Page 6 of Bargain with the Demon King

Adraya

The black blood won't leave my mind.

Not because it horrifies me—though it should. Because of how efficiently Azzaron protected those humans. Swift, decisive, no hesitation. He saw a threat to innocent people and eliminated it. There's something noble in that, beneath all the violence.

I follow him through the fortress corridors, trying to memorize the route while watching how his jaw tightens with each step.

The way his horns catch the light makes them look less like a weapon and more like a crown.

Which makes sense, really. He is a king.

A king who protects his subjects, even the human ones.

"You're staring." He doesn't turn, but I hear amusement in his voice. "Fascinated by demon justice?"

"Fascinated that you have justice at all. The stories make demons sound like mindless monsters."

"Disappointed?"

"Actually, no." I skip a step to keep pace with his longer stride. "I love that there are rules here. Structure. That you care enough to enforce them."

He stops at a massive door, different from the others—thicker, older, humming with a power that vibrates deep in my bones, making my molars buzz. "Care is a strong word."

"What would you call it then?"

"Practicality." His hand hovers over the door's surface, not quite touching. The hum intensifies. "Chaos is bad for business."

"You totally have a soft spot for humans and won't admit it."

"Perhaps you'd like to test that theory." He pushes the door open. "Welcome to my vault."

The sound hits first—not heard but felt, vibrating through bone and blood.

Thousands of heartbeats that aren't heartbeats, thousands of breaths that aren't breaths.

The vault stretches into darkness, walls lined floor to ceiling with soul-stones.

They pulse in rhythm, creating waves of light that make me dizzy.

"Every bargain ever made with my bloodline." His voice cuts through the oppressive thrum. "seventeen thousand years of mortal desperation."

I step forward, and the sensation doubles. Each stone holds someone's essence. Someone who stood where I stood, made the same choice I made. The rough crystals glow with inner light—some bright as stars, some soft as candles, all of them beautiful in their own way.

"seventeen thousand love stories." The words escape before I can stop them.

Azzaron turns sharply. "Love stories?"

"Look—" I point to a cluster of stones pulsing in sync. "Those ones are keeping time together. They must have known each other. And that bright one there, it's practically singing. Someone traded their soul for something that made them that happy."

"That's not how soul-stones work."

"How do you know? Have you asked them?" I move deeper into the vault, drawn by the strange beauty of it all. "Oh, they definitely tell each other stories. I can feel it."

"They're fragments of essence trapped in crystal. They don't have consciousness."

"That's what you think." I reach toward a particularly warm golden stone. "But what if—"

"Don't." His hand catches my wrist, claws careful against my skin. "Touch another's soul-stone and you'll feel their memories. Their pain. Their regret."

"Or their joy. Their love. The thing that mattered enough to trade everything for." I look up at him, noting how the soul-light makes his black eyes shimmer. "Is mine here?"

Silence. Then: "Yes."

"Can I see it?"

"No."

"But it's my soul. I'd like to know it's somewhere nice, maybe near others so it's not alone."

"Souls don't get lonely." He releases my wrist, but the heat of his grip lingers.

"Everything gets lonely." I turn in a slow circle, taking in the magnificent, terrible display. "Even demon kings who eat dinner by themselves. Three centuries! That's three centuries of missed conversations about favorite colors!"

Something flickers across his face—caught between annoyance and intrigue. "The vault affects mortals. We should go."

"Wait, I'm fine. Actually, it's beautiful in a tragic way. All these people who loved something enough to sacrifice everything." My hand goes to my chest, where the hollow ache lives. "I wonder if Chad knows what I did for him. If he understands the weight of it."

"I'm certain he's given it extensive thought." The sarcasm is thick enough to cut.

"He has a romantic soul. He leaves me notes where I'll find them during the day.

Simple things, scribbled on scraps of parchment—'Saw the sunrise and thought of your hair.

' 'Your laugh is a better sound than any bird's.

' It's not poetry, but it's... real." I smile at the memory.

"He'll probably write epic poems about my sacrifice. "

Azzaron makes a sound that might be choking. "Epic. Poems."

"Don't mock him. Not everyone expresses feelings through intimidation and strategic executions."

"Indeed. Some express them through mediocre verse and wildflowers."

