Page 38 of Bargain with the Demon King

"That," he moves closer, sitting on the edge of my bed uninvited, "is where you're wrong."

"Don't." I turn away, facing the wall. The vacuum where my soul used to be is a cold, dead weight. "Don't try to fix me with demon logic. I'm not broken. I'm gone. There's a difference."

"You threatened Raziel today. Gone things don't threaten."

"I didn't threaten. I stated facts."

"You lied about the whispers."

"Did I?"

Silence. Then: "No."

I roll back to look at him. "You knew about the whispers?"

"I know everything that happens in my fortress."

"Then why—"

"Because you handled it yourself." His hand hovers near mine on the cover, not touching. I see the slightest tremor in his claws, quickly stilled. "Even hollowed out, you show more spine than half my court."

"Spite isn't spine."

"Sometimes they're the same thing."

We sit in this strange bubble of honesty, him perched on my bed like it's normal, me counting his breaths because they're steadier than mine. Sixteen. Seventeen. His hand still hovers, and I wonder what would happen if I reached out. If I took that offer of touch. If I let someone who knows exactly how worthless I am pretend otherwise.

"I bought you something." He produces a small box from nothing, demon magic or sleight of hand. "At the market."

"I don't want—"

"I know." He sets it on the nightstand. "It's here when you do."

He stands to leave, and something in me cracks. Not healing. Just breaking differently.

"Azzaron?"

He pauses at the door.

"Do you think—" The words strangle themselves. "Never mind."

"Ask."

"Do you think anyone ever loves someone enough? Really loves them? Or are we all just Chad and his convenient flesh, pretending until something better comes along?"

He's quiet so long I think he won't answer. Then: "I think love is just pretty wrapping on selfishness. But sometimes the wrapping is so beautiful we forget what's underneath."

"That's the saddest thing you've ever said."

"No. The saddest thing is that you know I'm right."

He leaves, and I'm alone with thirteen ceiling stones and a crack that goes nowhere. The box sits on my nightstand, wrapped in paper that shifts colors like the twilight necklace. I don't open it. Can't open it. Opening it would mean wanting something, and wanting things is what got me here.

But I don't throw it away either.

That's something. Or nothing.

With me, they're starting to look the same.