Page 10 of The Demon’s Little Girl

LIORA

T he contractions hit like waves against jagged rocks—relentless, crushing, then receding just long enough for me to catch my breath before the next one builds.

I press my back against the rough wooden wall of this ramshackle hut, feeling splinters catch at the thin fabric of my dress.

The structure barely deserves the name shelter, with gaps between the boards that let in salt-tinged wind from the nearby coast.

Pain tears through my abdomen again, and I bite down on the leather strap Kestra, the healer I found seven months ago, gave me, tasting blood from where my teeth pierce my bottom lip.

The sound that wants to escape—a scream that would shatter what little composure I have left—stays locked behind clenched teeth.

I learned months ago that drawing attention means danger, and old habits die hard even when every nerve in my body begs for relief.

"Easy now," Kestra murmurs, her voice carrying the kind of calm that comes from years of guiding women through this particular nightmare. Her tentacles move with practiced efficiency, checking and adjusting, preparing for what's coming. "You're doing beautifully."

Beautifully. As if there's anything beautiful about this—about bringing a child into the world in a structure that barely keeps the elements at bay, with only a cecaelian healer who trades her services for whatever people can afford.

Which in my case amounts to the handful of lummi I managed to scrape together over the past few months and a promise to help mend her nets when I can walk again.

Another wave crashes over me, stronger this time, and my fingernails dig crescents into my palms. The baby's coming whether I'm ready or not, whether I've figured out how to feel about this tiny life that's been growing inside me for nine months without my permission.

I never planned this. Never wanted it. The circumstances of conception make my stomach churn even now, when pain overrides almost every other sensation.

But the child didn't choose those circumstances any more than I did, and that knowledge has been the only thing keeping me sane during the long, dark nights when despair threatened to swallow me whole.

"Almost there," Kestra says, positioning herself between my legs with movements that speak of countless births attended. Her pink-tinged tentacles glisten in the dim light filtering through the gaps in the walls. "Next contraction, you push with everything you have."

Push. As if I haven't been pushing against fate and circumstance and the crushing weight of shame for months already. As if I haven't been pushing down memories that surface at the worst moments, Xharn's face twisting with satisfaction as he?—

No. Not now. I won't let him contaminate this moment, whatever this moment turns out to be.

The next contraction builds like a storm surge, overwhelming and inescapable. I bear down, channeling every ounce of strength I have left into this final effort. My vision blurs at the edges, black spots dancing across my sight as my body demands more than I knew I could give.

Then suddenly, impossibly, it's over.

The relief is so sudden and complete that for a heartbeat I wonder if I've died, if this is what passing feels like—a loosening, a release from pain so profound it borders on euphoria. But then I hear it: a thin, wavering cry that cuts through the salt air like a blade.

"A daughter," Kestra announces, her voice warm with the particular satisfaction that comes from a job well done. "Small, but strong lungs on her."

A daughter.

Kestra wraps the baby in a clean cloth—cleaner than anything else in this place, anyway—and places her on my chest. The weight is almost nothing, maybe six pounds if she's lucky, but it feels monumental. World-changing.

I look down at the tiny face screwed up in indignation at being forced from the warm darkness into this harsh, bright world.

Her skin carries the same dusky tone as mine, bronze-brown with undertones I recognize, but there are differences too.

Her eyes, when they briefly flutter open, are pale gold instead of amber. Almost luminous in the dim light.

And there, barely visible bumps above her temples where hair will eventually grow thick and dark—tiny horns just beginning to bud beneath the skin.

My breath catches. I knew this was possible, knew that demon blood sometimes manifests in unexpected ways, but seeing it makes everything real in a way the pregnancy never quite managed. This baby is both human and something more, caught between worlds just like I've been for most of my life.

She's beautiful.

The thought surfaces without permission, unwelcome and terrifying in its intensity.

I spent months trying not to think of this child as anything more than a consequence, a complication to be endured.

Told myself I was going through the motions of pregnancy because I had no choice, not because I wanted this baby.

But looking at her now, watching those tiny fingers curl and uncurl as she adjusts to freedom from the womb, something fundamental shifts inside my chest. The walls I built around my heart during nine months of determined indifference crumble like wet sand.

She didn't choose her father. Didn't choose the violence that brought her into being. But she's here now, real and breathing and dependent on me for everything. This small, perfect creature who's done nothing wrong and deserves nothing but love and protection.

My daughter.

"What will you call her?" Kestra asks, cleaning up with efficient movements while giving me space to process this moment.

Names. I've avoided thinking about names, just like I avoided thinking about what comes after birth. But looking at her now, one comes to mind immediately.

"Nalla." The word feels right on my tongue, soft but strong. It means 'little star' in the old human texts I used to read in Rovak's library, back when I thought I had a future beyond survival. "Her name is Nalla."

Nalla lets out another cry, stronger this time, and I find myself smiling despite everything. Despite the uncertainty ahead, despite the fear that's been my constant companion for months, despite not knowing how I'm going to feed and clothe and care for this tiny person with barely any resources.

None of that matters right now. What matters is the warm weight of her against my chest, the way her crying settles when she hears my voice, the fierce protective instinct that flares to life the moment her golden eyes focus on my face.

I would kill for her. Die for her. The certainty of it hits like another contraction, just as overwhelming but infinitely sweeter.

"Hello, little star," I whisper, adjusting the cloth around her tiny body. She's so small, so fragile-looking, but there's something in her expression that hints at strength. Determination. She fought to get here, fought to be born despite everything working against her.

My daughter. My Nalla.

For the first time in months, the future doesn't feel quite so terrifying.