Page 4 of Bargain with the Demon King

Adraya

"Your chambers." Azzaron shoulders open a door that weighs more than I do, black wood carved with symbols that ache behind my eyes. His claws leave scratches in the grain that seal themselves.

The room beyond—I wasn't expecting this.

Not a cell. Not servants' quarters. A suite that belongs to someone important.

Bed vast enough to get lost in, fireplace crackling without wood to burn, windows overlooking the canyon's twisted sprawl.

Purple and black fabrics shift between silk and something else depending on the angle, the light, the observer.

"This is too much."

"Nothing in my fortress is too much." He enters, forcing me to follow or stand abandoned in the corridor. Firelight turns his horns into wicked silhouettes against the wall. "Everything is precisely as excessive as I intend."

"But I'm just—"

"Mine." The word lands hard, weighted with meanings I refuse to examine. "That makes you valuable enough for proper quarters."

He indicates a door across the room, claws catching amber light. "That connects to my chambers. Use it if you need something."

"You're putting me next to you?"

"Would you prefer the dungeons? I'm sure we could arrange something suitably damp and tragic."

"I prefer not being owned at all."

"Preferences are luxuries you traded away." Gold threads brighten in his black eyes—interest in my defiance. "Sleep. Tomorrow you begin earning your keep."

He leaves, his form seeming to pour through the doorway without a single footfall. The sight makes the hairs on my arms stand up. Just presence, then absence.

Silence crashes down. No crickets chirp. No wind sighs. No wood settles. Just thick quiet that makes my ears ache for sound. The kind of quiet that amplifies your own blood rushing.

I explore because standing still feels like drowning. The wardrobe holds dresses that fit perfectly though no one measured me. The bathroom features a tub carved from obsidian, deep enough for swimming. Everything whispers wealth, dominance, control.

The bed swallows me whole. I collapse onto it still wearing my ruined dress—dried blood stiff against my skin—because changing means accepting this new reality.

Through the adjoining door, movement. Not steps but that fluid shift of weight that sounds inhuman. Words in that grinding demon tongue, consonants that threaten even in casual conversation. Then nothing.

Then breathing. Slow. Measured. Awake.

I shift, and the bed protests.

A low chuckle through the wall.

The Demon King listens to every sound I make, and he wants me to know it.

Sleep never comes.

"Rise."

Dawn barely colors the sky—that perpetual almost-light that passes for day here. I've counted every heartbeat since midnight, wondering if Chad notices I'm gone. If he cares enough to notice.

New clothes wait on the chair—deep green, fitted through the bodice before falling loose. The neckline plunges. Because of course.

I peel off my stiff, blood-caked dress and pull on the green. No undergarments provided. The message is clear.

"Breakfast?" My voice cracks from disuse.

"Once you've proven useful." He fills my doorway without invitation, dressed in black that shifts between leather and something darker.

This morning his horns seem longer, framing his face in a way that makes looking directly at him difficult.

When he tilts his head, studying how fabric clings to curves, his claws drum against the doorframe in a rhythm that sounds like counting.

"Useful how?"

"Watching. Learning. Being decorative." His gaze travels down, lingering where the dress cups my breasts, embraces my waist, follows the flare of my hips. "You're excelling at that last part already."

My skin prickles everywhere his attention lands. "I didn't ask to be dressed like this."

"Yet here you are, wearing it beautifully." He pushes off the doorframe. His scent follows—iron and char and something darker that sits heavy in my lungs. "Come. My court awaits."

The throne room hurts to process in daylight. Soul-stones pulse in the walls, thousands of stolen essences keeping time with heartbeats that no longer exist. Demons pack the space—elaborate horns on the powerful ones, smaller creatures skittering along edges, all watching me with hungry curiosity.

Azzaron claims his throne, carved from something that radiates wrongness. He indicates a spot beside him. Standing room only.

"You expect me to sit at your feet?"

His eyes glitter with dark amusement. "Eventually. But we'll work up to you on your knees." The words roll off his tongue slowly, tasting each syllable. "For now, stand there and observe. Unless you'd prefer to test how creative I can be with expectations."

My stomach clenches, thighs pressing together involuntarily. "You must be confusing me with someone who takes orders."

"No confusion." He leans forward, voice becoming silk over steel. "You're exactly who I think you are. The woman who sold her soul to me. Which means you'll take whatever I give you."

