Page 24 of Bargain with the Demon King

Adraya

The summoning cuts through breakfast with the subtlety of a blade through silk.

Azzaron's entire posture shifts—spine straightening, head tilting toward something I can't hear.

His horns catch the soul-light as he turns, casting wicked shadows across the table.

The piece of bread in his hand pauses halfway to his mouth, and for three seconds he's perfectly still. Predator hearing prey.

"Another desperate mortal?" I push eggs around my plate, counting the movements. Seven clockwise. Three counter. "Let me guess—dying soldier? Betrayed merchant? Someone who thinks their tragedy is special?"

"Close. Aging merchant who can't accept his son's fiancée finds him repulsive." He sets down the bread, claws clicking against the plate. "And you'll handle it."

My fork clatters onto my plate. "Excuse me?"

"You'll conduct the bargain." He rises, his form seeming to pour upward from the chair, a single unbroken motion like water pretending to be flesh. "You've watched enough. Time to learn."

"I've watched you be terrifying and efficient. That's not the same as knowing how to extract someone's soul." The eggs congeal on my plate, suddenly nauseating. "Besides, I don't have demon powers. I can't actually—"

"You don't need powers to negotiate. Just presence." He extends his hand toward me, claws catching the soul-light. "Come."

"This is a terrible idea. I'll mess it up. The mortal will probably laugh at me, which honestly would be fair since I'm basically a cautionary tale about bad bargains walking around in a dress."

"All the more reason you'll excel at this." His hand remains extended, patient and inevitable. "You understand desperation intimately."

"Understanding it and exploiting it are different things."

"No. They're the same thing viewed from different angles." His fingers flex, claws extending another fraction. "Take my hand, Adraya."

I stand because sitting suddenly feels vulnerable. "If this goes badly—"

"It won't." He steps closer, close enough that I smell char and dark spice. "I'll be there. Watching. Enjoying the show."

"Enjoying—"

"You in control. You with power. You making someone else feel small." His voice drops to that register that makes my spine remember it has nerves. "I have specific interests."

"Your interests are showing." But I take his hand anyway, his heat searing into my palm. "Also, traveling between realms makes me want to vomit, just so we're clear on potential complications."

"Noted." He pulls me against him, arm locking around my waist. The twilight necklace presses between us, warm metal trapped against his chest. His other hand slides to my hip, thumb pressing through fabric. "Don't let go."

The world tears apart, then rebuilds itself in the wrong colors.

My stomach drops through my feet while my lungs forget their purpose.

I bury my face against Azzaron's shoulder, breathing in char and metal until reality stops spinning.

His arm tightens, thumb stroking my spine—deliberate, slow, possessive.

"Better?" His voice rumbles through his chest where I'm pressed against him.

"Define better."

"Not vomiting on my coat."

"The bar for success gets lower every day." I step back from his embrace, adjusting my dress with hands that barely shake. His eyes track the movement, lingering where fabric clings to my hips. "Where's our desperate merchant?"

"Behind you. Try not to laugh."

I turn and immediately understand why. The man kneeling in the dirt makes the muscles in my back tighten, an old, familiar revulsion I no longer have to hide.

Sixty, maybe. Soft in that way that speaks of indulgence without effort.

His clothes cost more than most families see in a year, but sweat stains spread from his armpits, and something that might be wine or might be vomit crusts his collar.

When he looks up, his eyes go straight to my breasts, linger, then drop to my thighs, then back to my breasts.

"Please," he wheezes, and his breath carries the stench of rotting teeth and sour wine. "I need—I deserve—I've earned—"

"Stop." I circle him slowly, noting how his eyes follow my hips.

"Let me guess. Your wife left you for someone who doesn't sweat through silk.

Your son won't introduce you to his friends because you leer at them.

And his fiancée—pretty little thing, probably half your age—won't let you within ten feet without witnesses present. "

His mouth falls open. "How did you—"

"You reek of rejected privilege." I complete the circle, stopping just outside his reach. His fingers twitch toward my skirt. "You had forty years to develop a personality beyond 'has money.' Instead you just accumulated flesh and expected everyone to pretend it's attractive."

"That's not—you don't understand—Celeste would want me if I was younger—"

"Celeste. Your son's fiancée." I crouch in front of him, maintaining distance but forcing him to meet my eyes. "The one you cornered at your wife's farewell party? Offered her diamonds to sit on your lap?"

