Page 11 of The Demon’s Little Girl

ROVAK

T he ledgers blur before my eyes, numbers swimming together like ink in water.

I've been staring at the same column of trade figures for the better part of an hour, and the sum still eludes me.

Not because the math is complex—I've been calculating import duties and profit margins since before most demons learned to count past ten—but because concentration feels like grasping smoke these days.

Two years. Seven hundred and thirty-one days, if I'm being precise. And I am, because precision is all I have left to anchor me to something resembling normalcy.

I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking under my weight, and massage my temples where a familiar headache builds.

The study feels smaller than it used to, walls pressing closer despite the high ceilings and expansive windows that overlook the estate grounds.

Even with papers scattered across every surface and trade agreements stacked in towering piles, the space echoes with an emptiness that has nothing to do with physical volume.

Outside, the sun sets in shades of amber and gold that remind me of eyes I'll never see again.

I close mine against the memory, but that only makes it worse.

Behind my eyelids, she's there—always there—curled in the chair by my desk with a cup of tea growing cold in her hands, laughing at something I said.

The sound of her laughter used to fill this room, bright and unexpected, cutting through the weight of business concerns like sunlight through storm clouds.

Now there's only silence.

Akira and Avenor have been nothing but gossips in the two years since Liora has been gone.

They're not wrong to worry. I catch glimpses of myself in mirrors sometimes and barely recognize what looks back—hollow cheeks, eyes that burn red more often than they should, shoulders carrying tension that never fully releases.

Sleep comes in fragments, when it comes at all, filled with dreams that feel more like torture than rest.

Dreams where she never left. Where I found the courage to tell her how I felt before it was too late. Where I wake up and she's still here, safe under my roof, protected by my strength instead of lost to whatever dangers lurk beyond the estate's borders.

I've searched everywhere. Hired every tracker, followed every lead, pursued rumors and whispers until they dissolved into nothing.

The trail went cold within days of her disappearance, as if she simply vanished from existence.

Part of me wonders if she used magic to hide herself, but Liora never showed aptitude for anything.

The more likely explanation is the one that keeps me awake at night, staring at the ceiling while rage builds in my chest like pressure in a forge. Someone took her. Someone hurt her. And I failed to protect the one person who mattered more than my own life.

And so she made damn sure to protect herself.

Heavy footsteps echo in the hallway outside, too measured to belong to any of the remaining staff.

Avenor, then, making his evening rounds.

Or more accurately, making sure his lord hasn't finally succumbed to whatever madness drives me to wander these halls after midnight like a ghost haunting the scene of unfinished business.

The door opens without a knock. Only Avenor would dare such presumption, and only because we've known each other long enough that formality feels like an insult to our friendship.

"The eastern contracts need your signature," he says, setting a leather portfolio on the corner of my desk.

His navy eyes take in the mess of papers, the cold dinner tray, the untouched glass of amerinth that's been sitting there since morning.

"When's the last time you ate something that wasn't liquid? "

"I ate."

"Amerinth doesn't count as sustenance."

I grunt noncommittally and reach for the contracts, but Avenor's hand covers the portfolio before I can grab it.

His fingers are pale against the dark leather, knuckles scarred from years of blade work.

He's the only demon I know who could stop me from doing something I wanted to do, not through superior strength but through sheer stubborn will.

"Akira's worried about you." His voice carries that particular tone he uses when delivering news he knows I won't want to hear. "Says you're not eating the meals she prepares. Tom mentioned you nearly walked into him yesterday because you weren't watching where you were going."

"Tom talks too much."

"Tom cares about you. We all do." Avenor settles into the chair across from my desk—Liora's chair—and I have to fight the urge to snarl at him for the presumption. "When's the last time you slept more than a few hours?"

Sleep. As if I could simply close my eyes and find peace when every dream brings her back to me, vivid and warm and whole, only to tear her away again when morning comes.

As if rest is possible when guilt gnaws at my bones like acid, reminding me that I should have been here when she needed protection most.

"I sleep enough."

"Walking the corridors at three in the morning doesn't count as sleep.

" His pointed ears twitch—a tell I've learned to read over the years.

Avenor's annoyed, which means he's about to say something I definitely don't want to hear.

"Especially when you spend half that time standing outside her old quarters like you're waiting for something. "

Heat flares behind my sternum, the kind of burning rage that usually precedes violence. But this is Avenor, and despite the fury building in my chest, I can't bring myself to lash out at one of the few people who've stayed by my side through this particular nightmare.

"Don't." The word comes out as more growl than speech. "Just don't."

