Page 21 of Bargain with the Demon King

Adraya

"Boundary surveys," he begins, the words overly formal, "require specific elevation perspectives." He won't quite meet my eyes, focusing instead on a point just over my shoulder. "The eastern ridge provides optimal viewing angles."

"That's the worst lie you've told yet." I don't move from the window where I've been counting shadow patterns for the last hour.

Forty-seven distinct gradations between light and dark in demon twilight.

"Even Chad came up with better excuses, and he once claimed he needed to inspect his mother's chickens at midnight. "

"Would you prefer honesty?"

"I'd prefer to stop existing, but we're both disappointed today."

He crosses the room, and I track his reflection in the glass—all controlled violence and careful distance. Since the human village, he's maintained exactly three feet between us unless physically moving me. I've measured.

"You're dissolving." Direct. No dancing. "I'm attempting to prevent it."

"Noble. Pointless. But noble." I turn because resistance requires energy I'm hoarding for breathing. "Fine. Show me these boundaries that definitely need surveying."

The path he chooses winds higher than usual, away from the fortress and its soul-stone pulse. My legs protest—too many days of stillness—but moving beats counting wall cracks. The twilight necklace sits against my collarbone, neither warm nor cold, just present. Like me.

"Nine hundred and twelve." I announce after twenty minutes of climbing.

"What?"

"Steps. Since we left. Your stride length is remarkably consistent. Thirty-one inches exactly. Do demons practice walking in formation, or is precision just part of the package?"

"Part of the package." He glances back, and something flickers in those black-gold eyes. "Though I appreciate you've found a new counting project."

"Counting keeps the brain occupied. Occupied brains don't remember things like—" I stop. "Never mind."

We crest the hill, and my automatic counting stutters. The lake spreads below, vast and impossible, its surface scattered with drifting lights. Not reflection—actual light moving beneath the water, slow spirals of trapped soul-essence that escaped their stones somehow.

"That shouldn't exist."

"Most beautiful things shouldn't." He indicates a blanket spread near the shore, laden with food. "Sit. Eat. Pretend you taste it."

"I taste everything. It all tastes like disappointment now, but I taste it."

I sit because standing suddenly seems complicated. The food is elaborate—things that glow, things that steam without heat, things that smell of home if home was designed by demons. I eat mechanically, but for the first time in days, my throat doesn't reject swallowing.

"The lights in the water," I say between bites of something that might be bread. "Escaped souls?"

"Fragments. Sometimes when a stone breaks wrong, pieces escape. They're drawn to water."

"Why?"

"No one knows. Maybe they're trying to wash themselves clean."

"Can souls be dirty?"

"All souls are dirty. That's what makes them interesting." He settles across from me with that inhuman grace, long legs folding without effort. "Yours particularly."

"My soul is broken, not dirty."

"Your soul is free." The words slip out flat, matter-of-fact.

I freeze mid-chew. "What?"

"Free to be broken. Free to be dirty. Free to make terrible decisions about men named Chad." He selects a piece of fruit that glows faintly purple. "Freedom and brokenness aren't mutually exclusive."

"Profound. Did you read that in a demon self-help book? 'Chicken Soup for the Soulless Soul'?"

"Chapter three. Right after 'How to Gaslight Your Mortal Effectively.'"

A sound escapes me—not quite a laugh, but adjacent to one. "You made a joke."

"I make jokes frequently. You're usually too busy defending Chad's honor to notice."

"Chad has no honor to defend. Chad has the honor of a wet sock that's been left in the sun too long and developed suspicious stains."

"Specific."

"I've had time to workshop the metaphor." I tear apart bread that bleeds something golden when broken. "Yesterday I decided he has the moral fortitude of room-temperature mayonnaise."

"And his romantic prowess?"

"Like being seduced by a nervous accountant who's only seen breasts in medical textbooks."

Azzaron actually chokes on his wine. "That's the first honest thing you've said about him."

"Honesty is easier when you're dead inside." I watch soul-lights drift beneath the surface. "Did you know he used to close his eyes? During sex. Every time. Said it was because he was 'overwhelmed by emotion.'"

"Was he?"

"He was overwhelmed by my thighs. Apparently they exceeded his grip capacity."

"His loss."

"His relief, actually. Probably celebrating right now. Finally gets to fuck someone who doesn't require both hands and a running start to properly grab."

