Page 28 of Bargain with the Demon King

Adraya

The taste of him burns my tongue—salt and power and something darker that pools heat low in my belly. I slam through the adjoining door hard enough to crack the frame, needing distance from his bed, his scent, the words that keep echoing: "You feel better than in the dream."

"The dream." I press my palms against my eyes until stars burst. "The fucking dream."

Every dream where he touched me without touching.

Where he knew exactly what I wanted before I did.

Where he pulled back right before our lips met, leaving me gasping and desperate and thinking my subconscious was torturing me.

But it wasn't my subconscious. It was him.

Actually him. In my head without permission, watching me reach for him, hearing me beg, witnessing every moment of vulnerability I thought was private.

"Fucking demon kings and their fucking boundary issues.

" I grab the nearest book—some ancient demon text about proper genuflection angles—and hurl it at the wall.

The spine cracks, pages scattering. Good.

"Chad tried to kill my body. You colonized my mind.

We're going to have to debate which one is worse. "

The comparison sends a laugh tearing out of me.

My boyfriend who shoved me toward death is somehow less invasive than the demon who saved me.

Chad took my soul through manipulation. Azzaron took my secrets through violation.

Which betrayal cuts deeper? The one that killed my body or the one that invaded my mind?

A crystal goblet follows the book, shattering against stone. Then another. The sound of breaking things almost drowns out the memory of his voice confessing so casually, as if dream invasion is standard demon courtship.

"Miss?" A servant's voice through the door, nervous. "Is everything—"

"Peachy!" I throw a chair at the door. It splinters. "Just redecorating! Turns out violation chic is very in this season!"

Footsteps retreat quickly. Smart servant.

I pace, counting steps because counting keeps me from screaming.

Twelve to the window. Twelve back. The twilight necklace sits heavy against my throat, reminding me of his gifts, his attention, the way he notices things about me no one else bothers to see.

Even that feels tainted now. Did he notice because he cared, or because he was studying me through dreams, listing my desires for future use?

My hand finds the crystal vial on my nightstand—trapped starlight from my own world, caught because I'd whispered once about missing stars.

The contents swirl, pure white against the eternal twilight, proof that he stood in a mortal field catching light for someone too broken to properly thank him.

Real stars. Not memory, not illusion. He crossed realms to bottle light because I mentioned missing it during a dinner when I thought he wasn't listening.

But he's always listening. In dreams. In waking. Always there, always watching. The starlight pulses in its crystal prison, beautiful and trapped, and I wonder if that's what I look like to him—something bright he caught and keeps in a bottle for when the darkness gets too thick.

"Did you catch these before or after you invaded my dreams?" I ask the vial, watching the light swirl. "Was this guilt or genuine care? Can demons even tell the difference?"

The starlight offers no answers, just continues its endless spiral, foreign light existing in a realm where it doesn't belong.

Exactly like me. Except the stars didn't choose to be here.

They were taken, bottled, gifted as proof that someone paid attention.

The gesture feels different now, knowing he was in my head, knowing every gift might be calculated from dream-knowledge he stole.

Another knock interrupts my destructive spiral. Firmer. Authoritative.

"Go away."

"The King insists you eat—"

"Tell the King he can eat his own dreams since he's so fond of consuming things that aren't his!" I pick up another goblet, weigh it in my hand. "Actually, tell him exactly that. Word for word."

"Miss, please—"

The goblet explodes against the door. "GO. AWAY."

They do. Finally. Leaving me with broken glass, scattered pages, and the taste of him still burning my tongue.

My body betrays me with sense memory—his mouth between my thighs, the way he growled my name, how his control shattered when I took him in my mouth.

The power of making the Demon King come undone, balanced against the violation of him witnessing my most private moments without consent.

"At least this is excellent cardio," I tell the ruins of my room.

"Very cathartic. Should probably thank him for the therapeutic rage opportunity.

'Dear Azzaron, thank you for violating my dreams so I could discover my passion for interior demolition.

Please find enclosed one broken chair as a token of my appreciation. '"

Hours crawl by. The soul-stones in my walls pulse differently when I'm angry—faster, brighter, feeding on emotion.

