Page 8 of Bargain with the Demon King

Adraya

Sleep pulls me under wrong.

Not the gentle drift I'm used to, but a sharp tug downward into something too warm, too real.

The darkness behind my eyelids shifts, takes shape, becomes a room I don't recognize.

Stone walls that breathe. Firelight that moves without flame.

And him. Azzaron stands at the edge of whatever this is, but wrong.

No armor of arrogance. No calculated smirk.

Just him, stripped down to something rawer.

His horns catch light that doesn't exist, and his eyes burn gold-bright in the dark.

"You think about me." Not a question. He circles me, slow, predatory. "When you're alone in that big bed, you wonder."

"I think about Chad." The protest comes out breathless. My body knows this is wrong—too vivid for a dream, too real for imagination.

"No." He stops behind me, close enough that his heat brands my spine through the thin nightgown I don't remember wearing. "You think about what my claws would feel like."

His hand trails down my arm, claws barely grazing skin. Not cutting. Just present. The threat of sharpness without the pain. My breath catches, and I hate how my body arches into the touch.

"Stop."

"I haven't started." His hand finds my hip, grip firm but not claiming. Just holding. Considering. "This is what you want, isn't it? To know how monsters touch?"

His other hand traces my waist, mapping curves through fabric that feels too thin, too much like nothing. Each point of contact leaves a phantom echo of heat, a brand that lingers even after his claws move on.

"Even in dreams, you burn for monsters." His laugh rumbles against my ear, low and knowing. "Your body tells truths your mouth won't."

I gasp—at the accusation, at his thumb pressing into my hip, at the way my pulse hammers everywhere he touches. He pulls me back against him, solid chest and controlled strength, and I feel every rigid line of him.

"This isn't real."

"Doesn't matter." His mouth hovers at my throat, not kissing, just breathing heat against my pulse. "You'll wake aching either way."

The dream shatters.

I bolt upright, sheets twisted around me, skin flushed and fevered. My nightgown clings with sweat. Between my thighs, wet heat that has nothing to do with fear. Everything to do with want.

Through the adjoining wall, silence. But I swear I hear satisfaction in that quiet, as if he knows exactly what kind of dream just broke me awake.

Morning arrives with obligations I can't meet his eyes through.

Court assembly at dawn. I take my position beside his throne, and my body betrays me with memory. Every casual movement—him signing death warrants, tilting his head at petitioners, drumming claws against obsidian—makes my skin prickle.

His hands. I can't stop staring at his hands. Those same claws that traced my skin in the dream now tap against his throne with casual boredom. When he reaches for a document, I track the movement, remembering how that hand gripped my hip.

"You're distracted." He doesn't look at me, but amusement colors his tone.

"Taking in the scenery." I force lightness into my voice. "All these demons genuflecting really sets a mood."

"What kind of mood?"

Dangerous question. The kind that makes me remember his mouth at my throat, his voice calling me out for burning. "Educational."

"Hmm." His hand settles at my waist, thumb finding the same spot from the dream. Coincidence. Has to be. "Pay attention. Lord Raziel approaches, and he's particularly tedious."

The demon who enters stands taller than most, antlers sprouting from his temples, carved with symbols that hurt to read. His marble skin carries a peculiar sheen, and when he speaks, contempt drips from every grinding syllable.

Azzaron translates, sounding bored. "He questions the wisdom of keeping mortals in the fortress."

"Just the one mortal, Majesty." Raziel switches to the common tongue, his accent thick but words clear. Each one aimed at me. "Your pet. Soft and useless, taking up space meant for those with actual power."

The throne room goes silent. Not quiet—silent. Every demon stops breathing.

"Pet." Azzaron tastes the word. Casual. Too casual. "Is that what you think she is?"

"What else? She cannot fight. Cannot forge contracts. Cannot even speak our tongue." Raziel's eyes find mine, dismissive. "She's decoration at best. A liability at worst. The mortal villages laugh that their king keeps a human toy."

I should defend myself. Say something clever and cutting. But the words stick in my throat because part of me wonders if he's right. What am I here except Azzaron's acquisition? A soul he bought for amusement?

