Page 30 of Bargain with the Demon King

Adraya

Consciousness returns in stages—first pain, then cold metal, then the copper taste that means I've been bleeding for a while.

My left eye won't open, the socket throbbing with each heartbeat.

My ribs grind when I breathe—sharp edges where bone cracked.

The chains holding me to Azzaron's throne have cut through skin at my wrists, red dried in rust-brown rings around the metal.

"She's awake." Kaine's voice, closer than comfortable. "The King's pet returns to us."

I force my good eye open, catalog the damage through blurred vision.

Five demons still here, waiting. Watching.

Crimson—mine—has dried in patterns across the throne room floor.

The soul-stones in the walls pulse irregularly, agitated by violence in their presence.

The copper taste in my mouth is so thick I have to swallow it down just to speak.

"Fourteen hours." Sithara circles me, her silver horns catching light from stones that shouldn't care about mortal blood but seem fascinated anyway. Her marks pulse violet with anticipation. "You've been unconscious for fourteen hours. We were starting to worry you'd die before making your point."

"Sorry to disappoint." My voice scrapes raw, each word tearing at my throat.

"But dying would be terribly inconvenient.

I have dinner plans. Well, had. Azzaron's probably eating alone again, which is just sad.

Three hundred years of solitary meals, then I show up and ruin his hermit streak, now back to loneliness.

Really, this whole thing is just cruel to his social development. "

Vex's shadow splits into four pieces—more than before, which means increased agitation. Perfect. "You still think he cares? After fourteen hours?"

"I think you're still here, which means you're not sure he doesn't." I shift, chains clanking, and immediately regret it.

Something in my chest grinds wrong—definitely broken ribs, maybe three.

"If you were confident I meant nothing, you'd have killed me already.

Instead you're what—having a slumber party?

Braiding each other's hair? Gossiping about who has the best horn care routine? "

The unnamed demon with purple marks backhands me. My head snaps sideways, fresh copper joining the old. The impact makes my vision white out for a second, but I laugh—wet, painful, genuine.

"That's number thirty-seven. I've been counting. Thirty-seven hits in fourteen hours. That averages to... actually, math is hard with a concussion. Let's call it 'a lot' and move on."

"Your mouth will get you killed," Kaine observes, frost spreading from where he stands.

"My mouth has gotten me a lot of things. Killed hasn't made the list yet." I meet his ice-white eyes through my one functioning eye. "Though it did get me a taste of demon king cock recently, which was educational. Did you know he makes these sounds when he—"

Another blow, this one from Sithara. "Disgusting creature."

"Jealous? I get it. Centuries of wanting what you can't have, then some mortal shows up and gets it by accident. That's got to sting. Like watching Chad fuck his new girlfriend, except you're the one who's inadequate and I'm the one getting the benefits."

"Fucking Chad," I mutter, then louder: "Actually, this is still his fault.

If he'd kept his dick in his pants, I wouldn't be here bleeding on demon floors.

I'd be making terrible soup and pretending his mediocre existence was enough.

Instead, I'm chained to a throne while you all wait to see if I matter enough to kill for. "

"He's not coming," Lord Vex insists, but his shadows argue with each other in whispers I can almost understand.

"No? Then why are you still—"

The temperature plummets. Not Kaine's ice—something else. Something that makes the air itself crystallize, each breath becoming visible, each exhale forming frost that hangs suspended. The soul-stones in the walls don't just pulse—they shriek, frequencies that pierce through bone.

"Well," I observe conversationally, though my teeth chatter, "someone's pissed."

The massive throne room doors—ancient wood bound with metal that's never known rust—begin to smoke. Not burn. Smoke. The metal runs liquid while the wood stays solid, an impossibility that makes my good eye water trying to track it.

"That's new," Vex whispers, all four shadows pulling tight against his body.

A sound cuts through the frozen air. Not a roar. Not a scream. Something that exists in frequencies that make my bones ache and my teeth taste lightning. The twilight necklace burns against my throat—not warning but recognition. It knows what approaches.

"Still think I don't matter?" Red drips from my split lip as I grin. "That sound? That's what happens when you touch what's his."