My mouth goes dry, but I hold his stare. "Standing. That's all you're getting."

"For now." His smile could cut glass. "We'll see how long that resolve lasts."

I take my place. The position puts me at his eye level while he sits, close enough to breathe him in, to feel heat radiating from his skin. When he shifts, his thigh presses my hip.

First petitioner—a demon with spiral horns and bone-pale skin. She genuflects, speaks in grinding syllables. Her eyes find me, catalog my position, the way Azzaron's hand hovers near my waist.

He responds with bored authority. She retreats, trembling.

"What did she say?"

"Border disputes. Tedious." He adjusts his position, leg now firm against me. Every demon notices. "She wanted permission to expand her territory."

"Did you give it?"

"I gave her permission to keep her head attached. She seemed grateful."

His fingers settle at my waist. Not gripping. Just there. Claiming. Making sure everyone understands who I belong to.

Morning crawls by—demons reporting, begging, scheming. Azzaron handles each with casual menace, occasionally translating. His hand remains at my waist, thumb tracing patterns through fabric. Each sweep sends unwanted heat through me.

A lord approaches, antlers for horns, spine straight instead of bent. He speaks urgently.

Azzaron goes still. The bored slump leaves his shoulders, his spine straightening until he seems a foot taller on his throne. The air around him feels suddenly thinner. His claws pierce my dress slightly. Not pain, but a reminder of the power now coiled beside me.

"What's wrong?"

"Lower demons are harassing one of the human settlements." His fingers tap against my waist, each contact a tiny scratch. "They seem to have forgotten my rules about protected territories."

"Human settlements? Here?"

"Free humans who chose to remain after their contracts ended. They live under my protection." He rises, pulling me with him, hand sliding to my lower back. The room collectively steps backward. "We'll handle this personally."

"We?"

"You wanted to understand your new world." His palm burns through fabric against my spine. "Time for a practical lesson."

The courtyard makes my brain stutter. Carriages wait, but the creatures pulling them—

"Horses?"

"Shadowsteeds." Azzaron strokes one's neck, claws parting its mane. The beast towers above normal horses, coat shifting between black and deep purple, mane flowing without wind. "Bred in the deep canyon. They've never known sunlight."

The creature turns to me. Red eyes hold too much intelligence. Its breath forms no mist despite the cold. When it shifts weight, the motion looks rehearsed, mechanical. Its hooves touch stone silently.

"They're beautiful." I reach out, then hesitate. "Will it bite?"

"Everything here bites." He opens the carriage door, his claws tracing the silver handle for a half-second longer than necessary. A silent threat. "But they prefer demon flesh. You're too soft for their taste."

"Comforting."

I climb in, aware of his hand hovering near my waist, not touching but radiating heat through my dress. Black leather and silver fixtures inside, spacious for six but intimate with two.

He sits across from me, long legs bracketing mine. The Shadowsteeds begin moving without command, gliding forward with unnatural smoothness. No bounce. No sway. Just forward momentum while their hooves stay silent.

"You're staring."

I am. At synchronized movement that never falters, at breath that never fogs, at muscles that bunch and release without those tiny imperfections that make motion real.

"They're impossible."

"Most things here are." He leans back, shirt pulling tight across his chest. His breathing follows no natural rhythm—too controlled, too measured. "Does it frighten you?"

"Everything here frightens me."

"Good. Fear might keep you alive." His knee finds mine, pressure unmistakable. "Though fear won't save you from me."

The landscape blurs—inverted trees, lakes reflecting nothing real, mountains that fold into themselves. His leg maintains contact for the entire hour, heat bleeding through fabric.

Smoke rises ahead.

"Is that—"

"The village." His features sharpen, shift toward something more dangerous. His horns seem to elongate. "It seems my lords require a reminder."

The carriage halts at the village edge. Almost normal—wooden buildings, dirt paths, gardens. Look closer. Wood that never rots. Dirt that sparkles with crystal fragments. Gardens growing plants that shouldn't exist, too bright, too still.

Humans huddle in doorways, terrified. But not of Azzaron.

Three demons circle the village center, tossing something between them, laughing at wet impact sounds.

A human arm.

"Stay in the carriage."

"But—"

"Stay." The command vibrates through my bones.

He walks toward them. Each step lands with the same weight, the same timing, eating the distance with an unhurried certainty. This is control incarnate.