I Just Wanted A Soft Life, Not A Demon Husband

Chapter 298: Cron’s Pops, Broadway, and the Kings Who Walked the Broadway

Elyn’s POV

I really didn’t expect this.

But then, I should have known. When Zorathys suggested I pick out all the clothes I wanted him to try, I should have known he had something planned.

I should have known that the Demon King would not simply change clothes behind a screen like an ordinary demon and by that I mean me.

The room had turned into a Broadway show.

I had never been to Broadway, not in my past life, but I had seen videos. The lights, the costumes, the way performers moved across the stage like they owned every inch of it — that was what this felt like. Except instead of a stage, it was the Celestial Chamber. Instead of performers, it was Zorathys.

Numerous Zorathys.

Not just one. Not two or three. Dozens of them, each wearing a different outfit I had picked out. They stood in a line that stretched across the room, their ruby eyes patient, their postures relaxed.

I blinked at first, but they did not disappear.

I blinked again and they still did not disappear. There were numerous Zorathys in the room with me.

I was not seeing things. I was not hallucinating. The fox demons saw them too — their eyes were wide, their tails frozen mid-sway. The children saw them too — Aziren’s flames had shot up so high I was worried about the ceiling.

Zorathys had made copies of himself.

Or shadows of himself. Or something. I didn’t know how it worked, and frankly, I didn’t care to understand.

For the first few times, I just went through the motions trying to make sense of what I was seeing and then I got into it, enjoying every aspect of what Zorathys was now doing.

At some point, a bucket appeared in my hands.

It had popcorn in it, or rather they looked like popcorn though it was more rounded and damn, it was delicious.

It tasted like popcorn though.

"What’s this?" I asked Velvetta, who passed a smaller bucket to Azerion.

"Cron’s Pops," she replied.

So that means I wasn’t wrong. It was actually popcorn. I almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. The demon realm really had a way of turning things around.

I took a handful and focused on the show.

The children were losing their minds.

Aziren clapped continuously, his small hands moving so fast they were almost a blur. His flames were jumping with every clap, dancing higher and higher, and his amber eyes were fixed on the Zorathys currently on display. His smile was so wide I was worried his face might split.

"Pretty, pretty, pretty," he chanted.

Zayrion had pulled out a notebook — a different one from his card, I realized — and was writing in it furiously. His glasses had slipped down his nose, but he didn’t push them back up. His eyes were moving between the Zorathys copies, his hand never stopping, his tails swaying with barely contained excitement.

I had no idea what he was taking notes on.

And I didn’t ask.

Brixton was staring with wide eyes as if cataloguing everything, his hands clasped in his lap. He clapped sometimes — not as much as Aziren, but enough that his palms were probably sore. His gaze followed every Zorathys that stepped forward, deeply observant.

I had no idea what he was even fucking observing.

Thalira and Velira were engaged in a battle of who collapsed more from the beauty of the King.

Velira had started it — she had swooned dramatically when the first Zorathys stepped out, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead and staggering backward into the cushions. Thalira had watched her for a moment, then done the same thing when the second Zorathys appeared.

Now they were taking turns.

Velira was leading, having collapsed six times while Thalira was a point behind.

I didn’t do the counting though, they said it openly, hence the reason I know what numbers they are at.

Retheris had given up sitting at one point, moving closer to each Zorathys as if, if he got closer, he could understand better.

But he turned to us now.

"How," he asked aloud, "can I be as handsome as the King?"

No one answered him.

Probably because no one knew how to answer that. Zorathys’s handsomeness seemed to be a combination of genetics, magic, and several thousand years of practice and laziness. You couldn’t just learn that.

While the children were head over heels for Zorathys, Azerion was a different case. He was grumbling.

"The King is not that handsome," he muttered, his arms crossed over his chest, his blue eyes fixed on the current Zorathys. "He’s not. He’s just... tall. And his eyes are... fine. And his hair is... whatever."

I had seen him stare at Zorathys with appreciation and interest at regular intervals. I had seen his eyes widen too.

But I said nothing.

Let him have his denial.

The current Zorathys stepped forward, and I recognized the outfit immediately.

It was the pink one. The first one I had picked. The light pink shirt and shorts that I had imagined would suit him, but not like this. Not this much.

The fabric moved with him as he walked, soft and flowing, the colour warm against his bronze skin. His black hair fell over his shoulders, loose and dark, and the contrast between the pale pink and the deep black made him look like something out of a dream. His ruby eyes caught the light, half-lidded and knowing, and his lips were curved in that small, lazy smile that made my heart forget how to work.

I had known it would suit him.

But wasn’t this suiting him a bit too well?

He stood before me, waiting.

This beautiful, demonic man.

This impossible, infuriating, devastating creature who had turned my request for a fashion show into a Broadway production with shadow copies and Cron’s Pops and a line of outfits that seemed endless.

"A thousand points," I said.