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

I can’t sleep.

It’s not the bruise, which still radiates a faint ache through my ribs with each breath, that keeps me awake; that’s healing faster than I could have imagined. I don’t know what magic is in the balm Azazel used, but it works and works well.

It’s not that Ramanu unquestionably killed a person right in front of me. For reasons unknown, that doesn’t shift my perspective of them at all. Maybe because I don’t have a tangled mass of conflicting emotions in my chest when I think of Ramanu. I believe we could be friends, given some time, but I have no desire for more than that with them.

With Azazel?

He killed someone too. Someone who was trying to take me. He came running the moment there was trouble, without hesitation. More than that . . . I glare up at my ceiling. This may not be the route I would have chosen, but Azazel is a king. He has so many more lives to worry about than just mine. He could have let his enemy take me. It would have been easy. A preventable death, but it would have closed any weakness for Brosh to exploit.

But he didn’t. He saved me. He keeps saving me.

I roll over for the hundredth time, but no matter how comfortable my bed is, I can’t escape the thoughts lingering in the back of my mind. I should hate Azazel. I do hate him. He’s protecting me from danger that his presence created. But the danger is true enough. I don’t want to die.

I’m no stranger to stalking or even violence. I wish it were otherwise, but even before I started my work as an escort, there were a string of bad relationships with both men and women. Looking for love in all the wrong places. Or, rather, I was looking for love, and the people I fell for were looking for someone who was less of a partner and more of a possession. After my last girlfriend slit my tires over a harmless text, I swore off dating entirely. Then I met Pope and started my work. I’m too busy to date now, too uninterested in all the bullshit that comes with filtering out potential prospects who would have a problem with what I do.

And if I sometimes develop fondness and desire for my clients? If sometimes I let myself fall into the fantasy that they love me too, that they’re choosing me above all others? Well, that’s my problem, not theirs.

I’m spiraling, I know I’m spiraling, but I don’t know how to stop it. There’s no Pope to call to talk through the mess in my head. I know what they would say about my unease with Azazel: Use what you’ve got. He obviously cares about my well-being, even if he’s going about it in a shitty, over the top way. I could use that . . .

God, I’m so tired.

I open my eyes and stare at the city lights dancing over my ceiling with the movement of my sheer curtain in the faint breeze. It’s all too much. This situation. The violence I witnessed today. The future. All of it.

I don’t make the decision to get out of bed and pull on a short robe. I certainly don’t choose to open the door and step into the hallway. The lights are lower than normal, a nod to the late hour.

“I don’t know how to do this.” I reach out and gingerly press my fingertips to the stone wall. It’s cool and pleasing against my skin. “I . . .” I take a deep breath. “I would like to go to Azazel . . . please.”

Nothing happens as far as I can tell, but even with Ramanu and Azazel, I never see the castle move. It’s one of those strange phenomena where I look away and when I look back, things have changed. With that in mind, I start walking.

This may be all for naught. Or I may change my mind the moment I come up against the reality of how impulsive I’m being. I pick up my pace, as if speed has ever been enough to outrun my thoughts.

Since I’ve been here, I’ve tried to leave my room multiple times, and each attempt has been met with frustration. I just walk and walk and walk, and right when I’m at the point of breaking, the damned castle deposits me back in front of my door.

Not so tonight.

The first turn ends in a short hall with a large door. I stop abruptly and narrow my eyes. “Is this a trick?” There’s no answer, but why would there be? This castle has no voice. I never found that truly tragic until this moment. I look around and clear my throat. “Uh, thank you. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.”

There’s nothing to do but knock on the door and hope for the best. The wood is more textured than I expect at first glance, rough against my knuckles.

Seconds later, the door opens to reveal Azazel. It’s late enough that he’s traded in his customary tunic and pants for some type of short skirt garment that wraps around his hips and leaves most of his legs bare. His thighs are huge. Ruinous, even. I’ve never wanted to bite thighs the way I suddenly ache to in this moment.

He frowns. “Eve. Is something wrong?”

“Everything’s wrong.” The words are stark and filled with enough honesty to drown us both. “I can’t think, can’t sleep. Today was . . .”

“A lot. I know. I’m sorry. I would spare you the memories if I could.” He takes a step back, a clear invitation to enter.

Coming to him at all was a terrible idea. I knew it the moment I got out of bed. Sometimes, that’s all there is: bad and worse. Staying in my own room and being suffocated by my racing thoughts was worse than whatever this is.

You know what this is.

I guess I do. The moment Azazel shuts the door, I shrug out of my robe. I’m not wearing anything underneath.

His shocked inhale is almost—almost—enough to make me look at him.

“Eve?”

“I can’t think anymore.” It’s suddenly all too much. I close my eyes. “I know this is fucked on so many levels, Azazel. I shouldn’t be here.”

There’s no sound to indicate movement, but when he speaks, his voice comes from in front of me. “Are you doing this to help or to hurt?”

I shrug helplessly. “Both?”

