Page 12 of The Demon’s Little Girl

ROVAK

I drift into sleep despite my best efforts to avoid it, amerinth finally doing what willpower couldn't. But even unconsciousness offers no mercy.

The dream unfolds with the cruel clarity that makes it feel more real than memory.

I'm walking through the corridors of my estate, but something's wrong—the air tastes of copper and fear, shadows stretch longer than they should, and silence presses against my ears like water.

My boots echo too loudly against stone as I make my way toward the eastern wing, following some instinct I can't name.

The servants' quarters door stands ajar. Not unusual, but the wrongness of it makes my skin crawl. I push it open with fingertips that suddenly feel too sensitive, and there she is.

Liora. Huddled in the corner like a wounded animal, arms wrapped around herself so tightly her knuckles have gone white. Her clothes are disheveled, rumpled in ways that make my vision blur red around the edges. She doesn't look up when I enter, doesn't even seem to notice my presence.

"Liora." Her name falls from my lips like a prayer, and finally—finally—those amber eyes meet mine. They're wide with shock, pupils blown so large they seem to swallow the gold entirely. Fear radiates from her in waves I can almost taste.

I drop to my knees without conscious thought, making myself smaller, less threatening. Every instinct screams at me to surge forward, to gather her against my chest and demand answers, but terror has turned her fragile as spun glass. One wrong move and she might shatter completely.

"It's me," I whisper, extending one hand palm-up between us. "You're safe now. Whatever happened, you're safe."

She stares at my hand like she's never seen one before. Minutes pass—or maybe hours, time moves strangely in dreams—before she unfolds slightly, just enough to reveal new bruises blooming across her throat like dark flowers.

Rage burns through me with the intensity of molten metal.

Someone hurt her. Someone put their hands on what's mine and left marks that scream of violence.

The need to hunt down whoever did this, to tear them apart with teeth and claws until nothing remains but memory, nearly overwhelms rational thought.

But she needs me here, now, whole and present and safe.

"Let me help you." I keep my voice soft, the tone I'd use with a spooked kilmar—gentle but steady, promising protection without demanding trust. "Let me take you somewhere warm."

This time when I extend my hand, she takes it. Her fingers are ice-cold and trembling, but they curl around mine with desperate strength. I lift her carefully, one arm beneath her knees and the other supporting her shoulders, cradling her against my chest like something infinitely precious.

She weighs nothing. Has she always been this light, or has whatever happened stolen substance from her along with peace? Her head rests against my shoulder, breath warm against my neck, and for a moment the wrongness of the day fades. This is right—her in my arms, safe and protected and mine.

"I wouldn't hurt you," I murmur into her hair, words spilling out before I can stop them. "You have to know that. You have to know I care about you."

She pulls back just enough to look at me, and something shifts in her expression. The fear recedes slightly, replaced by a sadness so profound it steals my breath. Her hands—when did she lift them?—frame my face with soft touches, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones.

"If only that was enough," she whispers.

The words hit like physical blows. Not 'I don't believe you' or 'I can't trust you.' If only that was enough. As if my caring, my protection, my promise to never harm her exists but simply can't reach whatever wound has been carved into her soul.

I jerk awake with her name on my lips, heart hammering against my ribs hard enough to bruise.

The study comes back into focus slowly—familiar walls, familiar furniture, familiar emptiness that feels more crushing after the vivid presence of the dream.

Weak morning light filters through windows I don't remember opening, and my neck aches from sleeping slumped over my desk.

The contracts Avenor brought yesterday remain unsigned, scattered across the desktop alongside cold amerinth and the remnants of dinner I never touched. My mouth tastes like ash and regret.

If only that was enough.

Even dreams offer no comfort, only fresh varieties of torment. In sleep, I can hold her, protect her, speak truths I never had courage to voice while awake. But even dream-Liora slips through my fingers, wounded by something my caring can't heal.

I push myself upright, joints protesting the awkward position I'd maintained for however long unconsciousness claimed me.

Dawn light reveals the full scope of last night's destruction— papers everywhere, ink stains on the carpet where I'd knocked over the well, chair cushions bearing claw marks from when my control slipped entirely.

The estate wakes around me with familiar sounds that used to bring comfort.

