Page 1 of The Demon’s Little Girl

LIORA

T he kitchen hums with morning activity as I push through the heavy wooden doors, steam rising from pots and the scent of fresh bread warming the air.

Akira, the head cook, glances up from where she's ladling thick porridge into a ceramic bowl, her graying hair escaping from its bun in wispy tendrils.

"Right on time, as always." She gestures toward the tray she's prepared on the counter. "His breakfast is ready."

I nod, moving toward the spread with practiced ease.

Six years of this routine has worn smooth grooves into my morning: wake before dawn, dress in my comfortable tunic and pants—no restrictive skirts or servant's uniform required, thank the gods—and collect Rovak's first meal of the day.

The tray holds his usual: thick cuts of tuskram meat, still sizzling from the pan, a bowl of the hearty grain porridge he prefers, and fresh bread with butter that Akira churns herself.

"He's been up since before sunrise again," Tom mutters from where he's kneading dough, flour dusting his forearms. The young man's always been chatty, especially when he's worried. "I saw light coming from his study when I went to check the storage rooms."

"Nothing new there." I lift the heavy ceramic mug of kafek—black, bitter, and strong enough to wake the dead—and set it carefully on the tray. "You know how he is with the eastern port reports."

The other servants nod knowingly. We've all learned Rovak's patterns over the years, the way he throws himself into work when something's bothering him. Not that any of us would dare ask what keeps him awake. Well, except maybe me.

I trace the edge of the tray with my finger, my mind drifting as it often does during these quiet morning moments.

Six years. Sometimes it feels like a lifetime, sometimes like yesterday.

I can still remember the bone-deep terror that consumed me when the carriage first rolled up to his estate—the way my hands shook in the iron shackles, how my stomach churned with stories I'd heard about demon masters and what they did to human servants.

The massive gates had groaned open, revealing a sprawling stone manor that looked more like a fortress than a home. Gothic arches and tall windows, gardens that actually looked maintained rather than wild. I'd expected something darker, more sinister. Instead, it was... almost elegant.

They'd dragged me from the carriage, my legs barely working after the long journey from the auction block. I kept my eyes down, the way they'd taught us, but I could feel his presence before I saw him. The air itself seemed to shift.

When I finally looked up, my breath caught.

Rovak stood on the front steps like something carved from shadow and stone.

Taller than any being I'd ever seen, his dark gray skin seeming to absorb the afternoon light.

Those horns curved back from his skull like a crown, polished obsidian that caught the sun.

His black eyes fixed on me, unreadable as they traced over my trembling form.

I waited for the cruel smile, the predatory gleam I'd been warned about. Instead, he simply nodded to the man who'd brought me.

"Remove the shackles."

His voice was deep, gravelly, but not harsh. Matter-of-fact. The iron fell away from my wrists, and I rubbed at the raw skin beneath, still waiting for the catch.

"Akira will show you to your quarters," he said to me directly, those dark eyes meeting mine without malice. "You'll work in the kitchens and help maintain the house. Nothing more complicated than that."

Then he'd turned and walked away, leaving me standing there with my mouth slightly open and my worldview thoroughly shattered.

"Liora." Akira's voice snaps me back to the present. She's watching me with knowing eyes, a slight smile tugging at her weathered features. "Wool-gathering again?"

Heat creeps up my neck. "Just thinking about the day ahead."

"Mmm." She doesn't look convinced. "Well, his food's getting cold while you daydream."

I lift the tray, testing its weight. Everything's arranged just how he likes it—the meat on the left, porridge in the center, bread and kafek on the right. I've had six years to perfect this small ritual.

"Did you remember the honey?" Tom calls over his shoulder, still working the dough with more force than strictly necessary.

I check the small ceramic pot tucked beside the bread. "Got it."

"Good. He was asking for it yesterday when you brought lunch up."

The mention of yesterday's lunch delivery makes my stomach flutter unexpectedly.

Rovak had looked up from his papers when I'd entered, those dark eyes focused entirely on me for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

He'd thanked me, like he always does, but something in his expression had been different.

