Page 7 of Just One Little Bargain

When my father has minor complaints, he lectures me while doing three other things. Multitasking is a point of pride for him. But when he stops everything and clears his entire schedule for one conversation, I know I’ve screwed up so catastrophically that it requires his undivided disappointment.

Varkhael looks the way a demon is supposed to look. Powerful. Ancient. Terrifying. His horns sweep back from his temples in perfect arcs, polished, sharp, and longer than any I’ve seen outside the higher circles. His skin is deep red, almost burgundy, scarred by successful deals, brutal negotiations, and centuries of survival—proof he’s been doing the job since before most demons were born.

His robes are black, heavy, and cut with panels of deep crimson that drink in the torchlight. The fabric is thick and faintly ridged in a way that makes me not want to guess what it came from. A high collar brackets his jaw, severe enough to be uncomfortable for anyone who still values neck movement. Dark embroidery runs down the front in rows of contract sigils. Old victories. Major souls secured. One mark for every mortal who signed away eternity and made him richer for it.

Across his chest, there’s barely any black fabric left between the sigils.

Everything about him is sharp, severe, and designed to intimidate. Everything about me is awkward, too friendly, and designed for nothing useful.

I stand inside the doorway and don’t move closer because some part of me thinks if I stay here, near the exit, this conversation might not happen. The heat from the torches presses against my back, or perhaps that’s just my body trying to incinerate itself before he can do it for me.

He doesn’t say anything, only watches me with burning crimson eyes and waits for me to walk to the chair.

I really, really don’t want to walk to the chair.

“Sit,” he says.

I do, dropping onto the rock seat.

It’s too small and low. Designed specifically to put anyone sitting in it at eye level with the desk’s edge, forced to crane their neck toward whoever’s on the other side. He has visitors’ chairs in storage that are normal-sized. I’ve seen them. They come out for colleagues and senior brokers. Demons whose respect he wants to maintain. This one stays permanently in front of the desk for two categories of demon: subordinates being disciplined. And me.

He studies me without giving anything away, and the quiet drags on until I have to fight the urge to fidget, or explain myself, or do anything to make him speak.

“You’ve been doing clerical work for a considerable time now.”

“Yes.” I press my thumbnail into my palm, focusing on the sting.

“Do you know why?”

I know exactly why. I’ve known why for years. Doesn’t make saying it out loud any easier.

“Because I failed all my assignments.” I force myself to meet his eyes, even though every instinct tells me to look away. “I sympathized with the mortals instead of exploiting them.”

Maybe if I hear it from myself first, it’ll hurt less.

It doesn’t.

“You embarrassed this department.” His voice drops lower. “You embarrassed me.”

Each word lands exactly where he intends. I’ve spent enough years disappointing him to know the target.

“I know.” I sound like the six-year-old who got summoned to this office for the first time and didn’t understand why his father looked so disappointed.

I used to study the way he spoke to other demons. The tone shifts. The micro-adjustments. He has four distinct registers that I can identify. One for subordinates, one for equals, one for superiors, and one for me.

The first three share a common thread. Engagement. Interest. The recognition that the person across from him existed as someone worth calculating around. The fourth is . . . management. Damage control wrapped in parental obligation. I spent years convincing myself I was imagining the difference. Then I spent a few more accepting that I wasn’t.

“Do you understand what it took for me to keep you here?” His voice grows sharper. “What I had to do to convince the board that you deserved another chance, instead of being sent directly to the Furnace, where failed demons belong?”

I nod, because I don’t trust my voice anymore.

“I put my reputation on the line for you, Zavian.” He leans forward, anger held tight through his shoulders even though his hands stay perfectly folded on the desk. “I vouched for you when every other council member said you were a lost cause. Argued that you simply needed more time, more training, and more discipline. Promised them you would succeed if given one last opportunity.”

“Thank you.” It sounds pitifully small against everything he just listed. “I know what you risked. I’m grateful, and I won’t—”

“I don’t need your gratitude.” He cuts me off. “I need you to do your job.”

I close my mouth and nod.