Page 15 of The Demon’s Little Girl

LIORA

I 've been back for three days, and I still feel like I'm waiting for the other boot to drop.

Rovak hasn't yelled. Hasn't demanded explanations. Hasn't even asked where I've been beyond that first stilted conversation where I gave him nothing but silence and he accepted it like it was reasonable.

He brings me meals himself sometimes, says maybe ten words total, and leaves again. His dark eyes watch me with something I can't name—not anger, not disappointment. Something softer and more dangerous that makes my chest tight with feelings I thought I'd buried.

I spent two years teaching myself to forget the way he'd look at me during our morning tea sessions, like I was worth listening to.

The way his rare smiles would transform his entire face, making him look younger and less like the intimidating trade master everyone else saw.

I convinced myself I'd imagined his gentleness, turned it into something romantic in my head because I was lonely and foolish and too naive to understand the difference between kindness and interest.

But now I'm here, and he's being careful with me in a way that makes all those defensive walls I built start to crumble.

He doesn't touch me—keeps a respectful distance even when Nalla reaches for him with her grabbing hands and delighted squeals.

Like he's afraid I'll bolt again if he moves too fast.

Maybe I would.

The uncertainty is killing me. I keep waiting for him to remember what I am—a runaway servant who disappeared without a word or warning, who cost him time and money and worry.

Who came back carrying another demon's child like some kind of cruel joke.

Any moment now, he'll realize I don't belong here anymore, that whatever strange consideration he's showing me is misplaced charity.

I haven't been given any duties. No one's told me where I'm supposed to work or what my schedule should be.

And I've been avoiding everyone—especially Akira and Tom.

I'm existing in some strange limbo where I'm fed and housed but serve no purpose, like a guest who's overstayed her welcome but no one has the heart to throw out.

The waiting is worse than punishment would be.

Avenor knocks on my door after dinner, the same quiet double-tap he's always used. When I call for him to enter, he slips inside with his usual fluid grace, silver hair catching the lamplight as he closes the door behind him.

"How are you settling in?"

It's such a normal question, delivered in his familiar dry tone, that something in my chest loosens slightly. This, at least, hasn't changed. Avenor still moves through the world with that sharp-edged awareness that never misses anything important, but he's never used it to make me feel small.

"Fine." The lie tastes bitter. I'm sitting on the bed with Nalla curled against my side, her small body warm and solid and the only anchor I have to sanity. "Everyone's been... kind."

His navy eyes narrow slightly. "Kind. Right. You sound thrilled about it."

Trust Avenor to cut straight through pleasantries to the uncomfortable truth underneath. He leans against the wall near the window, arms crossed, studying me with the patience of someone who's willing to wait for actual answers instead of polite deflection.

"I'm grateful," I try again, but the words sound hollow even to me.

"Grateful." He tastes the word like it's gone sour. "For what, exactly? Being allowed to exist in your own room without purpose or responsibility? That doesn't sound much like you."

It doesn't sound like me because it isn't me.

The old me—the one who belonged here—had a place, a function.

I knew where I fit in the careful hierarchy of the household, knew what was expected of me and when.

I had breakfast conversations with Rovak that felt like the best part of my day, work that kept my hands busy and my mind focused.

I had a life that felt almost normal if I didn't think too hard about the circumstances that brought me here.

Now I'm a stranger wearing my own face, sleeping in a room that feels too much like the past while carrying a future that doesn't belong in either place.

Nalla stirs against me, making one of her soft sleep sounds, and I automatically adjust my position to keep her comfortable.

The movement is instinctive now—two years of being the only thing standing between her and a world that doesn't welcome half-demon children has rewired my reflexes around her needs.

"She's beautiful," Avenor says quietly, and there's genuine warmth in his voice. "Looks like you."

"She's better than me." The words come out fiercer than I intended. "She's innocent. Whatever else... she doesn't deserve to pay for any of it."

Something shifts in Avenor's expression, a sharpening that makes me realize I've revealed more than I meant to. He pushes away from the wall, moving closer with the careful precision he uses when he's trying not to spook something wounded.

"Pay for what?"

I shake my head, throat tight. These are dangerous waters, the kind that lead to questions I can't answer without destroying what little peace we've managed to find. "Nothing. I just... I know how people look at her. What they think."

"What they think about what?"

His voice is gentler now, coaxing rather than demanding, and it makes something inside me want to break open and spill everything at his feet. The loneliness. The fear. The shame that follows me like a shadow, whispering that I'm dirty now, ruined, not fit for the life I used to have.

But I can't. Won't. The truth would shatter too many things, and I'm not strong enough to handle the pieces.

"She's half-demon," I say instead, focusing on the easier explanation. "Born to a human servant who ran away and came back with no explanation. It's not exactly complicated math to know the what's being said."

Avenor settles into the chair near the bed, close enough that I can see the understanding in his eyes. Too much understanding. Like he's filling in details I haven't given him and coming to conclusions that make his jaw tighten with suppressed anger.

"I'd rather hear what you have to say about it."

The question catches me off guard. Not what happened, not who her father is, not why I left—what do I think? Like my opinion matters. Like my feelings about any of this carry weight instead of just being inconvenient complications to be managed.

"What I have to say? I think..." I start, then stop, because putting it into words makes it real in a way that terrifies me.

"I think I don't belong here anymore. I think coming back was selfish.

I think Rovak is being kind because that's who he is, but eventually he's going to realize I'm not worth the trouble. "

The words hang in the air between us like a confession, raw and ugly and more honest than anything I've said since walking through the gates. Avenor doesn't respond immediately, just watches me with those sharp eyes that seem to see straight through all my careful defenses.

"You're an idiot," he says finally, but there's no heat in it. "Complete and utter fool."