"Those wildflowers mean everything." I touch another stone—not quite, just letting my fingers hover near its warmth. "He picks them himself, you know. Takes time from his day just to make me smile."

"How extraordinary. He performs the bare minimum of romantic gesture."

"See, that's your problem." I turn to face him fully, hands on my hips. "You've forgotten what it's like to appreciate simple things. When was the last time something just made you happy? Not powerful or satisfied, but genuinely happy?"

He stares at me for a long moment. The soul-stones pulse around us, painting his face in shifting colors. "Happiness is a mortal luxury."

"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard." The vault's humming intensifies, pressing against my skull, but I push through it. "Everyone deserves happiness. Even grumpy demon kings who pretend they're made of stone."

"We should go." He places his hand on my lower back, guiding me toward the door. His thumb presses against my spine through the fabric, deliberate pressure that sends heat pooling low. "Before you assign feelings to more inanimate objects."

"They're not inanimate. They're souls." But I let him lead me out, hyperaware of how his palm burns through my dress. The door seals behind us with finality. The absence of humming makes my ears ring. "Thank you for showing me."

"You're thanking me for showing you a collection of stolen souls?"

"I'm thanking you for sharing something important to you." I beam up at him, noting how he seems genuinely confused by my reaction. "The vault is part of who you are. You didn't have to let me see it."

"Your dinner will be ready soon." He's already moving away, clearly done with my observations. "I assume you can find your chambers without escort."

"Where will you be?"

"My chambers. Where I always take my meals."

"Alone? That's depressing."

"I am the Demon King. I don't require—"

"Everyone requires company. It's basic nature." I tilt my head, studying him. "When was the last time you shared a meal with someone?"

"That's not your concern."

"Three centuries of eating alone. No wonder you're so cranky." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "That's it. I'm fixing this."

He's already disappeared down the corridor, but I swear I hear him mutter something about optimistic mortals and their delusions.

The dining tray arrives while I'm pacing my chambers. Roasted meat that smells incredible, vegetables in jewel tones that shouldn't exist, bread that steams without being warm. A goblet of wine so dark it looks like liquid midnight.

I sit at the small table, then immediately stand again. Through the wall, I hear movement. The scrape of a chair. The soft clink of glass.

He's really going to sit there alone, probably brooding about soul-stones and proper demon behavior. Well, that's just ridiculous. Nobody should eat alone when there's perfectly good company available. Even if that company is technically his prisoner.

Actually, especially then. What's the point of keeping someone in the next room if you're not going to enjoy their presence?

I pick up my plate with determination.

The adjoining door is unlocked. I knock once—firm and cheerful—then enter without waiting for permission.

Azzaron sits at a table identical to mine, a spread of dark delicacies before him. He's removed his formal coat, and his shirt pulls across his chest as he looks up. The casual look suits him, makes him seem less like an untouchable king and more like a man who happens to have horns.

"I didn't invite you."

"Obviously. Someone has to save you from yourself." I set my plate across from him, pull out the chair with purpose. "You'd sit here forever, all alone and dramatic, if someone didn't intervene."

"I've eaten alone for three centuries."

"Which is exactly three centuries too long." I sit, arranging my plate with satisfaction. "Consider this an intervention."

His eyes narrow, gold threads brightening. "I could have you removed."

"You could. But then you'd have to eat alone again, and we've established that's depressing." I take a bite of the meat, eyes widening at the rich flavor. "Oh, this is incredible. Do demons have better taste buds or is your food just magical?"

"Both." He watches me eat with an expression caught between irritation and fascination, tracking the way my throat moves when I swallow. "Most mortals find it overwhelming."

"Most mortals haven't had proper motivation to appreciate new experiences." I reach for the wine, noting how his eyes follow the movement of my hand to the stem. "I'm choosing to see this as an adventure. How many humans can say they've dined with the Demon King?"

"None who lived to tell about it."

"See? I'm making history." I grin at him, delighted when his mouth twitches. "So, in all the stories I'm going to star in, what's the demon's side? Do you fall in love?"

The question catches him mid-drink. "What?"

"Love. Romance. Epic passionate affairs that reshape kingdoms." I lean forward eagerly. "There must be demon love stories. You can't all be emotionless all the time."

"Demons mate. We don't... love."