He pales. "She told you?"

"Everyone knows. She laughed so hard she cried.

Your son had to physically remove you from the room while you kept insisting she was 'playing hard to get.

'" I stand, brushing imaginary dirt from my skirt.

"Youth won't fix that humiliation. You'll just be young enough that her rejection hurts worse. "

"You're wrong! If I was handsome again, virile—"

"You were never handsome. Your wife confirmed that in her leaving letter. What was it she wrote? 'Thirty years of closing my eyes and thinking of literally anyone else.'"

Azzaron makes a sound that might be suppressed laughter. His shadow falls across me, and when I glance back, his eyes burn bright gold, tracking my every movement with an intensity that makes heat pool low in my belly.

"She's vicious today," he observes, voice pitched for my ears. "I like it."

The approval makes something savage bloom in my chest. I turn back to the merchant, who's now reaching for my ankle. I step on his fingers. Not hard enough to break. Just enough to make him whimper.

"Don't touch. You haven't earned it." I grind my heel slightly. "Tell me what you really want. Not youth. What you actually think youth will buy you."

"Women! Young women! They should want me—I have money, power—"

"You have an estate built on your father's success and breath that could peel paint." I release his fingers, watch him cradle them. "But fine. Your soul for youth. Physical youth only—your mind remains exactly as limited as it currently is."

"What about—will I be handsome?"

"You'll be young. Handsome is a different bargain entirely. So is a functional penis, before you ask."

"But—"

"Actually, let me be specific." I lean down, letting him smell my perfume but keeping just out of reach.

"You'll have the body of twenty-five. The same face, just less weathered.

The same penis, just attached to tighter skin.

Celeste still won't fuck you. Your son will still be embarrassed.

Women will still cross streets to avoid you. But you'll be young while it happens."

"That's not what I—"

"It's exactly what you asked for. Youth. Take it or leave it."

He looks at Azzaron, seeking male solidarity. "Surely we can negotiate—"

"The lady's terms are final." Azzaron's voice carries dark amusement. "Though I would have mentioned your tendency to cry during sex. That's not changing either."

"I don't—"

"Three witnesses say otherwise. Your wife, her sister, and that servant you paid to pretend you satisfied her." I extend my hand. "Your soul for youth. Decide."

He grabs my hand, fingers clammy and grasping. "Yes! I accept! Youth for my soul!"

Power floods through me—not mine, but conducted through me.

The sensation burns cold, like swallowing starlight, like drowning in reverse.

The merchant gasps, back arching, eyes rolling white.

I feel his essence, pathetic and thin, eager to detach from his worthless flesh.

It tastes like spoiled wine and festering disappointment.

I want to pull it free. Want to tear it from his body and crush it between my fingers. The hunger for it makes my teeth ache.

But I can't complete the extraction. Don't have that ability. The power builds, burning through my veins, begging for release.

Azzaron steps behind me, his chest against my back, his hand covering mine where it grips the merchant's.

His claws trace my wrist, deliberate and possessive, and suddenly the extraction completes.

The soul tears free in a rush that makes me gasp.

He shapes it against my palm—my hand under his, learning the motion—into a stone so dim it barely qualifies as light.

Weak yellow, like piss diluted with water.

"Pathetic," he murmurs against my ear, still pressed against me. "Barely worth the effort. But you did beautifully."

The merchant scrambles away, not even thanking us.

Probably rushing to the nearest brothel to test equipment that won't work any better young than old.

I wipe my hand on my dress, trying to remove the memory of his clammy touch, but the hunger lingers.

That dark satisfaction of holding someone's fate and finding it wanting.

"How did that feel?" Azzaron asks, pulling me back against him for the return journey. His hands settle on my waist, thumbs pressing into my hip bones.

"Like taking candy from a particularly stupid baby who deserved to starve anyway."

He laughs—sharp, genuine, surprised. The sound vibrates through his chest where I'm pressed against him. "You're developing quite the edge, little optimist."

"I'm not an optimist anymore. I'm a realist who's discovered most people are worth less than the meat they're made of." The world tears again, rebuilding as demon stone and eternal twilight. "The merchant's soul barely glowed. He's worth almost nothing."