The eternal twilight outside shifts through its limited spectrum, purple to gold to that color that doesn't exist in my world.

Everything here operates on different rules. Privacy, apparently, chief among them.

The third knock comes near midnight. I'm sitting in the wreckage of my room, building a small monument to violation from broken things. Seventeen chair pieces. Forty-three book pages. Eight goblet shards large enough to cut. The door opens without permission.

It's Lyssa, one of the senior servants, the one who actually looks me in the eye when she serves meals. Her expression carries urgency. She takes in the destroyed room without comment, stepping carefully over broken glass.

"The King requests your immediate presence." Her voice stays level but her hands shake. "He says it cannot wait."

"He can request into eternity. I'm not—"

"Please, miss." She steps closer, and I catch something in her eyes. Fear? Warning? "He was very specific. You must come immediately. The lower throne room. For... for privacy, he said."

Something tastes wrong about this. Azzaron doesn't send servants when he wants me—he just appears, proprietary and unapologetic. He certainly doesn't send Lyssa, who serves the court more than personal chambers. And lower throne room? I've never heard of a lower throne room.

But anger overrides caution. Good. Let me rage at him properly. Let me tell him exactly what I think about his dream invasions with an audience.

"Fine." I don't change from my torn dress, blood still staining the fabric. Glass crunches under my feet as I follow her. "But if he thinks I'm going to be reasonable about this, he's about to be disappointed."

Lyssa moves quickly through corridors I don't recognize.

We descend stairs I've never seen, carved from stone so old it predates the rest of the fortress.

The soul-stones here pulse differently—slower, deeper, dying heartbeats from bargains made before Azzaron's time.

Their light barely penetrates the shadows, and the darkness between them moves wrong, oily and aware.

"These aren't the usual routes," I observe, counting turns. Seven left. Three right. Two more left. A pattern that makes no architectural sense.

"The King prefers privacy for certain... discussions." Lyssa's voice echoes strangely here. The walls eat sound, swallow it before it can properly resonate.

The temperature drops with each step. Not demon-cold but something else. Absence-cold. The kind that exists in spaces meant to be forgotten. My breath fogs, and the twilight necklace goes ice against my throat—usually it maintains my body temperature, but here it struggles.

"Lyssa, wait—"

"Here, miss." She stops at an intersection of three corridors, each disappearing into perfect black. "Through there."

"Through where? It's just darkness—"

Shadows peel away from stone with wet sounds, taking shape, becoming solid.

Five high demons materialize from the dark.

Lord Kaine's ice-white eyes gleam. Lady Sithara's silver spiral horns catch what little light exists.

Lord Vex's shadow splits into three pieces, each moving independently.

And two others I don't recognize, their marks pulsing violent purple.

Lyssa vanishes down a side corridor before I can call out, and I understand: trap.

"Well, this is awkward." I back against the wall, hands already fisting. "Did you all coordinate outfits, or is matching shadow-wear coincidence? Very gothic. I approve."

"The King's pet, wandering alone." Kaine steps forward, ice crystallizing where his feet touch stone. The temperature drops another ten degrees. "How careless."

"Not alone. You brought four friends. That's either flattering or pathetic, depending on perspective.

" My mouth runs while my mind calculates escape routes.

None. These corridors are mazes, and they know them better.

"Let me guess—you think I'm corrupting your precious King with my mortal weakness? "

"You've made him soft." Sithara's voice harmonizes with itself—primary tone over ancient undertone. "He takes your counsel. Lets you speak in court. Keeps you in chambers that should belong to demon royalty."

"And that threatens you because...?" I dodge left, but Kaine's already there, his hand closing on my throat. Not choking, just controlling. His skin burns cold enough to crack lips. "Oh right. Because if a mortal can advise him, what exactly are you worth?"

"We're worth centuries of wisdom," Vex says, his shadows circling me. "You're worth whatever entertainment value you provide in his bed."

"Funny, I don't remember seeing any of you in his bed." I grin despite Kaine's grip. "Must have missed the invitation to that particular council meeting."