The doors explode inward. Not break—explode. Wood becomes splinters becomes dust in the space of a heartbeat. Metal turns to vapor that burns lung tissue just to breathe near. Through the destruction steps something that might once have been Azzaron but is now consequence given form.

His beast form fills the throne room without trying.

Horns that scrape the ceiling, leaving gouges in stone that's stood for millennia.

Skin that shifts between solid and shadow, unable to decide which state contains more threat.

Claws that don't just extend—they exist in defiance of physics, too long, too sharp, bending light around their edges.

His eyes burn gold-black, and looking directly at them makes my brain try to flee my skull.

"Your Majesty," Raziel attempts, though his voice shakes. "The mortal attacked us. We were defending—"

Azzaron moves. No—moves implies motion between points. He exists at Raziel, and then Raziel exists in pieces. The violence happens too fast to track, just Raziel whole, then Raziel in segments, black ichor painting arcs across ancient stone.

"Tidy," I breathe. "Very tidy."

The beast turns those impossible eyes on me, cataloging damage. Every bruise, every cut, every place they touched what's his. A sound rumbles from him that makes the remaining demons step back—not a growl but the promise of ending, the sound reality makes before it tears.

"Wait." Kaine raises both hands, ice cascading from his fingers in sheets. "She's not even yours anymore."

The words land wrong. The beast-thing that is Azzaron goes still—not calm but the pause before cataclysm.

"We found it," Sithara says quickly, sensing advantage. "In your chambers. The dust. Fine, white, glittering. Still warm."

My brain stutters. Dust? What dust could matter enough to—

"Her soul-stone," Vex's shadows whisper in unison. "Crushed. Destroyed. The ultimate crime for a demon king."

The throne room spins, or maybe I do. My soul-stone. Crushed. But that means—

"She has no debt," Kaine continues, frost climbing the walls as his confidence grows. "No chain binding her here. She's been free. You destroyed her soul-stone and kept her anyway."

My lungs forget their purpose. My heart stutters, skips. The throne room holds its breath.

Free. I've been free.

The memories crash through me—each one shifting, showing its true shape.

The way he asked if I wanted to see the library, never commanded.

How he brought his dinner to my room instead of ordering me to his.

The boundary surveys that were really just attempts to pull me from depression.

Every "would you like to" instead of "you will.

" The market, where he bought me things just because they made me smile, not because he owned me and could.

The way he never forced me to stay when I threw things at servants, never commanded me to eat, never used the power he didn't have.

He crushed my soul. Set me free. Then spent weeks tentatively trying to heal what Chad broke, not as my owner but as someone who simply couldn't bear to see my light extinguished.

"She'll run now," Sithara laughs, the sound sharp as her claws. "Back to her pathetic mortal world. Back to the coward she sold everything for."

The irony is so thick I can taste it through the blood. My soul is free, but my body is still in chains.

Kaine gestures, and my chains shatter, ice making metal brittle enough to break. I fall forward, catch myself on hands that barely work. My palms hit stone, and I feel every bone in my fingers protest. Life leaks from my wrists onto the floor, joining the elaborate patterns already there.

"Go on then," Lord Vex says, his shadows dancing with anticipation. "Run. The door's right there. Freedom. Your precious mortal world. Maybe even your Chad, though he's probably balls-deep in someone else right now."

I push to my feet. The first attempt fails—legs too weak, everything spinning.

The second attempt, I make it to my knees.

The third, finally standing, though the room tilts dangerously.

The twilight necklace pulses against my throat—warm for the first time since the betrayal, almost alive with possibility.

One foot in front of the other. I take a step. My legs threaten to buckle, but I lock my knees, stay upright through pure spite.

The demons smirk, satisfied. Azzaron's beast form makes a sound that might be breaking.

I take another step. This one costs more—I have to pause, hand pressed to my ribs where the grinding gets worse. Black spots dance in my vision, but I breathe through it. Another step. Building momentum, though each movement sends fresh warmth running down my arms from the chain wounds.

Toward him.

"What are you doing?" Sithara's voice pitches high with disbelief. "The door is that way."

"I know where the door is." Copper runs down my chin, but I keep walking toward the beast that killed for me. Another step. My vision tunnels, but I can still see him—massive, terrible, magnificent. "I also know where I choose to be."