"Adraya."

"What? It's true. I heard him say it. 'So much tighter than her. So much better.' Direct quote while balls-deep in my replacement." I shred another piece of bread with mechanical precision. "Do you know what the worst part is?"

"Tell me."

"I made excuses for him. Every time. He forgot my birthday?

He's distracted by work. He finished in thirty seconds?

He's just so attracted to me. He pushed me toward a sword?

He was creating a distraction." I laugh, sharp and bitter.

"I was so good at lying to myself, I should have charged admission. "

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why make excuses for someone who clearly didn't deserve them?"

I consider lying, then realize I don't have the energy. "Because if he wasn't worth it, then I wasn't worth it. If no one could love me properly, maybe I was unlovable. Easier to pretend he was wonderful than admit I settled for scraps and called it a feast."

Silence stretches between us, filled with soul-lights and distant water sounds.

"You know what I hate most about you?" I say suddenly.

His eyebrows rise. "The list must be extensive."

"You were right. About everything. About Chad being a coward. About the soul trade being stupid. About love being selfish wrapped in pretty paper." I throw bread at the water, watch it sink. "I hate that you saw the truth while I was composing symphonies to delusion."

"I've had seventeen thousand years of practice seeing through mortal lies."

"Still. You could have pretended to be surprised. For my dignity."

"You have dignity?"

"Had. Past tense. Lost it somewhere between the public orgasm and discovering my boyfriend's dick was on a farewell tour of the village."

"Graphic."

"Accurate." I lie back on the blanket, staring at the twilight sky that never changes. "Do you ever wonder what would have happened if you'd refused my bargain?"

"No."

"Liar."

"Frequently." He admits. "You would have died. Chad would have died. The world would have one less optimistic fool and one less worthless coward."

"And you?"

"I would have collected some other soul. Continued existing. Never known what it was like to have someone bring dinner to my chambers just because they thought I was lonely."

"You are lonely."

"Yes."

The simple agreement sits between us, honest and raw.

"I was lonely too," I admit. "Even with Chad. Maybe especially with Chad. Is it possible to be lonely while someone's inside you? Because I was. Every time."

"That's the worst kind of lonely."

"Voice of experience?"

"Seventeen thousand years of experience." He shifts, and I hear the controlled movement, the way he maintains precise distance even while relaxed. "Though never quite that literally."

"The Demon King doesn't fuck?"

"The Demon King fucks. He just doesn't confuse it with connection."

"Smart. I confused everything with connection. Chad breathing near me felt like love." I sit up, brush crumbs off my ruined dress. "I'm pathetic."

"You were hopeful. There's a difference."

"Is there? Because from here they look identical."

Before he can answer, movement catches my eye—shapes materializing from the canyon's shadow—not flowing so much as pouring into existence, too solid for nightmares.

Shadowsteeds. A whole herd approaches the water with a synchronized gait so perfect it feels rehearsed, a wrongness that makes the nerves in my teeth hum.

"Wild ones." My voice comes out smaller than intended. "I didn't know they existed wild."

"Everything exists wild somewhere." He watches me watch them. "Even demons. Even broken mortals."

The lead mare—if gender applies to demon horses—stands taller than any horse should, coat shifting between black and purple and nothing as she moves.

Her mane flows without wind, each strand moving independently like underwater plants.

When she lowers her head to drink, the soul-lights scatter, then return, drawn to her darkness.

"I've never ridden a horse." The admission escapes without permission. "Chad said I'd be terrible at it. Too nervous. Too much weight for a normal mount anyway."

Azzaron goes absolutely still. That particular stillness that means violence later for someone who isn't me. Then he stands, extends his hand. Not demanding. Offering.

"Would you like to?"

"That's a terrible idea. I'll fall. Probably die. Definitely embarrass myself."

"When has that stopped you?"

"Fair point." I take his hand because the alternative is admitting I'm afraid of something besides feeling. His skin burns against mine—not metaphorically. Actually burns. Demon body temperature runs higher. "How does one approach a demon horse without becoming demon horse food?"

"Confidently." He leads me toward the herd, my hand still caught in his. "They respect authority, not fear."

"I have neither of those things."

"You have me."

The words land heavier than intended. We both hear it. Neither acknowledges it. He releases my hand to whistle—low, complex, nothing human throats could produce. The lead mare's head snaps up, those red eyes finding us.