I flinch like he's slapped me, because hearing it said out loud hurts worse than I expected. "I know that. I know I?—"

"No." He leans forward, voice cutting through my attempt at agreement. "You're an idiot for thinking any of that's true. For thinking Rovak sees you as trouble instead of..." He stops, shakes his head. "Never mind. Not my story to tell."

Instead of what? The question burns in my throat, but something in his expression warns me away from pushing. Whatever he's not saying, it's information that belongs to someone else—probably Rovak—and Avenor's too loyal to share secrets that aren't his.

We sit in silence while I try to process what he's telling me without actually telling me. That Rovak's kindness isn't just default courtesy. That my return means something more than I've let myself believe. That maybe—maybe—I'm not the burden I've convinced myself I am.

But hope is dangerous. Hope is what got me into trouble before, making me think I could have something I was never meant to want. It's easier to expect rejection, to prepare for the inevitable moment when reality asserts itself and I'm reminded of my place in the world.

The silence stretches until Nalla shifts again, this time waking up enough to realize she's not in her usual sleeping position. She makes a small questioning sound and pushes herself up on tiny hands, blinking owlishly at Avenor like she's trying to remember where she's seen him before.

When she spots him, her face breaks into one of those brilliant smiles that never fails to make my heart squeeze. She babbles something that might be a greeting and starts making grabbing motions in his direction, clearly expecting him to come closer so she can investigate this new person properly.

Avenor's expression softens in a way I've rarely seen, all his sharp edges melting into something approaching tenderness. "Hello, little one. You're awake."

Nalla responds with more enthusiastic babbling, bouncing slightly in my lap with excitement.

She's always been drawn to people, even when we were on the road staying in places where standing out could be dangerous.

I've spent two years trying to teach her caution, but it's not in her nature.

She approaches the world like it's full of friends she just hasn't met yet.

"She likes you," I tell Avenor, adjusting my grip as Nalla makes a more determined lunge toward him.

"Most people do, once they get past the intimidating exterior." He reaches out carefully, letting Nalla grab onto his fingers with her tiny hands. "Same could be said for someone else around here."

The comment hits closer to home than I'm comfortable with. Is that how I appear now? Intimidating in my distance, keeping people at arm's length because it's safer than risking the rejection I'm sure is coming? Maybe. Probably.

I watch Nalla charm Avenor with the same effortless grace she showed Rovak, completely unburdened by the complications that make everything difficult for me.

She doesn't know she's the product of violence.

Doesn't understand that her very existence is proof of my shame, my failure to protect myself when it mattered most. To her, the world is still full of possibilities and people who might love her if she just smiles bright enough.

The contrast between her innocence and my cynicism makes something crack inside my chest. Here I am, drowning in self-doubt and fear, while she approaches each day like it's a gift. Maybe she's the one who has it right. Maybe I'm the one who's lost perspective.

But even as the thought forms, I can't quite make myself believe it.

The fear runs too deep, carved into my bones by two years of running and hiding and trying to convince myself that this is all I deserve.

That safety is temporary, kindness is conditional, and eventually everyone realizes I'm not worth the effort.

"She's lucky to have you," Avenor says quietly, and something in his tone suggests he's talking about more than just daily care and feeding.

"I'm all she has." The words come out flat, matter-of-fact. "There's no one else."

"There could be."

He says it so simply, like it's an obvious truth I'm deliberately ignoring. Like the possibility of belonging somewhere, of having people who choose to care about us, is something I should consider instead of rejecting out of hand.

But I've thought about it. Spent two years thinking about it, actually, usually late at night when Nalla was sleeping and I had nothing to distract me from the ache of missing this place.

Missing him . The fantasy of coming home, of being welcomed back, of somehow finding a way to belong again despite everything that's changed.

Reality never measures up to fantasy. It's messier, more complicated, full of consequences and expectations I'm not sure I can meet. Better to keep my walls up, to expect nothing, to protect what little I have left rather than risk losing it by wanting more.

"I should let you rest," Avenor says, though he doesn't immediately move to leave. "But Liora... whatever you're afraid of, whatever you think you've done—none of it changes the fact that you're home now. That matters to people here. More than you know."

He stands, gently extricating his fingers from Nalla's determined grip with the patience of someone who's used to dealing with small, grabbing creatures. She protests the loss with a disappointed whimper that makes him smile.

"Sleep well, little one. You too."

The door closes behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with my daughter and the uncomfortable weight of everything he didn't quite say. That I matter. That my return is wanted, not just tolerated. That maybe—maybe—I'm not as alone as I've convinced myself I am.

But old habits die hard, and hope still feels like a luxury I can't afford.

Safer to expect nothing and be pleasantly surprised than to hope for everything and be crushed when it doesn't materialize.

I've spent two years learning to protect myself this way.

I'm not sure I remember how to do anything else.

Nalla settles back against my side with a contented sigh, already drifting toward sleep again. Her trust is absolute—in me, in this place, in the idea that tomorrow will be just as safe as today. She has no reason to doubt, no context for the fear that keeps me awake most nights.

Maybe that's enough for now. Maybe keeping her safe and happy is all I need to focus on, instead of trying to untangle the mess of feelings and expectations that comes with being back. She's what matters. Everything else is just noise.

But as I adjust the blanket around both of us and try to find a comfortable position for sleep, Avenor's words echo in my head like a challenge I'm not sure I'm ready to accept.

The possibility that I'm home—really home—instead of just temporarily sheltered.

That the careful distance I'm maintaining is protection I don't actually need.

That maybe, just maybe, I'm worth more than I've convinced myself I am.

The thought follows me toward sleep, dangerous and persistent and impossible to shake.