Page 9 of Her Demon Daddy
The demons mistake my sudden stillness for submission, and go back to work, scrubbing the dirt and grime off of my skin and out of my hair. If the circumstances were different, I might actually enjoy getting to bathe- it was a rare treat when I was in the dungeons, and even then, we typically had to use washcloths and the cold, dirty water the trolvor provided in bowls to attempt to get clean.
The blind demons move with a deftness that seems contradictory to their lack of eyesight, never faltering in their movements. I find myself wondering if perhaps they’re able to see by some magic or spell, but it doesn’t matter. They clearly aren’t at as much of a disadvantage as I thought, which just reinforces that my only choice is to bide my time and hope that there will be an opening for escape.
I stew in my own thoughts as the demons pull me from the water, one of them rifling around in the nearby dresser. No one who is taken out of the dungeons ever comes back, at least not whole. I’ve heard the women whisper about what happens to those who are taken, but I never fully allowed myself to consider that those rumors might have substance beyond the terrified whisperings of prisoners.
The King who presides over the demons, King Asmodeus, is rumored to hand out the women in the dungeons to his most brutal and vicious generals. Some women say that they eat the captives they take, and others say that they’re used as breeding stock… but whatever the truth is, I don’t plan to be used for either. For anything, if I can play this correctly.
“Arms up,” the demon by the dresser commands as he turns back toward me. I obey, lifting my arms over my head and trying not to cringe at his sudden nearness as he slides a thin, white gown over my head. The fabric is almost entirely sheer, draping around my body and putting nearly everything on display. The neckline swoops low between my breasts, my pebbled nipples poking through the gauzy fabric.
I wait for his next command, certain that I’ll at least be wearingsomethingover this sorry excuse for a dress, but it never comes. Instead, the demon at my back guides me to the vanity, shoving on my shoulders and forcing me to sit on the stool.
The demon drags a brush through my long, knotted hair, working out the mats as I stare at myself in the mirror. I haven’t seen my own reflection since before I was taken from Protheka, and the difference in my face alone is shocking.
My skin is no longer the golden tan it once was, having sallowed to a sickly yellow color. My cheeks have hollowed out from lack of real nutrition, and the dark purple smudges beneath my green eyes look more like war paint than the badges of exhaustion they are.
Still, despite my shocking appearance, I keep my chin lifted. I will not break, I will not show weakness- I won’t allow them to rob this last bit of defiance from me, no matter what else they may take.
Even as I try to steel my resolve, however, my stomach hollows out beneath a horrific realization. The bathing, the dress, the grooming… all of it seems intended to dress me up, make me more appetizing somehow.
A shudder rolls through me faster than I can suppress it as the word appetizing crosses my mind. That may be far, far too close to the truth for comfort.
Before I have time to linger on the thought, the demons are leading me from the small room and back through the kitchens and winding servants’ halls. It takes hardly any time at all before we’re back in the main rooms of the gilded palace, and with every step I take forward, my blood thrums louder in my ears.
There’s no escape.
At every turn, I look for an exit, a window, a potential weapon, anything to aid me in my attempt to escape, but there’s nothing but latched doors and more demons. With every passing moment, the reality of my situation grows harder to ignore, desperation clawing behind my ribs.
I’m hopelessly lost at this point, and have no idea how I would possibly navigate myself out of the palace, much less where I would go if I even did manage to get out. The demons’ grips on my arms become lighter as we draw closer to our destination, as if they can sense the fight beginning to drain out of me.
We turn yet another countless corner, and the sight of the hall has fingers of ice dancing down my spine. This hall is even more ornate than the others, with plush crimson carpeting meeting my bare feet and elaborate sconces and paintings dripping with gold.
My heart hammers wildly in my chest as my eyes land on a massive set of gilded double doors. Whoever sent for me is clearly high within the demonic ranks, or else they’d never be settled into a place with such obvious finery.
One of the demons reaches around me to knock lightly on the door, and after a moment of silence, a deep, velvety voice echoes from within.
“Enter.”
My knees wobble, and I clasp my hands together tightly in front of me to try and quell their shaking. Beads of sweat begin to pool at the back of my neck, sliding down my spine, as the demon wordlessly opens the door and guides me into the flickering, firelit room beyond.
My mind vacates as my eyes land on the figure lounging in an armchair beside the hearth.
A massive, cloaked demon in ornate armor black enough that it seems to swallow the light is leaning back lazily in the chair, one leg perched carelessly on the adjoining footstool. I can’t see his eyes, or any distinguishing features for that matter, but I can feel the weight of his gaze on me like a physical touch.
Two large, dark horns curve up and then away from his hooded face, shadows seeming to pulse and dance around him. My breath hitches in my throat, but I keep my chin lifted, staring him down.
I’ve been brought to none other than the Demon King himself.
6
ASMODEUS
She’s beautiful.
I don’t know what I expected, truthfully- when I requested that they bring me an unbroken, untamed soul, I expected a creature less… desirable. And yet, here she stands, her sharp green eyes bright with defiance, her chin lifted as though she were looking down at some sewer rodan rather than the King of demons.
For all her bravado, however, her scent betrays her. The heady, thick scent of fear coats my room in a matter of seconds, rolling off of her in dizzying waves. It’s almost admirable how little her face or body language betrays what she’s truly feeling, but I suppose in the end it only speaks to the nature of her soul.
Unbroken and untamed, exactly as I requested.