Page 14 of Bargain with the Demon King

Azzaron

My bones ache with the urge to splinter and reshape. The beast wants out, clawing at the inside of my skin, and it takes every ounce of my will to hold my human form.

Each step away from the dining hall requires conscious effort—muscles locked, breathing measured, claws retracted enough not to shred her skin where I hold her.

The demon lords' whispers chase us through corridors, but all I hear is her breathing against my chest, rapid and shallow.

The way she trembles in my arms makes the beast want to turn back, paint the dining hall with their entrails for witnessing her vulnerability.

I won't.

Control. Always control. Except tonight I lost it spectacularly, publicly, in a way that will have consequences. My beast hasn't surfaced in court for three centuries. Now every demon in that hall knows the mortal affects me beyond casual ownership.

"I need to stand." Her voice comes out rough, raw from crying my name.

I set her down carefully once we reach our chambers.

She sways but catches herself against the wall, that destroyed dress hanging off her, showing too much skin through tears my claws created.

Tiny drops of blood mark her thigh—I gripped too hard, let the beast too close.

The sight makes something violent rise in my chest. Not at her. At myself.

"Go." The word comes out layered, beast and man occupying the same throat. "Sleep."

She disappears into her room without argument, and I hear the soft thud of her collapsing onto the bed. Still wearing that ruined dress. Still carrying my scent, my touch, the memory of what I did to her in front of the entire demon court.

I enter my own chambers and strip off the formal coat, throwing it into the fire. It carries the stench of the dining hall—arousal, blood, fear, the wet sounds of demons using their humans. But mostly it carries her scent, sweet and mortal and utterly wrong for my world.

The mirror reflects what I've become. My form flickers—man, beast, something between.

Horns elongate then recede. Skin ripples with scales that shouldn't exist on this plane.

My shoulders broaden, narrow, crack with the effort of containing what wants out.

The soul-marks across my chest pulse in agitation, thousands of desperate bargains etched into my skin.

But hers burns brightest, spreading further than it did this morning, creeping toward my heart with stubborn inevitability.

I trace her mark with one claw. It responds to touch, warming, almost purring against my palm. No other mark has ever behaved this way. They're supposed to be static, dead things. Receipts of transaction. Hers moves, lives, reaches through my skin toward her presence in the next room.

The performance worked. No demon will dare touch her now, not after seeing my beast emerge. But the cost—

I press my palms against the mirror, watching my reflection fracture. She came apart in my lap, crying my name while they watched. The memory makes my cock harden again, but rage follows immediately. I did that to her. Reduced her to entertainment. Made her perform pleasure for their amusement.

Never again.

My authority alone will protect her. I don't need to parade her, to display her submission.

The beast emerged—that's statement enough.

Anyone who tests those boundaries will discover exactly how creative I can be with punishment.

The dungeons haven't seen proper use in decades.

Perhaps it's time to remind my court why they fear me.

Through the wall, I feel her emotions—humiliation burns hottest, but beneath it confusion, and beneath that something worse. Longing. She's lying there aching, not just from shame but from want. The bond between us pulses with her conflicted desire.

She wanted it. Wanted me. Wanted them to see.

The admission she'll never make aloud thrums through our connection. Her body betrayed more than just physical response—it revealed a need she doesn't understand. To be claimed. To be protected so thoroughly that violence becomes devotion.

I could go to her. Open that adjoining door, finish what I started. She wouldn't resist. Might even welcome it, desperate to transform humiliation into something else. But that would be too easy. Too real. Too much like admitting I've lost control completely.

Dreams are safer.

The justification tastes like lies even as I think it. Nothing about entering her dreams is safe. It's invasion, manipulation, a violation of boundaries I've maintained for centuries. But the pull of her consciousness, soft and unguarded in sleep, calls to something primal in me.

I stretch out on my bed, closing my eyes, following the thread of our connection into her sleeping mind. The transition feels like sinking through honey—sweet, thick, dangerous. Her dreams taste of moonlight and regret, tinged with arousal she's trying to suppress.

The dreamscape forms around us—not my construction but hers. Her childhood bedroom, before the world taught her disappointment. Flowers in a vase by the window. Books stacked everywhere. Soft light that doesn't exist in either of our realms.

She sits on the bed, wearing something soft and white that covers everything the dinner dress exposed. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, and she looks younger. Unmarked by my world's cruelty.

"This isn't real." She doesn't seem surprised to see me, just resigned. "You're in my head again."

"You're dreaming." I sit beside her, maintaining distance that doesn't exist in her actual bed. In dreams, I can drop the armor of arrogance, speak without weighing every word for its tactical advantage. "Just a dream."

"Dreams don't feel like this." She pulls her knees to her chest, defensive. "What do you want?"

"To talk."

"The Demon King wants to talk. In my dream. About what—the weather? Proper soul-stone storage techniques?"

Even in dreams, her sarcasm surfaces. But it lacks the bright edge from before. The performance, the weight of everything has dulled her natural light.

"About bargains." I lean back against her headboard, noting how the dream adjusts to accommodate me. "Every soul I've taken, every deal I've made—they all thought they were different. Special. That their love, their sacrifice, meant more than economics."

"Including me."

"Especially you." The honesty comes easier here, where she'll dismiss it as subconscious projection. "You genuinely believed Chad would tear apart worlds to find you. That your sacrifice would rewrite his DNA, transform him into someone worthy of what you paid."

"He is worthy." But the protest sounds hollow even in dreams.

"He's ordinary. Mediocre. The kind of man who brings wildflowers because they're free, not because they're meaningful." I study her profile, the way her jaw tightens. "You know this. Deep down, beneath your relentless optimism, you know he's not coming for you."

