Page 72 of Bargain with the Demon King
"You know what the best part is?"
"What?"
"All of this—the transformation, the revolution, the greatest love story ever told—happened because one mediocre man couldn't keep his dick in his pants."
"Everything leads back to him?"
"Everything. The fool created his own replacement."
"You're never letting that go."
"Never. It's tradition. Every victory, every reform, every world-changing moment—I'll toast the coward who made it possible."
We feast on impossible foods while planning impossible futures. Through our bond, I feel his skepticism war with hope—my optimism spreading through our connection, making him believe in things dismissed for millennia. Our marks pulse together, proof that some choices can't be undone.
Later, in our bed, I trace the tree burned into his skin and marvel at the path here. From a cottage making terrible soup to a throne room where I'll remake realms. From selling my soul for someone worthless to choosing someone who proved my worth with blood.
"No regrets?"
"Only one."
"What?"
"I never got to see Chad's face when he realizes what he lost."
"That's your only regret?"
"Well, that and I can't blame him for literally everything. Some things are probably coincidence." I curl closer, our marks aligning. "But I'm going to blame him anyway. More satisfying."
He laughs, pulls me against him. Through our bond I feel his contentment—foreign after centuries. Tomorrow we reshape this realm. Tonight, we exist between destruction and creation.
All because of one spectacular betrayal.
All because I chose the monster over the man.
All because of fucking Chad.
Epilogue
Adraya
The throne room doesn't pulse with soul-stones anymore.
Black obsidian shot through with veins of gold—actual gold, not trapped essence—creates patterns that shift when you're not looking directly at them. The air tastes different too. Less ash and copper, more ozone and possibility. Even the twilight filtering through reformed windows has changed, the purple-gold spectrum expanded to include colors that shouldn't exist but do now, because we decided they should.
Forty-three days since I died on this floor. Forty-three days since Azzaron remade me with blood and choice. The stones remember. They whisper my name when I pass, recognizing what their new Queen has become. Their song has changed from lamentation to something that might be hope, if stones could hope.
"Nervous?" Azzaron's voice rumbles beside me, that particular tone that makes my spine remember it has opinions. His claws drum against his throne's armrest—tap, tap, tap—a rhythm I've learned means anticipation.
"About revolutionizing your entire political structure while wearing a dress that shows my soul-mark? Absolutely not. This is exactly the kind of Tuesday I signed up for." I adjust the twilight necklace where it rests against my collarbone, its colordeeper now, matching the marks we share. "Though technically I didn't sign anything. More of a verbal agreement sealed with multiple murders. Very binding. The blood really adds legitimacy."
"Our murders," he corrects, and I feel his satisfaction through our bond—that tree of light pulsing between us. His hand finds my thigh beneath the council table, thumb tracing circles through silk. "You planned the dismemberment patterns."
"Artistic vision is important. If you're going to redecorate with corpses, at least make it memorable. Lord Vex arranged in four directions? Inspired. Though I still think we should have made a mobile. Very avant-garde."
The massive doors—rebuilt from volcanic glass and demon bone—swing open at our approach. The court assembled inside drops to their knees in perfect synchronization. I can taste their fear now, a new sense that came with his blood. It has flavors. The sharp, metallic tang of terror from those who remember the old council's fate. The bitter, chalky dust of respect from survivors learning their place. And underneath it all, the sweet, cloying scent of curiosity about what fresh insanity their mortal-turned-whatever-I-am Queen will inflict today.
I count them because counting's still soothing. Ninety-three demons. Seventeen humans from the protected settlements. All here to watch us reshape everything they've ever known. Lord Hessian's marks pulse nervous yellow—he's contemplating treason, bless him. Lady Carmina's shadows split repeatedly, arguing with themselves. The young demon in back, barely past his first century, watches with hunger that tastes of ambition rather than fear.
