Page 11 of Bargain with the Demon King

"Run." I release him, watch him scramble to his feet, black blood dripping from where my claws scratched. "If I see you again before the new moon, I'll peel your skin off in strips and use it to bind my next ledger."

He flees, leaving puddles of blood in his wake. I turn to Adraya, letting my form settle back to mostly human. She's pressed against the wall still, eyes wide, but not running. Never running from me, even when she should.

"Are you hurt?"

She shakes her head, then finds her voice. "You came."

"You're mine. Of course I came." I examine her for injuries, noting the tear in her dress that shows too much skin, the faint scratches where Malphas gripped too hard. Rage flickers again, and I have to focus to keep my form stable. "This can't happen again."

"I didn't—I was just walking—"

"I know." I shrug off my coat, wrapping it around her to cover the torn dress. My scent will cling to her now—smoke and ash and power. "It's not your fault. But the court sees you as either weakness or toy. We need to change that perception."

"How?"

"There's a formal dinner tonight. High demons only, plus their... entertainment." The word tastes foul, but it's accurate. "You'll attend with me."

"As what? Your secretary?" She tries for humor, but her voice shakes. My coat drowns her, making her look smaller, more fragile. More mine.

"As my consort." I guide her back toward our chambers, hand firm on her lower back. "You'll need to perform the role completely. Act as though your mind bends to my pleasure, that you exist only for my satisfaction. Make them believe you're mine in every way that matters."

She stops walking. "You want me to pretend to be your sex toy?"

"I want you to survive." I turn to face her fully, watching how my coat parts to show the tear in her dress, the smooth skin beneath.

"If they think you're merely decorative, they'll test boundaries like Malphas did.

If they think you're my obsession, my chosen pleasure, they become too frightened to touch you. "

"But everyone will think—"

"Let them think." I resume walking, feeling her reluctance as she follows. "Their assumptions protect you better than any guard."

"This is insane."

"This is necessary." We reach our chambers, and I open her door first. "The dinner begins at full dark. Wear something that leaves no doubt about your role."

She enters her room, then turns back. "Azzaron?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For stopping him." Her eyes hold that impossible warmth, even after everything. "You didn't have to react so strongly."

"Yes. I did." I move closer, watching her pulse jump at her throat. "No one touches what belongs to me. No one."

"I don't belong to anyone."

"You belong to me in every way that matters here." I trace one claw along her jaw, not quite touching, watching her lean into the almost-contact. "And tonight, you'll make sure everyone knows it."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then tomorrow I'll be executing more lords for thinking you're available." I let that sink in, watch her process the reality. "Your moral objections, or their lives. Choose."

Her breath catches. "That's not fair."

"Nothing here is fair. But it is simple—play my devoted consort for one evening, or watch me slaughter anyone who looks at you wrong.

" I lean down, close enough that my breath stirs her hair.

"Though I suspect part of you enjoys it.

The violence. The protection. The proof that someone would kill for you without hesitation. "

She shivers, and not from fear. "You're wrong."

"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 one dress 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.