"Stop."

"He's probably relieved. Now he can tell everyone about his tragic lost love without having to actually love you. He gets the story without the work."

She turns to face me fully, eyes bright with tears that won't fall because dream-tears mean nothing. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you need to hear it. Because tomorrow you'll wake up and paint silver linings on everything again, and someone needs to tell you the truth before you dissolve completely into beautiful lies."

"You're cruel."

"I'm honest. There's a difference."

She watches me for a long moment, then something shifts in her expression. The guard drops. Here, in what she thinks is just her subconscious, she can admit things.

"I think about what you did tonight." The words fall out in a rush. "In the dining hall. How you touched me. How everyone watched. I should be horrified, but instead I'm—" She stops, pressing her palms against her eyes. "I can't stop thinking about it."

"About what specifically?"

"Your hands." She drops her hands, meets my eyes with startling directness. "The way you held me. Like I was yours, completely. No hesitation. No shame. Chad gets nervous holding my hand in market squares, but you—" She swallows. "You claimed me in front of every high demon lord."

"That was performance."

"Was it?" She shifts closer, the dream bedroom growing smaller around us. "Because your beast emerged. I've never seen that happen before. Do you lose control for performances?"

The accusation lands precisely. In dreams, she's sharper, less willing to accept comfortable lies.

"You terrify me," she continues, but she's moving closer still. "You're everything wrong and dangerous and destructive. You own my soul. You humiliated me. You're probably going to destroy me completely."

"Probably."

"But you also protected me. Killed for me. Carried me when I couldn't walk." Her hand rises toward my face, hesitates. "No one has ever made me feel valuable enough to kill for."

"Chad wouldn't kill for you?"

"Chad wouldn't raise his voice for me." The admission breaks something in her expression. "I shouldn't want you. He loves me. I saved him. I should be dreaming of him, but instead—"

"Instead?"

"Instead I dream of monsters." Her fingers find my collar, curling into the fabric. "Of you."

The space between us evaporates. She pulls herself closer, or I pull her—in dreams, causality blurs. Her breath mingles with mine, and she smells of hope despite everything. Her lips part, pink and soft and begging for destruction.

"This is wrong." But she doesn't pull back. "I love Chad."

"You love the idea of Chad."

"Same thing."

"Not even close."

She makes a sound—frustration, desire, defeat—and rises up on her knees, bringing our faces level. "If this is just a dream, it doesn't count, right? Dreams don't mean anything."

"Dreams mean everything."

"Then I'm already damned." Her mouth hovers near mine, words spoken against my lips. "Kiss me. Please. Just once, so I know what choosing darkness tastes like."

I cup her jaw, thumb brushing across her bottom lip.

She sighs, eyes fluttering closed, tilting into my palm with complete trust. The beast in me roars to claim, to take what she's offering, to make her forget Chad exists.

Her mouth opens slightly, tongue touching my thumb, and a tremor runs through me—a fault line opening between will and want.

One taste. Just one. In dreams where it doesn't count, where tomorrow she'll paint it as subconscious processing. My mouth descends toward hers, and she stretches up to meet me, fingers tightening in my collar—

No.

I rip myself backward, out of the dream, out of her mind. The violence of withdrawal sends me crashing back into my own body, gasping. My cock throbs painfully, and my claws have shredded the sheets. The beast howls inside me, furious at the denial.

Through the wall, I hear her whimper in her sleep. The dream dissolves without me there to anchor it, leaving her with only the impression of almost. Of reaching for something that disappeared just before contact.

Better this way. Let her think her subconscious created the whole thing. Let her wake confused, aching, wondering why she dreams of monsters instead of wildflower boys. Let her paint whatever silver lining makes it bearable.

But I'll know the truth. She wanted me. Begged for me. Would have given herself completely if I'd allowed it. And I almost did. Another second, another breath, and I would have claimed her mouth, her dream, her everything.

The soul-mark on my chest burns, spreading another inch toward my heart. At this rate, it will cover me completely within days. She's claiming me as thoroughly as I've claimed her, and she doesn't even know it.

Next time—because there will be a next time, we're both too far gone to stop this—I won't have the strength to pull back. Next time, when she reaches for darkness, I'll give her exactly what she's begging for.

And we'll both be damned for it.

I lie awake, listening to her restless movements through the wall. She tosses, turns, makes small sounds of frustration. Searching for something in sleep that keeps slipping away. Her body remembers reaching for me, remembers the almost-kiss, even if her conscious mind will dismiss it.

Tomorrow she'll paint fresh optimism over tonight's humiliation. She'll find beauty in the beast that emerged to protect her. She'll craft meaning from degradation, the way she crafts love stories from soul-stones.

But she'll also remember the dream, that moment of almost, the confession that she thinks about my hands. The admission that I make her feel valuable in ways Chad never could.

The game between us has shifted. She's no longer just a claimed soul, a mortal curiosity. She's becoming something dangerous—someone who sees through my performance to the creature beneath. Someone who reaches for that darkness instead of running.

Someone who might actually be capable of destroying me, simply by making me want her this completely.

The perpetual twilight outside my window shifts from bruised purple to a bitter gray, and I haven't slept at all.

Through the wall, she sighs, finally settling into deeper sleep.

But I know when she wakes, she'll remember the dream.

Remember reaching for me. Remember that I disappeared just before our lips touched.

She'll paint it as her mind processing trauma. Create elaborate justifications for why she dreams of demons instead of her precious Chad. Find the silver lining in wanting something that will certainly destroy her.

But her body will remember the truth—that she begged the Demon King to kiss her, and for once, the monster showed mercy by refusing.