Page 57 of Prince of Demons (Demon’s Mark #2)

Georgia

W hen the King arrived in front of the large, opulent doors shielding the auction hall from view, the servants had already attached a gold chain to lead her by.

Gold encircled her wrists in ornate shackles and her neck in a collar inlaid with shimmering rubies, but the leash was attached where they expected her true submission.

“You look like a picture-perfect mate already. My son is a lucky man.” The King let his gaze sweep over her, lingering on her bare breasts and sex before he plucked the chain from his servant and gave it a light tug.

The motion traveled through the leash to the ring fixed between her legs, pulling her clit taut.

Sharp, deep sensation seared through her pelvis, low and brutal.

Georgia swallowed a hiss, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“Come along then, Breeder.” The doors ahead of them began to open. The hall beyond was bright with firelight, a circular room with an arena in the center and seats rising around its perimeter, like an amphitheater of old. The King tugged on her leash again, harder this time.

Georgia didn’t manage to stem a small cry this time. She stumbled after him, powerless against the pull of the ring. As she would be for the rest of her life.

The chain pulled again. Georgia winced and followed, bare feet skimming polished stone, the clink of her shackles swallowed by the rising sound ahead.

When they crossed the threshold, the noise hit her like heat.

A roar.

Dozens of demon lords filled the coliseum stands, their voices thick with hunger and triumph. Not reverence. Conquest.

The King raised the chain slightly as he guided her forward, making sure she stayed a step behind him like a prized beast on display. Every movement of the leash sang along the nerve in her clit, sending sharp reminders of where she was, what she was.

They crossed the center of the arena floor. The lords above leaned forward in their seats, hungry-eyed, leering.

She didn’t meet any of their gazes. Her chin stayed up, but her insides curled tight.

On the far side, steps of white marble curved upward. The King took them without pause, tugging her behind, until they reached a raised platform with gilded railings and a single, low pedestal.

He tugged on the chain, guiding her up on the pedestal with the deep, sharp humiliation of the ring forcing her to flinch and adjust until she stood like he wanted her—arms behind her back, chest thrust forward, legs apart. Naked and visible to every eye in the coliseum.

The King waited for silence to fall over the gathered demons, as every eye fell on her body, displayed like meat on the platform. Then he stepped forward, his voice carried, rich and clear and perfectly amplified without need of a microphone.

“Brethren. Loyal subjects. Warriors of our future.” He paused, letting the crowd’s energy still before continuing. “Today, we mark a turning point. The Americans—our wayward kin, drunk on chaos and weakness—believed they could keep the rarest prize our kind knows to themselves.”

A soft hum rolled through the room. Georgia kept her gaze fixed on the far wall.

“They thought her their salvation. Their rebellion’s seed—a vessel to sire a new generation of traitors.

But in the end…” He reached behind him and gave the chain a casual tug, making Georgia raise up on her toes with a whimper.

The crowd laughed. “In the end, they saw reason. They understood they could not stand against us. That to do so, would be to perish.”

He let the leash fall slack again.

“This Breeder is a symbol of their weakness. Their defeat. With the surrender of a Pure mate, I announce the end of the war with our traitorous cousins in the West. There is once again only one true court, and I will remember each of you here today. You who remained steadfast. You who did not waver.”

He turned slightly, gesturing toward Georgia with an open palm. “And now, as promised—your reward.

“You all know the rules,” the King said, letting his gaze sweep the crowd. “We begin with a display of wealth. A show of what each of you believes she’s worth to your bloodline—what monetary value you place on the fruit of her womb.”

A ripple of sound—low, eager—passed through the arena.

“Once the first bid has been placed, it may be challenged, either by currency or by a show of strength.” He turned then, pausing to let his gaze wander up Georgia’s trembling form.

“A challenger may choose to fight the current bid holder instead of increasing the monetary value. Blood, spilled for the right to breed her. A worthy cost.”

Georgia’s stomach twisted. The weight of the gathered demons’ attention pressed down on her like a second collar.

“Once a victor is named, his reward must be claimed before us all. Twist her ring to claim her cunt, seed her womb in the arena to cement your victory, and none shall be able to challenge your right as her mate for the rest of eternity.”

