Page 23 of Bargain with the Demon King
"Your body says otherwise." I step back, watching her clutch my coat tighter. "Full dark, Adraya. Don't be late."
I leave her standing there, conflicted and beautiful, and enter my own chambers. The truth sits heavy in my chest—she does fascinate me. Her ridiculous optimism, her stubborn insistence on finding beauty in my dark realm, the way she brings her dinner to my room because she thinks I'm lonely.
I am lonely. Have been for centuries. But she's changing that, meal by meal, smile by smile.
Tonight, though, I need her to be something else. I need the court to see her as mine so completely that they wouldn't dare test those boundaries again. The performance will likely horrify her moral sensibilities, but her safety matters more than her comfort.
Through the wall, I hear her pacing, muttering to herself. "Demons and their dramatic solutions" and "why can't anything be simple here" and "stupid dress shopping for stupid demon dinners."
She has no idea what she's become to me. This mortal woman who sold her soul for someone unworthy, who finds joy in soul-stones and beauty in monsters. She's worming her way under my skin, past my defenses, into spaces I thought were sealed. Her mark spreads across my chest daily, claiming more territory, and I let it.
I want her. Want her spread beneath me, crying my name. Want her to forget Chad exists. Want her to choose me, not because she's bound, but because she burns for me the way I'm starting to burn for her.
The admission feels like weakness, but I'm past caring. She's mine, whether she knows it or not. Tonight is just about making sure everyone else knows it too.
Through the wall, I hear her opening her wardrobe, presumably looking for something appropriate. "How does onedress for pretending to be a sex toy?" she mutters, and despite everything, I find myself grinning.
Full dark approaches, and she's still getting ready. The rustle of fabric, the soft curse when something doesn't fit right, the splash of water. Such mortal sounds, but they've become the rhythm of my evenings.
When did I start listening for her? When did her presence become necessary?
A knock at my door interrupts my brooding. "Azzaron?" Her voice carries nervous energy. "I'm ready. I think."
I open the door and forget how to breathe.
The dress—if it can be called that—is a masterpiece of intentional gaps and daringly placed shadows, fabric held together by little more than thread and nerve. Sheer material with solid panels that barely cover her breasts, her sex, the curve of her ass. Everything else is transparent, showing the soft lines of her body, the way her thighs press together, the dip of her waist. When she shifts, the fabric moves like water, threatening to reveal everything while revealing almost everything already.
But it's not just the dress. It's how she wears it—chin high despite the blush staining her chest, shoulders back even though her hands tremble. Brave and terrified and absolutely fucking magnificent.
"Is this... appropriate?" She crosses her arms over her chest, which only emphasizes what the dress barely contains.
"Perfect." The word comes out rough, scraped raw with want. My cock hardens just looking at her, and I have to focus on not letting my beast form surface. "You look exactly like what you need to look like."
"Like I belong to you."
"Like you were made for me." I step closer, noting how she doesn't retreat even though her breath quickens."Remember, this is performance. Whatever happens in there, whatever I do or say, it's to keep you safe."
"I know." But her pulse hammers visibly at her throat. "I trust you."
Those three words hit harder than they should. She trusts me, the Demon King, the monster who owns her soul. Even though I've given her every reason not to. Even though tonight I'm going to touch her in ways that will make her question that trust.
"Then let's give them a show they'll never forget." I offer my arm, and she takes it, fingers trembling against my sleeve.
We walk toward the dining hall together, and I feel the weight of what's coming. The performance, the display, the careful balance of protecting her while claiming her publicly. It should be simple—I've played similar games for centuries.
But nothing about Adraya has ever been simple, and tonight will be no exception.
Chapter 9
Adraya
The fabric weighs nothing and covers less.
I hold it up to firelight, studying what the servants delivered. Sheer material flows between my fingers, interrupted by strips of solid black placed with a cruel sort of genius, designed to barely cover my breasts, the junction between my thighs, and the curve of my ass. Everything else will be visible—the soft line of my stomach, the full shape of my thighs, every curve I've spent years learning to love despite Chad always suggesting I could be "a bit more toned."
"This is basically wearing shadows and good intentions." I mutter, then brighten. "But at least it's not boring. When else will I get to wear something this scandalous? This is probably what demon courtesans wear to grocery shop."
I pull it on, adjusting the solid panels that threaten to shift with every breath. The sheer fabric clings to my skin, highlighting rather than hiding. My nipples press against the barely-there coverage, visible through the gauze-thin material surrounding the solid strips. When I turn, checking the mirror, I can see the full shape of my body—nothing left to imagination except what those narrow panels conceal.
