in the eye when she serves meals. Her expression carries urgency. She takes in the destroyed room without comment, stepping carefully over broken glass.
"The King requests your immediate presence." Her voice stays level but her hands shake. "He says it cannot wait."
"He can request into eternity. I'm not—"
"Please, miss." She steps closer, and I catch something in her eyes. Fear? Warning? "He was very specific. You must come immediately. The lower throne room. For... for privacy, he said."
Something tastes wrong about this. Azzaron doesn't send servants when he wants me—he just appears, proprietary and unapologetic. He certainly doesn't send Lyssa, who serves the court more than personal chambers. And lower throne room? I've never heard of a lower throne room.
But anger overrides caution. Good. Let me rage at him properly. Let me tell him exactly what I think about his dream invasions with an audience.
"Fine." I don't change from my torn dress, blood still staining the fabric. Glass crunches under my feet as I follow her. "But if he thinks I'm going to be reasonable about this, he's about to be disappointed."
Lyssa moves quickly through corridors I don't recognize. We descend stairs I've never seen, carved from stone so old it predates the rest of the fortress. The soul-stones here pulse differently—slower, deeper, dying heartbeats from bargains made before Azzaron's time. Their light barely penetrates the shadows, and the darkness between them moves wrong, oily and aware.
"These aren't the usual routes," I observe, counting turns. Seven left. Three right. Two more left. A pattern that makes no architectural sense.
"The King prefers privacy for certain... discussions." Lyssa's voice echoes strangely here. The walls eat sound, swallow it before it can properly resonate.
The temperature drops with each step. Not demon-cold but something else. Absence-cold. The kind that exists in spaces meant to be forgotten. My breath fogs, and the twilight necklace goes ice against my throat—usually it maintains my body temperature, but here it struggles.
"Lyssa, wait—"
"Here, miss." She stops at an intersection of three corridors, each disappearing into perfect black. "Through there."
"Through where? It's just darkness—"
Shadows peel away from stone with wet sounds, taking shape, becoming solid. Five high demons materialize from the dark. Lord Kaine's ice-white eyes gleam. Lady Sithara's silver spiral horns catch what little light exists. Lord Vex's shadow splits into three pieces, each moving independently. And two others I don't recognize, their marks pulsing violent purple.
Lyssa vanishes down a side corridor before I can call out, and I understand: trap.
"Well, this is awkward." I back against the wall, hands already fisting. "Did you all coordinate outfits, or is matching shadow-wear coincidence? Very gothic. I approve."
"The King's pet, wandering alone." Kaine steps forward, ice crystallizing where his feet touch stone. The temperature drops another ten degrees. "How careless."
"Not alone. You brought four friends. That's either flattering or pathetic, depending on perspective." My mouth runs while my mind calculates escape routes. None. These corridors are mazes, and they know them better. "Let me guess—you think I'm corrupting your precious King with my mortal weakness?"
"You've made him soft." Sithara's voice harmonizes with itself—primary tone over ancient undertone. "He takes your counsel. Lets you speak in court. Keeps you in chambers that should belong to demon royalty."
"And that threatens you because...?" I dodge left, but Kaine's already there, his hand closing on my throat. Not choking, just controlling. His skin burns cold enough to crack lips. "Oh right. Because if a mortal can advise him, what exactly are you worth?"
"We're worth centuries of wisdom," Vex says, his shadows circling me. "You're worth whatever entertainment value you provide in his bed."
"Funny, I don't remember seeing any of you in his bed." I grin despite Kaine's grip. "Must have missed the invitation to that particular council meeting."