A tremble worked its way through Georgia’s body. Her throat felt too tight to swallow. Her first rape would take place in front of all of them. The subsequent ones would last for the rest of her existence.

The King raised his arm. “Begin!”

A voice rang out from the stands. “One million euros.”

Another answered, fast and sharp. “One-point-two.”

The crowd stirred, hungry for the game. The King said nothing, only stood beside her like a curator beside his prize.

Georgia didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her clit still ached between her legs from the last tug, nerves tight and raw.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, the ruby-encrusted collar around her neck constricting the movement.

Her wrists throbbed in their gold shackles.

She kept her gaze on the floor ahead, on a crack in the marble no one else would notice.

“Three-point-four,” someone called, raising another rumble amongst the lords.

Then a third voice—smooth, certain—cut through them. “I challenge.”

Silence fell.

From the front row, Prince Aragalan rose. He adjusted his leather bracers and stepped down toward the arena floor, his eyes never leaving Georgia.

He smirked at her as he passed her platform. No leering. No filth. Just confidence. Like he already knew what her body would feel like submitting under his.

The lump in Georgia’s throat became too big to swallow past the collar. Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked rapidly, willing them away. It didn’t help.

The other demon lord—the one who’d bid three-point-four million for her—stepped into the arena after the Prince.

The two faced each other, nodded once, then looked to the King, waiting for the signal.

The King raised his hand, then dropped it sharply.

The arena erupted.

The two demons surged toward each other, bare fists crackling with shadow. Magic spilled from their skin like smoke—black and thick, twisting around their limbs as they collided. The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed off the marble walls. Georgia flinched.

A fist connected with Aragalan’s side, sending him skidding across the blood-slick floor. He snarled, rising to his feet, mouth already smeared with red. The magic around him coiled tighter, denser now, wrapping him like a second skin.

The other demon advanced, but too slow. Aragalan moved like a blade.

He ducked the next blow, caught the other’s arm, and drove his elbow up into the joint with a sickening crack.

The man screamed. Then Aragalan shoved him back with a blast of shadow, slamming him into the ground so hard the stone beneath cracked.

The crowd cheered.

Blood streaked the arena floor now. The other demon lay groaning, one arm bent wrong, blood leaking from his mouth.

Aragalan turned toward the stands, chest heaving, hands still dripping.

“Challenge me,” he said, voice low and thick with triumph. “And I will use your blood to lubricate my cock when I claim the Breeder as mine. There is no besting me. There is no outbidding me. There is only defeat.”

Silence stretched, heavy and taut. No one moved.

Then—“Four million,” someone called from the upper tier.

The crowd stirred again. All eyes turned to Aragalan.

His lip curled. “Then come and take your chance,” he snarled, already pacing toward the center, blood still slick on his hands.

The challenger rose, stepping down the marble stairs with deliberate calm. His gaze locked with Aragalan’s, power rising in dark tendrils from his skin.

But he never reached the arena floor.

With a sound like the sky tearing open, the ceiling above them shattered.

Stone and dust exploded inward, the air ripped apart by a force too sudden to prepare for.

A heavy thunk followed, and a crack split stone floor, racing from the center of the arena in two directions, setting the pedestal wobbling.

Georgia cried out, stumbling to keep her balance. The King’s hold on her chain yanked her back with a brutal tug as he raised a wall of dark magic around the platform, shielding them from the rain of debris.

Choking on an agonized sob, she squinted through the smoke and dust to the arena below.

Something moved in the haze—something black and burning and terrible, and…

No. No, it couldn’t possibly be?—

Fear gave way to mind-numbing shock as the smoke cleared and the large outline of a man turned crisp and clear and undeniable.

Kesh.

He crouched amid the rubble where he’d dropped through the ceiling, his body sheathed in pulsing shadow, power seething off him in waves. Eyes burning with a fury too vast for words.

Every demon in the room went still, but he paid them no mind.

Straightening slowly, his gaze found Georgia’s. His lip curled in a snarl at the sight of her shackles. The humiliating chain. The deep sound rumbled through the broken coliseum, rich and deep and preternatural.

“You have one second to release what’s mine, King of Nothing. One. Before I pull this palace down on your skull and erase your city from existence.”