"Someone needs to say it." He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, that direct stare never wavering. "She's not coming back, Rovak. Whatever happened to her?—"

"You think I don't know that?" The question explodes out of me with enough force to rattle the windows.

Papers scatter from my desk as I surge to my feet, chair scraping against stone hard enough to leave gouges.

"You think I haven't accepted that she's gone?

That some part of me isn't still hoping she'll walk through that door and explain where she's been but I know that won't happen? "

Avenor doesn't flinch, doesn't reach for his blade, doesn't show any of the survival instincts that kept him alive through years of palace intrigue and border skirmishes. He just sits there, weathering my rage like a seawall endures storms, waiting for the fury to exhaust itself.

"I know you know," he says quietly when my breathing steadies. "That's what makes this worse. You've accepted she's not coming back, but you can't accept that you're still alive. You're existing, not living. There's a difference."

The truth in his words hits harder than any physical blow.

I am existing—moving through days like a man underwater, going through motions that used to have meaning, fulfilling obligations that feel increasingly pointless.

The trade empire I built still runs, still generates profit, still commands respect throughout the eastern ports.

But none of it matters without her here to share it with.

"Stop hovering," I mutter, sinking back into my chair with less grace than I'd like. The fight drains out of me as quickly as it came, leaving behind the familiar weight of exhaustion. "I don't need a nursemaid."

"No, you need a friend. And friends don't let friends waste away because they're too proud to admit they're hurting."

Hurting. Such a small word for the cavity that's taken residence in my chest, the constant ache that colors every breath. Hurting suggests something temporary, something that heals with time and care. This feels more like amputation—the phantom pain of a limb that will never grow back.

I miss everything about her. The way she hummed while organizing my correspondence, completely unconscious of the melody.

How she'd curl into a chair with a book and completely lose track of time, emerging from whatever story held her captive with rumpled hair and ink stains on her fingers.

The careful way she'd pour tea, as if the ritual itself held some sacred meaning.

Our morning ritual where she'd bring me breakfast and she was always the first one that I saw.

Most of all, I miss the sound of her voice calling my name. Not 'master' or 'my lord'—just Rovak, spoken with warmth that made my name sound like something worth being called.

"She could be anywhere by now," I say, more to myself than to Avenor. "If she's even..." I can't finish the thought. Won't give voice to the possibility that haunts my darkest hours.

"If she were dead, you'd know." His certainty surprises me, and when I look up, something shifts in his expression. "She'd be easier to find."

I nod. "You're right."

He sighs. "I know that you two had a connection, but you have to let her go."

Connection. He makes it sound like there was something between us beyond master and servant, employer and employee.

As if the careful friendship we built over morning meals and evening conversations meant something more than convenience.

As if the way her presence settled something restless in my chest wasn't just imagination.

Maybe it wasn't imagination. Maybe she felt it too, whatever invisible thread seemed to tie us together during those quiet moments when the rest of the world fell away.

Maybe that's why she left—because she sensed the dangerous territory we were approaching and decided escape was safer than staying to see where it led.

The thought brings a fresh wave of guilt. If my feelings drove her away, if she fled because she felt pressured or unsafe...

"You're doing it again." Avenor's voice cuts through the spiral of self-recrimination. "Blaming yourself for things beyond your control."

"Everything in this house is under my control. That's the point of having power."

"Not everything. Not people's choices. Not the forces that drive them to do things that don't make sense to the rest of us.

" He stands, straightening to his full height, and for a moment looks every inch the trained guard he used to be.

"She made a choice to leave. Maybe it was the right choice for her, even if it was terrible for you. "

Right choice. As if there could be anything right about the gaping wound her absence carved into my life. As if the sleepless nights and endless searching and constant ache of missing her could somehow be justified by her need for freedom.

But even as anger rises in my throat, I know he's not entirely wrong.

I never wanted her to stay out of obligation or fear.

Never wanted her to feel trapped by my feelings or my position or the power I held over her circumstances.

If she needed to leave to find peace—even if it cost me mine—then maybe that's a price worth paying.

It doesn't make the paying any easier.

"Stop hovering," I repeat, but without the edge this time. Simple statement of fact rather than command. "I'll eat something. Sign the contracts. Pretend to be the lord this estate needs."

"That's all any of us can do." He pauses at the door, hand resting on the frame. "Pretend until pretending becomes real again."

The door closes behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with shadows and memories and the weight of two years' worth of unanswered questions.

Outside, night settles over the estate like a familiar blanket, bringing with it the promise of another sleepless few hours spent walking empty corridors and stopping outside a door that leads to nothing but ghosts.