Page 7 of Bargain with the Demon King

"You mate. That's just love without the poetry." I tear off a piece of bread, genuinely curious. "What about beauty then? What's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?"

He's quiet for a long moment, studying me with those impossible eyes. "Beauty is subjective."

"That's not an answer."

"A mortal woman once danced in my court.

She'd bargained for her daughter's life, and part of the payment was a single dance.

" His voice goes distant. "She danced like grief given form.

Every movement was loss and love and desperate hope.

She made my entire court weep without shedding a tear herself. "

"That's heartbreaking."

"That's beauty. The intersection of pain and grace." He meets my eyes. "Your turn. Most beautiful thing you've ever seen?"

"Chad's face when he first said he loved me." The memory warms me from within. "We were by the river, and the sunset hit his eyes just right, and he looked at me like I was his whole world. Like nothing else would ever matter as much as that moment."

"How nauseatingly sweet."

"How perfectly romantic." I correct, taking another sip of wine and watching the way his throat moves when he swallows his own drink. "You've really never been in love? In all your centuries?"

"Love is a mortal weakness."

"Love is a universal strength." I push a strange purple vegetable around my plate. "It makes people brave. Makes them sacrifice everything for someone else's happiness. That's not weakness—that's the ultimate power."

"Is that what you tell yourself? That trading your soul for his life was power?"

"It was. I had the power to save him, and I used it." I meet his gaze steadily. "No regret in that."

His claws drum against the table. "What if he's not worth it?"

"Everyone's worth saving to someone." I smile, soft and sure. "Chad brings me wildflowers, remembers my favorite tea, holds me during thunderstorms even though he pretends not to be scared too. He's worth a thousand souls."

"You've assigned an interesting exchange rate to mediocrity."

"You've assigned an interesting level of cynicism to everything beautiful." I counter. "When was the last time you danced?"

"Demons don't dance."

"Everyone dances. Maybe not formally, but everyone moves to some rhythm." I study him, noting the controlled grace in every gesture. "I bet you'd be an excellent dancer. All that coordinated violence probably translates."

"Are you suggesting I waltz through executions?"

"I'm suggesting you have rhythm in your bones and refuse to let it out." The wine makes me bold, or maybe it's his almost-smile. "What's your favorite color?"

He blinks at the subject change. "My what?"

"Color. Everyone has a favorite color. Even demon kings."

"Colors here exist in spectrums your eyes can't process."

"So pick one I can see."

He's quiet for a moment, firelight playing across his sharp features. "Gold."

"Gold? Like treasure?"

"No." He reaches across the table, one claw hovering near my hair. "Like mortal warmth. The color of hope before it learns better."

My breath catches. His claw almost touches a strand of my hair, and every nerve in my body leans toward that almost-contact.

"You're not as cold as you pretend to be." The words come out soft, wondering.

"You're not as naive as you appear to be." He withdraws his hand slowly.

"I'm exactly as naive as I appear. I just choose to see the best in everything." I stand, gathering my plate with reluctance. "Thank you for letting me stay."

"Adraya."

I freeze at the door. My name on his tongue sounds different—weightier.

"Tomorrow night, bring your plate again."

"Is that an invitation?" I turn, unable to hide my delight. "The Demon King actually wants company?"

"The Demon King wants to observe mortal eating habits." But there's something that might be fondness if demon kings did fondness. "For research purposes."

"Research purposes." I grin. "Of course. Very scientific."

"Go to bed, my little optimist."

My stomach does something ridiculous at the endearment. "Goodnight, Azzaron. Sweet dreams."

"I told you, I don't dream."

"Maybe you just haven't had the right inspiration yet."

I leave before he can respond, but I swear I hear him exhale—soft, amused, perhaps even fond.

Back in my bed, I stare at the ceiling that shifts between purple and black like a bruise healing in reverse. Through the wall, I hear him moving. The soft sound of clothes being removed. The creak of his bed accepting his weight.

He's listening. I know he's listening, and somehow that makes me feel less alone.

My body hums with something I refuse to name—not fear, but something warmer.

Possibility, maybe. The Demon King invited me to dinner.

The Demon King has a favorite color. The Demon King almost touched my hair with something close to tenderness.

Chad would laugh if he knew. My romantic, perfect Chad who's probably writing verses about my sacrifice right now. I should feel guilty for enjoying Azzaron's company, but I don't. There's room in my heart for appreciating both—my true love in the mortal realm and my fascinating captor here.

A soft sigh escapes me as I shift against the silk sheets.

Through the wall, an answering sound. Low. Attentive.

He heard. Of course he heard. But tonight, that feels less like invasion and more like connection. Two lonely souls (well, one soul and one soul-owner) finding comfort in proximity.

Tomorrow I'll bring my dinner again. Maybe I'll ask him about demon music, or if flowers grow here, or what he thinks about when he's alone. Maybe I'll make him laugh again—that rich, unexpected sound that transforms his face.

Maybe I'll find more proof that even demon kings have hearts hidden somewhere beneath all that beautiful darkness.

The thought fills me with ridiculous, unfounded hope.

But then again, hope is what I do best.