Page 8 of Bargain with the Demon King
My mouth goes dry, but I hold his stare. "Standing. That's all you're getting."
"For now." His smile could cut glass. "We'll see how long that resolve lasts."
I take my place. The position puts me at his eye level while he sits, close enough to breathe him in, to feel heat radiating from his skin. When he shifts, his thigh presses my hip.
First petitioner—a demon with spiral horns and bone-pale skin. She genuflects, speaks in grinding syllables. Her eyes find me, catalog my position, the way Azzaron's hand hovers near my waist.
He responds with bored authority. She retreats, trembling.
"What did she say?"
"Border disputes. Tedious." He adjusts his position, leg now firm against me. Every demon notices. "She wanted permission to expand her territory."
"Did you give it?"
"I gave her permission to keep her head attached. She seemed grateful."
His fingers settle at my waist. Not gripping. Just there. Claiming. Making sure everyone understands who I belong to.
Morning crawls by—demons reporting, begging, scheming. Azzaron handles each with casual menace, occasionally translating. His hand remains at my waist, thumb tracing patterns through fabric. Each sweep sends unwanted heat through me.
A lord approaches, antlers for horns, spine straight instead of bent. He speaks urgently.
Azzaron goes still. The bored slump leaves his shoulders, his spine straightening until he seems a foot taller on his throne. The air around him feels suddenly thinner. His claws pierce my dress slightly. Not pain, but a reminder of the power now coiled beside me.
"What's wrong?"
"Lower demons are harassing one of the human settlements." His fingers tap against my waist, each contact a tiny scratch. "They seem to have forgotten my rules about protected territories."
"Human settlements? Here?"
"Free humans who chose to remain after their contracts ended. They live under my protection." He rises, pulling me with him, hand sliding to my lower back. The room collectively steps backward. "We'll handle this personally."
"We?"
"You wanted to understand your new world." His palm burns through fabric against my spine. "Time for a practical lesson."
The courtyard makes my brain stutter. Carriages wait, but the creatures pulling them—
"Horses?"
"Shadowsteeds." Azzaron strokes one's neck, claws parting its mane. The beast towers above normal horses, coat shifting between black and deep purple, mane flowing without wind. "Bred in the deep canyon. They've never known sunlight."
The creature turns to me. Red eyes hold too much intelligence. Its breath forms no mist despite the cold. When it shifts weight, the motion looks rehearsed, mechanical. Its hooves touch stone silently.
"They're beautiful." I reach out, then hesitate. "Will it bite?"
"Everything here bites." He opens the carriage door, his claws tracing the silver handle for a half-second longer than necessary. A silent threat. "But they prefer demon flesh. You're too soft for their taste."
"Comforting."
I climb in, aware of his hand hovering near my waist, not touching but radiating heat through my dress. Black leather and silver fixtures inside, spacious for six but intimate with two.
He sits across from me, long legs bracketing mine. The Shadowsteeds begin moving without command, gliding forward with unnatural smoothness. No bounce. No sway. Just forward momentum while their hooves stay silent.
"You're staring."
I am. At synchronized movement that never falters, at breath that never fogs, at muscles that bunch and release without those tiny imperfections that make motion real.
