Page 9 of Just One Little Bargain

The envelope is the first thing she notices. Not that hiding things from my mother has ever been a viable strategy.

“Active duty,” she says.

“Looks that way.”

“Your father arranged this.”

“He did.”

“Final chance terms?”

“Are there any other kind with him?”

She walks toward me, her robes moving soundlessly over stone. “And you’re loitering outside his office, looking like that because you’re thrilled about the opportunity?”

“Overjoyed. Can’t you tell?”

“Ecstatic, clearly.” She stops in front of me. Her composure slips so briefly most people would miss it. I don’t. When your mother communicates exclusively in variations of composure, decades of practice make you good at spotting the cracks. “This matters, Zavian. You know that.”

“I do.”

“If this works,” she says, “and you return with a contract, your father will push for full reinstatement. Permanent field rotation. Regular quota assignments.”

“That’s the plan.”

“And beyond that?”

“I keep collecting. Build a record. Prove I belong in the department.”

“Mmm.” She lets the sound hang there, noncommittal. “So you secure a portfolio. Establish yourself. Your father leverages your success into political currency. The Council takes notice. Families begin circling.”

“Families?”

“For arrangements. You’re his only heir, Zavian. Once you have a functional career, the bonding inquiries will be immediate. I’ve already deflected two this quarter from houses hoping to lock terms early in case you manage to rehabilitate yourself.”

I would like to unlearn this information.

“You’ve been fielding bonding inquiries?”

“Preliminary ones. Morzara’s household sent a formal interest ledger a month ago. Quite aggressive, actually. Their daughter reportedly collected nine high-value souls last quarter, and enjoys recreational torment as a hobby.”

“Her hobby is recreational torment?”

“She also breeds hellhounds.”

“Oh, well. That changes everything.”

“Syndareth’s family reached out as well. Their terms were more conservative, but the political alignment would be—”

“Mother, I am genuinely begging you to stop talking.”

I’ve seen demon bonding ceremonies. I know what’s on the table. Two families drafting a merger agreement over shared acquisition territories and projected offspring output. The vows are contractual clauses. The reception is a networking event. At one ceremony, the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed was a bonded pair agreeing to grant each other veto power over major household decisions, and the guests wept. Wept. From joy.

The thought of spending eternity in that kind of arrangement makes my skin crawl.

“None of this matters if I can’t complete the assignment,” I say. “One step at a time.”

“Of course. My point is that success doesn’t stop at a single contract. It opens a door to a very specific life. The same life your father built. The same structure. Same expectations. Same trajectory from now until the end of time. Is that what you want?”