Softer, maybe. Or maybe I'd imagined it.

"I should get going." I adjust my grip on the tray handles. "Before it gets cold."

"Course you should." Akira turns back to her stove, but I catch the knowing look she exchanges with Tom.

The other servants have never said anything directly, but I'm not blind to their glances. The way they watch me when I return from Rovak's study, searching my face for... what? Signs of mistreatment? Evidence of something more than a servant delivering meals?

If only they knew how carefully nothing has ever happened. How Rovak keeps exactly the right distance, treats me with the same respectful courtesy he shows his business associates. How he's never once made me feel like anything other than a valued member of his household.

It should be a relief. It is a relief.

So why does some traitorous part of me wish?—

"Liora." Akira's voice is gentler now. "He's good to you. To all of us. Don't forget that."

I meet her eyes, seeing years of wisdom there. Akira came here long before I did, back when Rovak first established this estate. She's seen servants come and go, watched how he treats those under his protection.

"I know." The words come out quieter than I intended. "I never forget that."

She nods, satisfied, and returns to her cooking. But her words linger as I head toward the kitchen doors, tray balanced perfectly in my hands. He is good to me. Better than good. He gave me a life here that's more comfortable than anything I'd dared hope for.

My own room in the servants' wing—not a closet or a shared space, but an actual room with a window and a proper bed. Clothes that fit and keep me warm. Work that's manageable and varied enough to keep me from going stir-crazy.

The freedom to speak my mind without fear of punishment.

Most masters would have demanded I call them by title, dress in whatever pleased their aesthetic sensibilities, keep my eyes down and my mouth shut. Rovak had simply told me to call him by name and left me to figure out the rest.

I pause at the kitchen doors, taking a deep breath of the warm, bread-scented air before pushing through into the main corridor. The morning light streams through tall windows, casting long rectangles of gold across the stone floors. My soft leather boots make barely a whisper of sound as I walk.

Six years of this. Six years of bringing him meals and cleaning his spaces and learning the rhythm of his days.

Six years of watching him work himself to exhaustion over trade agreements and port disputes.

Six years of those brief moments when his carefully controlled expression would slip, revealing glimpses of something warmer underneath.

And somewhere in the last few, I've started telling myself that the flutter in my chest when he looks at me is just gratitude.

The corridor stretches before me as I make my way toward Rovak's study, the tray steady in my hands despite the way my pulse quickens with each step.

His door comes into view—heavy oak reinforced with iron bands, carved with intricate patterns that speak of old demon craftsmanship.

I've stood before this door countless times, yet something about this morning feels different.

Maybe it's the way the light hits the wood, or maybe it's just my imagination running wild again.

I balance the tray against my hip and knock three times, the sound echoing down the empty hallway.

"Enter."

His voice carries through the thick wood, that familiar deep rumble that never fails to send a small shiver down my spine. I push the door open with my shoulder, stepping into the warm glow of his private space.

Rovak's study is a reflection of the man himself—organized, purposeful, with an underlying elegance that few people ever get to see.

Tall bookshelves line two walls, filled with leather-bound ledgers and trade manuals.

A massive desk dominates the center of the room, its surface scattered with papers and maps, ink wells and brass instruments I couldn't begin to identify.

The fireplace crackles quietly in the corner, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls.

And there, rising from his chair behind the desk like a mountain of controlled power, is Rovak himself.

My breath catches the way it always does when I first see him each morning.

Six years, and the sight of him still affects me like a physical force.

He stands at his full towering height, dark gray skin seeming to absorb the firelight while those obsidian horns catch and reflect it.

His black hair is already tied back with that leather cord he favors, though a few strands have escaped to frame his angular face.

When his pitch-black eyes meet mine, something warm unfurls in my chest.

"Good morning." The words come out steadier than I feel.

"Morning, Liora."

There it is—that slight upturn at the corner of his mouth that transforms his entire face.

It's barely a smile by most standards, just the faintest softening of his usually stoic expression.

But I've learned to read the subtle shifts in his features, and that small curve means more than a full grin from anyone else.