Page 14 of The Demon’s Little Girl

ROVAK

I stand in the gardens like a man struck by lightning, my mind fracturing into pieces I can't fit back together. The fountain's familiar splash does nothing to calm the chaos raging through my thoughts. Liora. Alive. Here. And with a child .

The implications hit me in waves, each one more devastating than the last. Did she leave because of someone else? Some demon who caught her eye, who offered her things I never could? The thought burns through me like molten metal, jealousy and confusion warring with relief so sharp it cuts.

Or worse—did she leave because she was carrying another's child and couldn't bear to tell me? The idea that she'd felt so trapped, so ashamed, that disappearing seemed like her only option makes my chest tighten until breathing becomes a conscious effort.

I've spent two years imagining every possible scenario for her disappearance. Kidnapping. Murder. Simple flight from a life she couldn't tolerate anymore. Never this. Never returning with proof of a life I knew nothing about, a connection to someone who wasn't me.

The gardens blur at the edges as I try to process what I saw.

The child— Nalla , I heard Liora whisper her name—with her dusky skin and dark curls, those distinctive eyes that catch light like captured starfire.

Beautiful. Unmistakably part demon. And reaching toward me with the fearless curiosity only the very young possess.

Footsteps on stone announce Avenor's return before I see him. He moves differently now, like someone who's witnessed something that shifted the ground beneath his feet. When he stops beside me, his usual sardonic composure has cracked enough to show genuine bewilderment.

"Well." His voice carries none of its typical sharp edge. "That was unexpected."

I can't form words. Can barely form thoughts beyond the endless loop of questions that have no answers. Avenor seems to understand, because he continues without waiting for a response.

"At least she's home." The words sound careful, chosen with the precision he usually reserves for diplomatic situations. "At least they're both safe."

Safe. Yes. Despite everything else spinning out of control, that much is true. Liora is here, whole and breathing and real instead of existing only in memories that have started to feel more like dreams. Whatever happened, wherever she's been, she survived it.

I nod because it's easier than trying to speak around the knot in my throat.

"I've arranged for food to be sent to her room," Avenor adds. "She needs rest. The child too."

The mention of food breaks through my paralysis like cold water. "I'll take it."

Avenor's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "You'll... what?"

"I'll take it." The words come out rougher than intended, edged with something that might be desperation. "To her room."

For a moment, Avenor looks like he wants to argue. His navy eyes search my face with the thoroughness of someone who's learned to read my moods through six years of partnership. Whatever he sees there must convince him that pushing would be unwise, because he simply nods.

"I'll have it prepared. Give you some time to..." He gestures vaguely at my general state of dishevelment. "Compose yourself."

Compose myself. As if there's any configuration of my thoughts that would make this situation less catastrophic.

But Avenor's right—I need to gather what remains of my control before facing Liora again.

Before meeting her daughter properly, without the shock and confusion that rendered me effectively mute in the courtyard.

An hour later, I stand outside her door with a tray that trembles slightly in my hands.

Ridiculous. I've negotiated trade agreements worth thousands of nodals, faced down rival merchants who thought my reputation was exaggerated, stared down xaphan diplomats who'd have gladly seen me dead. None of it prepared me for this.

I knock twice, soft enough not to startle a sleeping child.

"Come in."

Liora's voice, hoarse with exhaustion but unmistakably hers. I push the door open and step into the room I've kept exactly as she left it, though I've never admitted that to anyone, including myself.

She's sitting on the bed with the child—Nalla—in her lap, both of them cleaned of road dust and wearing clothes that actually fit.

Liora must have found some of her old things in the wardrobe.

The sight of her in the blue dress she used to wear for breakfast meetings sends another jolt through my already fractured composure.

But it's Nalla who captures my attention completely.

Without the grime and exhaustion of travel, she's even more striking than I first realized.

Her skin carries that perfect blend of her mother's warm tones with something darker, more otherworldly.

Her eyes—those impossible pale gold orbs—track my movement with interest instead of fear.

When she sees me, she babbles something enthusiastic and reaches out with grabbing hands like she's trying to catch moonbeams.

