Page 12 of Bargain with the Demon King

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.

"Well, if you're going to be nearly naked, might as well own it." I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin. "Maybe this is empowering. Maybe I'm starting a demon fashion revolution. Chad would faint if he saw me in this—he gets nervous when I wear my hair up because it shows too much neck."

The adjoining door opens without warning.

Azzaron fills the doorway, dressed in formal black that makes his ash-pale skin glow. His horns catch the firelight, wickedly sharp, and his eyes—those impossible black depths with gold threads—track down my body with the patience of a predator who knows the prey is already caught.

"Turn around."

I do, slowly, feeling his gaze like touch everywhere the fabric isn't. When I complete the circle, his jaw works, muscles tensing, and something dangerous flickers through his expression.

"Those parts—" His hand rises, claws ghosting just above where the solid fabric covers my breast, not touching but close enough that I feel the heat radiating from his palm. "These are mine alone. No one else sees what belongs to me."

"Possessive much?" I try for levity. "Though I suppose it's sweet, in a 'I'll eviscerate anyone who looks' kind of way. Very romantic."

"Completely." His claw traces the air above my hip, following the line where sheer meets solid.

The almost-touch makes my skin prickle, every nerve reaching toward him.

"You're about to walk into a room full of demons who see humans as entertainment.

This dress makes you untouchable—clearly marked as mine, too valuable to test."

"Or it makes me look exactly like what they expect—your toy."

"Would you prefer that, or would you prefer Malphas's hands on you again?

" His voice drops to that dangerous register, and his fingers finally make contact—the briefest touch against my bare shoulder that sends electricity shooting down my spine.

"Because those are your options. Be mine publicly, or watch me kill anyone who thinks you're available. "

"Some choice. Though I appreciate the murder option. Very thoughtful." I swallow hard, trying to ignore how my body leans toward him. "Chad would just tell me to ignore unwanted attention. You're offering a massacre. It's weirdly touching."

"The only choice that keeps you alive." He steps back, offering his arm. "Ready?"

"Do I look ready to be paraded nearly naked through your court?"

"You look—" He pauses, and something raw flashes across his face, gone before I can catalog it. "Devastating. Exactly what you need to look."

I take his arm because what else can I do? His muscles are stone beneath the fabric, coiled so tight I can feel the tremor of something barely restrained. Good. At least I'm not the only one affected by this insane situation.

The walk to the dining hall stretches forever.

Every demon we pass stops, stares, catalogues.

Their eyes track the exposed skin, the way Azzaron's hand rests possessively on my lower back, how my body moves under the gossamer fabric.

Some sneer. Some look hungry. All of them understand the message: I belong to the King.

"Almost there," Azzaron murmurs, thumb stroking my spine through a sheer panel. The touch sends sparks straight to my core. "Remember—you're entranced by me. Devoted. Your world begins and ends with my pleasure."

"Right. Your magical sex thrall. Every girl's dream role." I force brightness into my voice. "At least it's memorable. No one else can say they've played the Demon King's consort. That's definitely going on my résumé."

"Some would consider it an honor."

"Some have terrible taste in honors. But I'm choosing to see it as performance art. Very avant-garde."

His chuckle rumbles through his chest, vibrating where our bodies touch. "That's the last defiant thing you can say until we leave that room. Understood?"

"Understood, Your Majesty." I put a breathless quality in my voice, testing the performance.

His fingers tighten on my back, claws pricking slightly through fabric. "Dangerous game, little optimist."

The dining hall doors open, and my performed breathlessness becomes real.

The space transforms at night—soul-stones pulse in waves across the walls, creating undulating patterns of stolen light.

Long tables overflow with demon nobility lounging in decadent excess.

Food that shouldn't exist gleams on platters—meat that bleeds purple, fruits that glow from within, bread that steams without heat.

Wine runs black in crystal goblets, thick as blood but smelling of burnt sugar and nightshade.

But it's the humans that make my chest tight.

They're everywhere. Serving food with empty eyes.

Kneeling beside chairs, heads bowed. Some wear even less than I do, displayed across demons' laps, being fed by hand or touched casually, possessively.

One woman sits motionless while a demon with spiral horns runs claws through her hair, occasionally pulling hard enough to make her gasp.

Another man kneels between a demoness's thighs, and I force myself not to think about what's happening under the table.

"At least they're alive," I whisper to myself, finding the silver lining with effort. "Maybe some chose this. Maybe they're writing mental poetry about the experience."

"Focus on me," Azzaron commands softly, guiding me toward the head table. "Only me."

I force myself to look at him, to lean into his body the way someone enchanted would.

His arm slides around my waist, pulling me against his side.

The heat of him burns through the nothing-fabric, and I have to remember this is performance.

Just performance. Chad gets uncomfortable holding hands in public—Azzaron is about to claim me in front of hundreds.

We reach his seat—an elaborate chair that's almost a throne.

He settles into it with that inhuman grace, then pulls me onto his lap.

Not beside him. On him. My ass presses against his thighs, and I feel the solid strength of him, the way his muscles shift to accommodate my weight.

His arm locks around my waist, holding me in place.

"Perfect," he murmurs against my ear, loud enough for nearby demons to hear. His breath makes me shiver. "Exactly where you belong."

I let my head fall back against his shoulder, playing the part of someone lost in devotion.

His hand splays across my stomach, fingers spanning from hip to hip, claws careful against the sheer fabric.

This close, his scent fills every breath—smoke and metal and dark spice that makes my head swim.

Chad smells like cheap soap and anxiety.

Azzaron smells like power and barely leashed violence.

Conversation resumes around us, but I catch the whispers, the shocked undertones.

"Never before has he kept a mortal—" says a demoness with ram's horns, her voice pitched to carry.

"—brought her into the fortress itself—" agrees her companion, a thin demon whose skin shifts between colors.

"—the first in our history—" This from Lord Raziel, still bearing claw marks from his last encounter with Azzaron.

"—must be exceptional in bed—" suggests someone with a crude laugh.

"—or exceptionally stupid—" another counters.

The weight of it settles heavy. I'm not just another human toy. I'm an anomaly. The first mortal the Demon King has ever kept close. The scandal of it ripples through the room, and I feel every eye measuring me, wondering what I did to earn this position.

"Wine?" Azzaron offers me his goblet, black liquid that smells sweet and poisonous.

I take it, letting him guide it to my lips, playing the part of someone who needs his hand to steady the cup. The wine burns going down—not heat but cold, spreading through my throat into my chest. My head goes light immediately, edges of vision sparkling.

"Careful," he says, amused. "Demon wine affects mortals differently."

"Now you tell me." But I keep my voice soft, drowsy, the way someone enchanted might speak. "Though it's actually nice. Like drinking starlight. If starlight was trying to get you drunk."

Food appears—meat that bleeds purple and tastes of iron and honey, fruits that glow faintly and burst with flavors that don't exist in the mortal realm, bread that steams without warmth and melts on my tongue.

Azzaron feeds me by hand, selecting pieces and bringing them to my mouth.

The intimacy of it makes my skin hypersensitive.

Each time his fingers brush my lips, the demons watch.

Judge. Calculate whether I'm truly his or just playing.

"Open," he commands, holding a piece of strange fruit to my lips.