Page 13 of The Demon’s Little Girl

LIORA

T he wagon lurches to a stop, and my arms tighten instinctively around Nalla.

She's been fussing for the last hour, picking up on my tension the way she always does, those pale gold eyes darting between my face and the canvas walls that have trapped us for days.

I've lost count of how many—time blurs when you're fighting panic and trying to keep a toddler calm in a space barely large enough for two people.

The slaver's voice drifts from somewhere outside, too low for me to make out words. My heart hammers against my ribs hard enough that I wonder if Nalla can feel it through my chest. She squirms in my lap, tiny hands grabbing at the torn fabric of my dress, and I hush her with lips that feel numb.

I've been planning. That's what's kept me sane during this nightmare—cataloging every detail of our captor's routine, watching for patterns, waiting for the moment when his guard drops enough for us to run.

The chain around my ankle gives me maybe three feet of movement, but chains can be broken.

Locks can be picked. I won't let Nalla grow up in bondage because of my mistakes.

But when the canvas pulls back and sunlight floods our prison, all my careful plans scatter like ash in wind.

Because I know those stones. I know the fountain centered in the courtyard, water catching morning light in spirals that used to fascinate me during the few moments I'd steal to watch from kitchen windows.

I know the tall windows of the main house, the way ivy climbs the eastern wall in patterns that shift with seasons.

Rovak's estate.

Two years of running, of scraping together enough coin for food and shelter, of teaching Nalla to stay quiet when strangers passed—and now we're back here.

I quickly look away, not able to lift my eyes to the house.

"Out." The slaver's voice cuts through my shock like a blade. "Move."

Nalla whimpers against my shoulder, sensing the change in my breathing, the way my whole body has gone rigid with terror that has nothing to do with chains or cramped spaces. This is worse. This is facing the consequences of choices made in desperation and shame.

I gather Nalla closer, shielding her as much as possible as I stumble from the wagon on legs that shake from more than just days of confinement.

The chain around my ankle drags against stone, each clink a reminder of how far I've fallen from the woman who used to share breakfast conversations and quiet laughter in the estate's morning light.

And then I see him.

Rovak stands near the fountain like something carved from shadow and nightmare.

Six years of shared meals and careful conversations haven't prepared me for the reality of facing him now—not like this, not when I'm a chained runaway holding proof of everything I couldn't tell him.

He towers over everyone else, even Avenor beside him, his presence filling space in ways that go beyond mere physicality.

But he's not moving. Not speaking. Just... staring.

At first I think the focus of that black-eyed gaze is me, and I brace for anger, for demands, for the disappointment that will cut deeper than any punishment. Six years of kindness, of protection I never deserved, and I repaid it by vanishing in the night like a thief.

Then I realize what he's actually looking at.

Nalla.

She peers over my shoulder with those distinctive pale gold eyes, unafraid in the way only small children can be when faced with creatures that would terrify grown men.

Her tiny fingers twist in my hair as she studies Rovak with the intense concentration she usually reserves for new foods or particularly interesting insects.

The slaver jerks the chain, sending sharp pain up my leg, and drags me forward several steps.

I stumble, trying to keep Nalla balanced, trying to shield her from the rough handling even though my own body screams in protest. The movement seems to break whatever spell has held the courtyard in strange silence.

"Payment," the slaver says, addressing Rovak without ceremony. "She bears your household mark. Recovery fee is standard rate plus transport costs."

Still, Rovak doesn't speak. Doesn't even acknowledge the other man's presence.

That obsidian stare remains fixed on Nalla with an intensity that makes my skin crawl—not with fear for my safety, but with the sudden, inexplicable certainty that something fundamental has shifted in the space between heartbeats.

Avenor steps forward instead, silver hair catching sunlight as he moves with that fluid grace I remember from training sessions I used to watch from kitchen windows. His navy eyes flick between Rovak and me, and I see confusion there, questions he's obviously dying to ask but doesn't dare voice.

"How much?" Avenor's tone carries none of his usual sardonic edge. If anything, he sounds... careful. Like someone trying not to startle a dangerous predator.

Numbers are exchanged. Coin changes hands. The chain around my ankle is unlocked with a key that scrapes against metal loud enough to make Nalla flinch. But through it all, Rovak remains silent as stone, his attention never wavering from my daughter.

My daughter with her dusky skin and curling dark hair and those eyes that catch light in ways that seem almost otherworldly. My daughter who shares nothing with my own coloring, whose features already hint at bone structure that will be sharp and elegant in ways human faces rarely achieve.

My daughter whose father's heritage shows more clearly with each passing month.

When the slaver finally mounts his wagon and rattles away, leaving us standing in a courtyard that feels simultaneously foreign and familiar, the silence stretches until it becomes a living thing.

Nalla chooses that moment to babble something incomprehensible, reaching toward Rovak with grasping fingers like she's trying to capture shadows.

And something in his expression... changes. Softens. The rigid control he's maintained since the wagon arrived cracks just enough to let through something that looks almost like wonder.

"Avenor." His voice, when he finally speaks, sounds rougher than I remember. "Escort them to the servants' wing. Her room."

My old room. As if he's kept it waiting all this time, as if he always believed I'd come back. The thought sends fresh guilt spiraling through my chest, mixing with relief and terror in proportions that make me dizzy.

Avenor nods, then turns to me with an expression I can't quite read. "This way."

I follow because there's no alternative, because my legs are too unsteady to carry me anywhere else, because some part of me has been dreaming of these corridors for two years even when it hurt too much to remember them clearly.

Nalla grows heavier in my arms as we walk, excitement at new surroundings giving way to the sleepiness that always follows overstimulation.

The servants' wing looks exactly as I left it. Same narrow hallways, same plain doors, same windows that let in just enough light to keep the spaces from feeling like crypts. Avenor stops at a door I recognize with a jolt that goes straight through my bones.

My room. Unchanged down to the simple quilt folded at the foot of the bed, the small table where I used to keep books borrowed from Rovak's library, the washbasin that still holds a thin film of dust like no one's disturbed it in all the time I've been gone.

"Rest," Avenor says, stepping aside to let me enter. "I'll have food brought up."

I pause in the doorway, suddenly unable to move forward or back. Nalla has gone heavy and warm against my shoulder, her breathing evening out into sleep patterns I know by heart. Safe. For the first time in days—maybe weeks—we're both actually safe.

"Avenor." His name escapes before I can stop it, rusty with disuse and edged with desperation. "I?—"

"I'm glad you're not hurt." The words come out quiet, almost gentle, nothing like the sharp-edged humor I remember from our old interactions. His navy eyes meet mine for just a moment, and I see something there that might be relief. "I'm glad you both made it back."

And then he leaves me alone, my mind spinning.