"She's not afraid of you," Liora says quietly. There's wonder in her voice, like she wasn't expecting this reaction. "She should be, honestly. Most people find you intimidating."

I set the tray on her small table and turn back to find Nalla studying me with the kind of intense focus that suggests intelligence far beyond her apparent age. She can't be more than a year old, maybe less, but something in those eyes seems almost ancient.

"May I?" I gesture toward the bed, toward them, not trusting myself to get closer without permission.

Liora nods, shifting over to make space. The mattress dips under my weight, and Nalla immediately leans in my direction like I'm some fascinating new toy she wants to explore. Before I can react, tiny fingers are reaching for my horns, the closest part of me within her range.

I freeze. Physical contact has never come easily to me—years of training myself to maintain distance, to project strength through isolation, don't simply disappear because a child finds me interesting.

But when those small hands make contact with the polished obsidian of my horns, something inside my chest cracks open.

She's warm. Alive. Real in a way that makes all my carefully constructed defenses feel like smoke. Her touch is gentle, curious rather than demanding, like she's cataloging textures and temperatures for some internal map of the world.

She babbles at me as she reaches toward my horns and I dip my head for her. Then she grins, showing tiny teeth, and pats the curved surface like she's praising a particularly well-behaved pet.

The sound that escapes me isn't quite laughter, isn't quite a sob. It's something rawer, something I don't have words for. This child—this impossible, beautiful child—is treating me like I'm safe. Like I'm someone worth knowing instead of someone to fear.

I see so much of Liora in her it hurts, and I don't know how to process this. Not this little demon child or that fact Liora is back after I spent so long searching for her.

So I ignore the past and focus on the present.

"She's remarkable." My voice sounds foreign, stripped of its usual careful control.

"She is." Liora's tone carries fierce pride mixed with exhaustion that goes deeper than physical tiredness. "She's... she's everything."

I study Nalla's features while she continues her exploration, tiny hands moving from my horns to trace the line of my jaw with fearless precision.

She has her mother's bone structure, the elegant curve of her cheek and the determined set of her small chin.

But her eyes... those belong to someone else entirely.

Someone with demon heritage, that much is obvious, though the specific bloodline remains unclear.

The knowledge sits in my stomach like a lead weight. Somewhere, there's a demon who knows the taste of Liora's mouth, who's seen her naked and vulnerable, who created this perfect child with her. The thought makes my hands clench into fists before I catch myself and force them to relax.

Nalla notices the tension and responds by patting my cheek with one small palm, babbling something that sounds almost like comfort. As if she's trying to soothe whatever storm she senses building inside me.

I'm drowning. Drowning in longing for what I can't have, in rage at what I've lost, in desperate affection for this child who isn't mine but could have been in another life.

The feelings I've spent two years burying surge back with devastating force, made sharper by proximity and possibility and the cruel reality of timing.

"Where..." I start, then stop. The question feels too big, too dangerous. Where have you been? Who is her father? Why did you leave? Why did you come back? Each one threatens to shatter whatever fragile peace exists between us.

Liora's amber-hazel eyes meet mine across the small space separating us, and I see my own confusion reflected there.

She's as lost as I am, as uncertain how to navigate this new territory we've found ourselves in.

The easy familiarity we once shared feels impossibly distant, buried under layers of secrets and time and choices neither of us can undo.

"I know you have questions," she says finally. "I have questions too. But right now, I can barely think past the fact that we're both safe."

Safe. There's that word again, the one thing we can agree on in this mess of complications. Whatever else has changed, whatever damage has been done, they're here. They're under my protection again. Everything else can wait.

But the ache in my chest suggests otherwise.

Two years of wondering, of searching, of hoping against hope that she'd walk back through my doors—and now she has, carrying proof of a life that moved on without me.

The child I'm already half in love with belongs to someone else.

The woman I never stopped loving spent two years in another's arms.

The silence stretches between us, heavy with all the things we're not saying, until Nalla breaks it with another cheerful babble. She's moved on from exploring my face to examining the leather cord that holds my hair back, tiny fingers tugging at it with determined curiosity.

I let her. Let this impossible child dismantle my carefully maintained image one small touch at a time, because for the first time in two years, the empty spaces inside me feel almost bearable.