The Demon’s Queen (A Deal With A Demon)

Fucking Azazel is something I’m going to curse myself for in the morning, but I can’t seem to worry about it right now. No matter how different he looks, he’s still my Azazel in bed. We’re still getting off on the exchange in power that doesn’t have a defined set of rules beyond what feels good in the moment.

And now, kneeling between my thighs with his cock still dripping, he fingers me back to full health. Magic is a hell of a drug, that’s for damn sure. He’s being careful with me, but he’s not about to let me out of his bed before he gets another one from me.

He strokes his finger over my G-spot, his expression a mask of concentration all devoted to my pleasure.

The pain of taking someone his size is already fading, need taking hold once more. It consumes me, ensuring there’s no space for thinking, for fear, for worrying about the future. There’s only the here and now, Azazel’s thick finger inside me, lazily building my desire.

Another one, indeed.

Azazel adds his thumb to the mix, dragging it over my clit with each stroke. My first orgasm was damn near violent. This one feels almost like comfort, a gentle wave cresting and sending me back to the shore. It feels like safety.

He slows his strokes, eases his big finger out of me, and leans down to press a light kiss to my lips. “Don’t move.”

As if I could. I lie there and watch him pad naked to a doorway that obviously leads into his bathroom. He returns a minute later with a damp washcloth.

Even with the balm having chased away the worst side effects of taking him so recklessly, I still ache a little when he presses the cloth to my pussy. His onyx eyes miss nothing. “The balm will continue to work. You shouldn’t be sore at all in an hour or so.”

“Okay.”

He frowns but finishes cleaning me up and tosses the cloth into a short bin I hadn’t noticed before. “Stay.”

I shouldn’t. I’m already feeling vulnerable and raw in a way that has nothing to do with my body. He protected me today. He didn’t hesitate to give me exactly what I asked for—what I needed—when I came knocking at his door at an indecent hour. More than that, he’s submitted to my anger, to my punishments, without complaint.

He lied to me. Tricked me. Essentially kidnapped me. He . . . chose me. That shouldn’t matter—I didn’t ask for this—but it does.

I’m softening. Damn it.

“I’ll stay.”

He doesn’t ask if I’m sure. He’s too smart for that. Instead, he gets me a glass of water, watches closely as I drink it, shows me where everything is in the bathroom, and when I’m finished there, bundles me up in a blanket and sprawls us out in his bed.

It should be uncomfortable. I don’t sleep with clients, and I haven’t dated anyone in a truly spectacular amount of time. But the moment I close my eyes, Azazel’s steady breathing relaxes every tense part of me as his warmth cocoons me in safety.

It’s a lie.

The voice is faint, toothless. I’ll work to get my barriers up tomorrow . . . maybe.

But when I wake up, it’s to an empty bed.

I blink a few times, wondering if I imagined the whole thing. The faint ache in my body gives lie to that thought immediately. I sit up slowly, my head spinning faintly. “How long did I sleep?” Even knowing it’s foolish, I can’t help calling, “Azazel?” Silence is the only response.

There’s no reason for the spike of hurt that realization brings. I’ve spent every moment since I arrived here pushing him away. Why should I expect he’d give me the courtesy of at least writing a note or something to greet me when I woke?

But I am hurt.

I climb off the bed and look around. His room is a larger version of mine, the color scheme dark—deep-blue walls, copper accents on the furniture, all of which is some kind of black wood I don’t recognize. The temptation rises to snoop, but my bruised pride . . . bruised heart . . . can’t stand the thought of being here a moment longer.

“I’m overreacting.” The words feel faint and insecure in a way that makes my skin crawl.

Azazel is not my boyfriend. He’s my captor. Just because we’re fucking, just because he demonstrates care when he’s with me, does not change that fact. I know Stockholm Syndrome doesn’t exist exactly, but if it did, the sheer power of the orgasms he gives me would be enough to scramble my brain.

I shove through the door and out into the hall. I almost snap a command but force myself to pause and moderate my tone. “I’d like to go back to my room. Please.”

With every step I take down the long hallway, I berate myself for my recklessness, for letting pheromones and hormones make me forget exactly what brought me here in the first place. For . . . a lot of things.

Homesickness rises, so strong that I press my hand to my chest as if I can soothe the feeling with touch alone. It doesn’t help. Of course it doesn’t help. I don’t even know what I’m homesick for. My empty apartment? New York? Pope and the few friends I’ve allowed myself over the years? The clients who will just move on to other professionals once they realize I’m no longer around? I may have built up the fantasy that I’m irreplaceable, but it’s not the truth. That realization hurts almost as much as Azazel’s betrayal.

I’m in a magical realm a million lifetimes from everything I know, and I can’t stop jumping on my captor’s cock. I’m giving him exactly what he wants. It’s easier to be angry with Azazel than to examine all the ways I feel hurt and foolish right now.

The first corner brings me back to my door. “Thank you.” I can’t quite make my tone be gracious. I shove through my door and head directly to the bathroom. I’m going to shower and then . . .

The rest of my life stretches out before me, with me lonely and alienated. I’ve been here over a week. That’s barely enough time to adjust, but trying to explore feels like giving in. I wrap my arms around myself, more conflicted than I’ve ever been. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to feel.

Showering does nothing to clear my mind. Getting ready usually creates a calm space inside me, the motions familiar and comforting. Not today. I give up halfway through and march out to the wardrobe to pull on a black wrap dress. It’s beautiful and fits perfectly, which only worsens my mood.

I have to get out of here.

Even if that means seeing him before I’m ready. This room is massive, but the walls feel like they’re closing in. I have to go . . . I need to . . .