His strained chuckle tugs at something in my chest. I don’t want to understand him. I don’t want to recognize that he’s just as out of his depth right now as I am. I certainly don’t want to admit that maybe he’s making the best of a shitty situation. “Is it me you want to hurt . . . or yourself?”

“Both,” I whisper.

“It’s a bad idea.” He’s closer. I swear I can feel the heat coming off his body now. “Every time I touch you, you resent me more.”

If only that were true. If only I hadn’t spent every night since that scene in the dining room fingering myself to the memory of him. Not his human version, for all that the sex was outstanding. No, when I slip my hand between my thighs, it’s horns, obsidian eyes, and a too-long wicked tongue I’m remembering.

I open my eyes to find him a few measly inches from me. It would be so easy to push this, to take control like I did last time. But . . . I’m tired. Scared. Shaky in a way I don’t know how to combat. “Touch me.” I suck in a harsh breath. “Please.”

As he reaches out to cup my face in his giant hands, I make my peace with the truth—in the morning, it won’t be him that I resent. It will be myself. For being weak in my desire. For wanting the person who’s responsible for upending my life.

That’s a problem for tomorrow.

Right now, Azazel lowers his mouth to mine, kissing me so sweetly, I might weep from the longing that springs to life in my chest. To be a different woman, with different fault lines. To be able to accept this and stop fighting. To do . . . a lot of things.

I break the kiss. “I can’t do soft. I⁠—”

He bands an arm under my ass and lifts me until our faces are even. “If at any point you want to stop, say ‘stop’ and it ends. Do you understand?”

“Yes?”

This time, when he kisses me, it’s just short of violent. I moan into his mouth and enter the battle of teeth and tongues. Yes, this—this is what I need. He walks us across the room, and it seems to take forever, but I’m not curious enough to stop kissing him. Especially when he finally lays me down on his absurdly soft bed and moves back to kneel between my spread thighs, then undo his loincloth and toss it to the side.

The size difference really is absurd. The tallest person I’ve ever been with is six-five, and Azazel has a good seven inches on them at least, even without counting the horns. But he’s not gangly like a basketball player; he’s built thick and muscular, and holy fuck, his cock is huge. No, huge isn’t the right word. Did I say his thighs were ruinous? What a joke. His cock is the very definition of the word.

Even with the flicker of fear that curls through me, I can’t stop myself from reaching out and dragging a single finger up, up, up his absurd length. “You’re going to kill me with this.”

He huffs out a strained laugh. “Baby girl, I’ve seen your toys. You can handle it.”

I jolt, but I can’t begin to say if it’s from the pet name or the reminder that he has, in fact, seen me take a toy nearly this size. I’d completely forgotten about that, a little long-distance session we had a few years back. He’d purchased the toy for me, and I sent him a video of me using it.

I stroke his cock again, tracing one particularly prominent vein. Aside from sheer size, he’s a familiar enough shape—give or take some delightful ridges—and he’s got a wicked curve that makes my pussy pulse. “Any surprises here?”

“Not in the way you mean.” He drinks me in with his gaze and then shakes his head sharply. “But I’m forgetting something.” Azazel shoves off the bed and stalks naked to a cabinet against the wall. It’s impossible to take my attention from him, the long lines of muscles in his back, his round ass, the flex of his thighs and calves as he walks. Gods, he’s powerful to the point of beauty.

He returns, ridged cock a promise I am eager to fulfill, and dangles a pendant necklace before me. “This will ensure you don’t get pregnant.”

I blink. “I have an IUD.”

“I’m aware.” He doesn’t move. “But I don’t have evidence that science will hold up in our realm with magic in play, so we will be doubly sure that you’re protected.”

Warmth threatens to bloom in my chest. “You could just wear a condom.” He always has before with me—one of my nonnegotiable rules for clients.

“I could,” he agrees easily. His attention drops to my pussy. “But I want to fill you up, baby girl.” He leans down and plants a hand next to my hip, his rugged face intense. “Don’t you want Daddy to make a mess of you?”

I can’t breathe. My mouth works, but it takes several tries before I can dredge up an actual response. “You know I only call you Daddy to piss you off.”

“I know.” He grins suddenly. “But I’ve decided I like it.”

I like it too. A lot. I’m stuck here for who knows how long, so it’s not as if my situation can get more complicated. The logic is as flimsy as a butterfly’s wings, but I don’t care. “How does the pendant work?”

He presses it into my palm. “A single drop of blood will key it to you. As long as you’re wearing it, it will prevent pregnancy with no side effects.”

No side effects sounds kind of nice. I nibble my bottom lip. I came to him for frenzy, but it’s hard to hold this kind of thing against him. Captor or not, he’s taking care of me in his own way.

I am dangerously close to softening for him.

To avoid thinking about that, I drape the pendant around my neck and take his hand. I press a single finger to one of his claws. The bright bloom of blood against my skin makes us both draw in a harsh breath.

“The center,” he murmurs, holding the pendant so I can smear my blood there. “A few drops of blood now and on the first day of your cycle.”

I shiver and lift my gaze to his. “I’m ready, Daddy. Make a mess of me.”