Page 7 of Bargain with the Demon King
"You're putting me next to you?"
"Would you prefer the dungeons? I'm sure we could arrange something suitably damp and tragic."
"I prefer not being owned at all."
"Preferences are luxuries you traded away." Gold threads brighten in his black eyes—interest in my defiance. "Sleep. Tomorrow you begin earning your keep."
He leaves, his form seeming to pour through the doorway without a single footfall. The sight makes the hairs on my arms stand up. Just presence, then absence.
Silence crashes down. No crickets chirp. No wind sighs. No wood settles. Just thick quiet that makes my ears ache for sound. The kind of quiet that amplifies your own blood rushing.
I explore because standing still feels like drowning. The wardrobe holds dresses that fit perfectly though no one measured me. The bathroom features a tub carved from obsidian, deep enough for swimming. Everything whispers wealth, dominance, control.
The bed swallows me whole. I collapse onto it still wearing my ruined dress—dried blood stiff against my skin—because changing means accepting this new reality.
Through the adjoining door, movement. Not steps but that fluid shift of weight that sounds inhuman. Words in that grinding demon tongue, consonants that threaten even in casual conversation. Then nothing.
Then breathing. Slow. Measured. Awake.
I shift, and the bed protests.
A low chuckle through the wall.
The Demon King listens to every sound I make, and he wants me to know it.
Sleep never comes.
"Rise."
Dawn barely colors the sky—that perpetual almost-light that passes for day here. I've counted every heartbeatsince midnight, wondering if Chad notices I'm gone. If he cares enough to notice.
New clothes wait on the chair—deep green, fitted through the bodice before falling loose. The neckline plunges. Because of course.
I peel off my stiff, blood-caked dress and pull on the green. No undergarments provided. The message is clear.
"Breakfast?" My voice cracks from disuse.
"Once you've proven useful." He fills my doorway without invitation, dressed in black that shifts between leather and something darker. This morning his horns seem longer, framing his face in a way that makes looking directly at him difficult. When he tilts his head, studying how fabric clings to curves, his claws drum against the doorframe in a rhythm that sounds like counting.
"Useful how?"
"Watching. Learning. Being decorative." His gaze travels down, lingering where the dress cups my breasts, embraces my waist, follows the flare of my hips. "You're excelling at that last part already."
My skin prickles everywhere his attention lands. "I didn't ask to be dressed like this."
"Yet here you are, wearing it beautifully." He pushes off the doorframe. His scent follows—iron and char and something darker that sits heavy in my lungs. "Come. My court awaits."
The throne room hurts to process in daylight. Soul-stones pulse in the walls, thousands of stolen essences keeping time with heartbeats that no longer exist. Demons pack the space—elaborate horns on the powerful ones, smaller creatures skittering along edges, all watching me with hungry curiosity.
Azzaron claims his throne, carved from something that radiates wrongness. He indicates a spot beside him. Standing room only.
"You expect me to sit at your feet?"
His eyes glitter with dark amusement. "Eventually. But we'll work up to you on your knees." The words roll off his tongue slowly, tasting each syllable. "For now, stand there and observe. Unless you'd prefer to test how creative I can be with expectations."
My stomach clenches, thighs pressing together involuntarily. "You must be confusing me with someone who takes orders."
"No confusion." He leans forward, voice becoming silk over steel. "You're exactly who I think you are. The woman who sold her soul to me. Which means you'll take whatever I give you."