I push through the door. “Please.” It’s getting easier to talk to the castle, feels less like I’m talking to myself. Or maybe desperation has a way of cleaving through things that don’t matter. “I need to get out. Just for a little while. I need . . .”

Walking helps keep the buzzing feeling that’s beneath my skin at bay, but only barely. It’s so much worse than it was last night, but I’ll throw myself out a window before I beg the castle to send me to Azazel.

No matter how much I crave the feeling of his strong arms around me. That craving is a lie, a weakness. Giving in to it will only pave the way for him to get what he wants. He ruined my life.

He saved my life.

Only because he’s the one who endangered it!

Fuck, now I’m arguing with myself. This is bad.

I turn two corners and nearly weep at the sight of a staircase opening up in front of me. “Thank you.” I rush forward, moving too quickly, but I can’t seem to slow down. The voices in my head are drowned out by two words, repeated over and over again until they bleed into each other.

Get out. Get out. Get out. Getoutgetoutgetoutgetout.

I’m moving so fast, I trip over my feet. For a moment, I’m perfectly weightless, and then I crash into a body. It catches me around the waist and keeps me from landing on my face. “Eve? What’s wrong?”

Ramanu.

I know that the sensation of my ribs cracking, of my sternum splitting, of my heart emerging, bloody and frantic, is panic. It’s not real. It can’t possibly be real. But though my brain knows that, my body hasn’t gotten the memo. “Can’t. Breathe.”

To their credit, Ramanu doesn’t hesitate. They loop an arm around my waist and turn smoothly to keep walking in the direction I was headed. “You’re safe.”

“No.”

“You are,” they insist. Calm and steady. Their tone isn’t patronizing or pitying. Just matter-of-fact. “You’re having a panic attack.” We round another corner. “I’m taking you to the gardens. We’re almost there.”

They half carry me the rest of the way. My legs aren’t quite working the way I need them to be. Nothing is working the way I need it to. Can someone die from panic? Surely that’s possible. Rabbits die from fear, right? Why wouldn’t it be possible for humans too?

Ramanu hauls me through a wide doorway, and then the sun is on my face, warm and buttery and as gentle as the caress of a mother I’ve never met. They bring me to a low bench and urge me down. “Here, darling.” They guide my arms up to cross over my chest, my hands to the front of each shoulder. Then they tap their fingers over mine, back and forth, back and forth. “Breathe. Focus on the sensation.” Back and forth. “Again. There you go.”

My eyes burn. “I can’t⁠—”

“You can.” They speak firmly and softly, still tapping in that regular rhythm. “Give it time.”

I don’t know how long it goes on for. It feels like a small eternity. I can’t even say when I finally manage to draw a full breath or when the horrible tightness in my chest eases, just a little. Only that it happens. Eventually.

Through it all, Ramanu crouches before me, as patient as a saint, talking to me softly as they continue tapping. Them having horns where most humans have eyes turns out to be comforting. They squeeze my shoulders. “Better?”

“A little.” I clear my throat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to lose it.”

“You’ve been through a lot.” They rise and sit on the bench next to me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

And have whatever I say go directly back to Azazel? I think not. I clear my throat and drop my arms. “I’d like to go into the city. The walls are feeling too close in the castle.”

“That’s not an option after yesterday.” To their credit, they say it regretfully. “Azazel has ordered a lockdown until he can investigate further.” They motion to the garden. “There are plenty of open-air places within the castle. This garden is midsized, but there are others.”

For the first time, I look around the space, taking in the splashes of greenery and bright blooms. I’m no horticulturist, but even if I were, I suspect I wouldn’t be able to identify these strange plants and flowers. They’re beautiful, though. Now that I’m able to focus on something beyond breathing, I can practically taste the life in the air.

That doesn’t make this less of a cage.

“Ramanu—”

Their head jerks up, their attention focused on something far away as tension bleeds into their lean body. “I’m sorry, Eve, but I have to go.” They stand abruptly. “Azazel would like you to attend dinner with him tonight.”

Before I can dredge up a rejection of that idea, they’re rushing across the garden and through the doorway. I squint. For a moment, it looked like they’d actually disappeared, rather than just left. I want to say that’s impossible, but that’s what I thought about demons and magic and a host of other things I’ve encountered in the last week.

I slump back onto the bench. I can’t remember the last time I had a panic attack. I must have been a teenager. They were something I dealt with in junior high and high school. They started after the foster family—the one I thought I’d be with forever—adopted a baby and suddenly had no room or space for my troubled preteen self. The next home wasn’t bad, but there were four kids there and never enough attention to go around. Getting lost in the shuffle made me feel unmoored, and that sensation gave way to panic. It’s been years—decades—since the last attack. Long enough for time to dull the memory, to remove some of its teeth.

My heart is still beating too fast, my muscles as shaky as if I’d just completed an intense workout. I’m exhausted, but the thought of going back to my room is too much to bear. Instead, I make myself stand and walk through the garden.

As Ramanu said, it’s not particularly large—roughly the size of my penthouse back home—but whoever designed it was clever. The greenery is explosive. The paths are narrow and winding. I take several circuitous routes before the buzzing in my brain finally retreats enough for me to think. Mostly.

Not only am I trapped in this realm, but now I’m trapped in the castle. How long before Azazel gets high-handed and decides the only safe place for me is my bedroom? Or his bedroom?

The fizzle of lust that rises in response to the thought only serves to piss me the fuck off. Yes, I came to him last night when I didn’t know where else to go. Yes, he gave me what I thought I needed. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s manipulation. We don’t have equal power in this . . . whatever the fuck it is . . . if he can restrict my movements and cut me off even further from the outside world.

And then he summons me to dinner like an errant child.

I stop, narrowing my eyes. Fine. I’ll attend dinner. But I’m going to make him choke on my presence.