"Adraya." Azzaron stands, and the room collectively steps back. "What would you do with someone who insulted your property?"

Strange question. "I don't own property."

"Hypothetically."

"I'd probably make them apologize. Maybe buy me flowers." I try for levity, but my voice shakes. "Punishment should fit the crime."

"How wonderfully merciful." He steps down from the throne, his boots making no sound on the stone, as if he's not so much walking as he is imposing his will upon the ground. "I am not merciful."

What happens next redefines my understanding of authority.

Azzaron doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't shift to beast form. Doesn't even touch Raziel. He simply exists, and his presence fills the room until there's no air left. Every demon drops to their knees. Some prostrate themselves completely. The temperature plummets.

"You forget yourself." Still conversational. Still calm. But power radiates from him in waves that make my bones ache. "She is mine. My claim. My choice. When you insult her, you challenge my authority."

Raziel tries to speak. Nothing comes out.

"You think her soft?" Azzaron circles him the way he circled me in the dream, but this holds no seduction. Only threat. "She survived selling her soul. She stands in my court while demons cower. She endures what would break you in a heartbeat."

"Majesty—"

"You're dismissed. If you speak of her again—if you so much as think her name—I'll hang your entrails from my throne as decoration." He pauses. "Since you're so concerned with the aesthetic value of my choices."

Raziel flees. Actually runs from the throne room, abandoning all dignity.

Azzaron returns to his throne, settling as if nothing happened. His hand returns to my waist, possessive now. Claiming. Every demon in the room sees it, understands it.

"You didn't have to do that." My voice comes out smaller than intended.

"Yes. I did." His thumb strokes once, deliberate, over the fabric. "No one questions what's mine."

The word sends heat straight through me. Not fear. Something worse. It's the dizzying, terrifying thrill of being a treasure he would kill to protect.

Chad never defended me. Not once. When merchants overcharged, he'd tell me not to make a scene. When drunks made crude comments, he'd pull me away, tell me to ignore them. Always the path of least resistance.

But Azzaron just threatened to eviscerate a lord for calling me soft.

The remainder of court passes in a haze. I catalog every shift of his body, every drum of his claws, every subtle claim of ownership. When he dismisses the assembly, his hand slides from my waist to my lower back, guiding me from the room.

"You're pleased." He observes as we walk. "Why?"

"No one's ever defended me without hesitation before."

"Your precious Chad doesn't leap to your honor?"

"Chad prefers to avoid conflict." The admission stings. "He says it's strategic."

"It's cowardice." We reach my chambers. "Will you join me for dinner?"

The question stops me cold. After the dream, after his protection, after the way my body still hums from both—I can't. Sitting across from him, pretending I didn't wake up aching, pretending his defense didn't thrill me in ways that have nothing to do with gratitude...

"I'm tired." The lie tastes wrong. "The court session was... intense."

His expression shifts—there, then gone. Disappointment? "As you wish."

He leaves, and I hate how empty the space feels without him.

My dinner arrives, but I can't eat. The dream keeps replaying. His hands. His voice. The accusation that I burn for monsters.

Through the wall, I hear him moving. The soft clink of glass. The scrape of his chair. Alone again, because I'm too much a coward to face what's building between us.

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to block out the memory of gold-threaded black, of claws that could destroy but don't, of protection that asks for nothing except acceptance of ownership.

Chad would be horrified. Sweet, safe Chad who brings wildflowers and writes terrible poetry. Chad who loves me, who I saved, who must be desperately worried.

But Chad never made me feel like this. Protected and endangered simultaneously. Valuable enough to threaten lords over. Worth defending without question or hesitation.

When did the Demon King become my safety?

When did I start wanting to burn?

The questions follow me to bed, where I lie awake, terrified to sleep.

Terrified of what dreams might come. Terrified of how much I want them to.

But a sliver of curiosity cuts through the fear.

What happens next? Finding the angle, the unexpected advantage, is what I do.

And if I must find a silver lining, I'll find it even in a demon's dream.

Through the wall, that same satisfied silence. As if he knows exactly what war I'm fighting.

As if he's already certain who will win.