Servants moving through distant corridors, the kitchen staff beginning preparations for breakfast, garden doors opening to let in fresh air that carries hints of aracin blossoms. Life continuing its relentless forward momentum despite the gaping hole at its center.

I should wash. Change clothes. Pretend to be the man this household needs rather than the broken thing I've become. The eastern contracts won't sign themselves, and merchant captains expect their trade master to project strength and stability even when both feel like distant memories.

The sound of rapid footsteps in the hallway interrupts my attempts at pulling myself together. Too fast for casual movement, too heavy for most of the staff. Before I can straighten my appearance, the study door bursts open without ceremony.

Avenor stands in the doorway, chest rising and falling like he's been running.

His usually immaculate appearance shows signs of haste—hair disheveled, shirt partially untucked, that look in his navy eyes I've learned to associate with news that will shatter whatever fragile peace I've managed to construct.

"You need to come," he says without preamble. "Now."

The tone brooks no argument, carries an urgency that cuts through the fog of exhaustion and dream-confusion. I rise from my chair, automatically reaching for the coat draped over its back, but Avenor shakes his head.

"No time. Just come."

He turns and strides away without waiting for response, leaving me to follow or be left behind.

The choice is no choice at all. I trail him through corridors that feel familiar yet strange, as if the architecture itself has shifted during the night.

His pace never slows, never allows for questions or explanations.

We reach the main foyer in what feels like heartbeats, though the journey must have taken longer than perception suggests.

Sunlight streams through tall windows, illuminating marble floors and the tapestries that line the walls—expensive displays of wealth and power that suddenly feel hollow as stage props.

A man waits near the entrance doors. A stranger, travel-stained and lean in the way that suggests hard living rather than deliberate fitness.

His clothes mark him as someone who works in trades I prefer not to think about too deeply—leather worn soft from handling chains, boots that have walked too many auction blocks.

A slaver.

My hands clench into fists before conscious thought engages. Whatever business this creature thinks he has with me?—

"He found someone," Avenor says quietly, reading my expression with the accuracy of long friendship. "Someone bearing your household mark."

The words hit like ice water in my veins.

Household mark. The practice I've always despised, the branding forced on human servants by market laws I've fought to change.

I never marked any of the people in my employ, but the auction houses didn't care about my preferences.

Anyone bought through official channels carried the scar whether I wanted it or not.

Hope rises in my chest like pain, sharp and desperate and terrifying in its intensity. I've learned not to trust hope these past two years—it cuts deeper than despair when it proves false. But this stranger's presence, Avenor's expression, the careful way neither of them will quite meet my eyes...

"Where?" The word scrapes out of my throat like broken glass.

The slaver gestures toward the doors without speaking, and suddenly my legs feel unsteady. Two years of searching, of following false leads and paying informants who delivered nothing but disappointment. Two years of slowly accepting that some questions will never have answers.

What if this time is different?

We step outside into morning air that tastes of possibility and terror in equal measure.

The estate grounds stretch before us, familiar and beautiful and somehow irrelevant compared to whatever waits at the end of this moment.

Fountain spray catches sunlight, turning water droplets into scattered diamonds, and the sight strikes me as surreal—how can beauty exist when my entire world balances on the edge of shattering or salvation?

The slaver leads us across cobblestones toward a covered wagon that squats near the gate like some predatory beast. Standard transport for his trade, probably lined with chains and locks and all the implements needed to keep human cargo docile during transport.

The thought of anyone spending time in that mobile prison makes my teeth ache, but if it brought her back to me?—

He reaches for the wagon's rear covering with hands that shake slightly. Even slavers, it seems, recognize the weight of moments that change everything. The canvas pulls back with a rustle that sounds deafening in the morning stillness.

And there she is.

Liora.

Dirty, pale as bone, thinner than memory and bearing new scars that make my vision blur crimson around the edges. But alive. Present. Real in ways that dreams can never be.

She looks up at the sound of the canvas moving, and those amber eyes I've seen behind my eyelids every night for seven hundred and thirty-one days go wide with recognition and shock and something that might be fear.

But that's not what steals my breath.

That's not what makes the world tilt sideways and reformed around a truth I never imagined.

Because Liora's not alone.

She's holding a child.