Page 17 of The Demon’s Little Girl
ROVAK
T he breakfast I arrange isn't elaborate—fresh bread, soft cheese, sliced fruit, and meadowmint tea—but I have it set out in the sitting room in my wing where the morning light streams through the tall windows.
The same table where we used to sit together, where she'd steal the last piece of bread while pretending she wasn't hungry, where I'd watch her hands move as she talked and try not to think about how much I wanted to reach across and touch them.
Akira looks like she wants to ask questions, but she doesn't. Thankfully, everyone has been giving Liora space—even Tom, shockingly. I think it's for the best they all keep their distance.
When Liora arrives with Nalla balanced on her hip, she pauses in the doorway like she's taking in the familiar scene. The hesitation lasts only a moment before she moves forward, but I catch it. That tiny beat of uncertainty, like she's not sure she belongs here anymore.
It's that hesitation that confirms what I've been suspecting—she's here, physically present, but the easy comfort we used to share is gone.
She's withdrawn in a way that has nothing to do with shyness and everything to do with walls built for protection.
Whatever happened during those two years, it changed her.
Made her more guarded, more careful with herself.
I miss the woman who used to steal my food and tease me about my scowl. Miss the way she'd settle into her chair like she belonged there, like the space across from me was hers by right. Now she sits like a guest, polite and grateful and distant.
"The bread smells amazing," she says, settling Nalla in her lap with practiced ease. The little girl immediately starts reaching for everything within arm's distance, fascinated by the array of options in front of her.
"Akira's been experimenting with different grains." I tear off a piece of the warm bread and hand it to her, noting how she accepts it with a quiet thank you that I don't love. That used to be her standard response when I made sure she ate enough.
She's thinner than she was before. Not dangerously so, but there's a sharpness to her collarbones that wasn't there two years ago, a tightness around her eyes that speaks of strain and careful resource management.
Of making sure there was always enough for the baby, even if it meant going without herself.
The protective rage that thought triggers makes my hands clench around my tea cup, but I keep my expression neutral.
Whatever hardships she faced while she was gone, demanding details won't help either of us now.
What matters is making sure she feels safe here, making sure she knows she doesn't have to worry about having enough anymore.
"Here." I push the plate of sliced fruit closer to her side of the table, noting how her eyes track the movement with the kind of automatic calculation that comes from never being entirely sure when the next meal will come.
Nalla makes a grab for a piece of the soft yellow fruit, nearly toppling herself out of Liora's lap in the process. I reach across instinctively, catching the little girl's wrist before she can send herself tumbling to the floor.
"Easy there, little one. The food isn't going anywhere."
Nalla looks up at me with those unusual pale gold eyes, studying my face with the kind of serious intensity that seems too old for someone barely out of infancy. Then she grins, showing off tiny white teeth, and makes a sound that might be an attempt at my name.
"She's been doing that since yesterday," Liora says, and there's something like relief in her voice. Like she's been worried about how Nalla would adapt to being here, whether she'd be accepted. "I think she likes you."
"She's got good instincts." I keep hold of Nalla's small hand, marveling at how tiny her fingers are compared to mine.
Her skin has the same warm bronze undertones as her mother's, but there's something else in the set of her features that speaks of mixed heritage.
The shape of her eyes, the way her dark hair catches the light.
She's beautiful, regardless of who her father is. And watching the way Liora's entire expression softens when she looks at her daughter, it's clear that whatever circumstances brought this child into existence, she's thoroughly loved.
Nalla babbles something that sounds like a question and tugs at my hand, apparently deciding I'm interesting enough to investigate further. When I don't immediately respond, she tries a different approach—reaching for my face with her free hand like she wants to explore the texture of my skin.
"Nalla, no," Liora says gently, catching her daughter's questing fingers before they can make contact with my cheek. "You have to be gentle with people."
"She's fine." I shift closer, letting Nalla's small hand rest against my jaw. Her touch is featherlight, curious rather than demanding, and there's something unexpectedly soothing about the contact. "She's just figuring out the world."
The trust inherent in that small gesture—this tiny person who doesn't know enough to be afraid of me, who sees a face that most adults find intimidating and decides it's worth exploring—does something strange to my chest. Makes the protective instincts I feel toward Liora extend automatically to include her daughter.
Our daughter, some part of me whispers, though I push that thought away immediately. Nalla isn't mine by blood, and I have no claim to either of them beyond the one I'm hoping to rebuild through patience and careful attention.
But the little girl doesn't seem to care about technicalities. She pats my cheek with evident satisfaction, like she's just solved some important puzzle, then turns back to the more pressing matter of acquiring food.
"She's going to be a handful when she's older," I observe, helping to guide a piece of soft cheese toward her mouth when her grabbing becomes more earnest than accurate.
"She already is." Liora's smile is genuine this time, the first completely unguarded expression I've seen from her since she returned. "Yesterday she tried to climb onto the chair by the window. Nearly gave me a heart attack when I turned around to find her trying to climb up on the sill."
"Adventurous, like her mother."
The words slip out before I can think better of them, a reference to the way Liora used to explore every corner of the estate when she first arrived, driven by curiosity that was stronger than caution.
She'd disappear for hours at a time, always turning up somewhere unexpected with dirt on her dress and stories about what she'd discovered.
For a moment, her expression goes carefully blank, like she's not sure how to respond to the reminder of who she used to be. Like the woman who explored for the joy of it feels too far removed from the cautious person she's become.
"That was a long time ago," she says quietly, and there's something almost wistful in her voice.
"Not that long." I keep my tone gentle, not wanting to push but needing her to know that I remember. That the things I valued about her before haven't been erased by time or distance or whatever walls she's built to protect herself.
She doesn't respond immediately, but some of the tension in her shoulders eases. Like maybe she's starting to believe that the person she was before is still welcome here, even if she's not ready to be that open again.
Nalla chooses that moment to make another grab for my tea cup, apparently deciding that whatever the adults are drinking must be more interesting than her carefully portioned food. I catch her wrist again, redirecting her attention to the piece of bread in front of her.
"Patient, aren't you?" I tell the little girl, who responds with a series of babbles that sound remarkably like she's arguing with me.
"She's very opinionated," Liora says, and there's pride in her voice alongside the affection. Like she's glad her daughter has a strong enough personality to make her preferences known, even if those preferences sometimes involve grabbing things she shouldn't have.
"Good. The world's not kind to people who don't know how to stand up for themselves."
The words come out more serious than I intended, weighted with awareness of how hard the last two years must have been for both of them. A woman alone with an infant, trying to stay hidden or safe or whatever combination of the two kept them alive and fed.
Liora's hands still around her tea cup, and I catch her watching me with that careful, measuring look she gets when she's trying to figure out what I'm thinking. Like she's not sure whether my comment was general observation or pointed reference to her own situation.
"She won't have to," I add, meeting her eyes directly so there's no misunderstanding. "Neither of you will. Not anymore."
The promise hangs in the air between us, heavier than it should be for such a simple statement.
But it encompasses everything I can't say directly—that I want them here, that I'll make sure they're protected and provided for, that whatever brought them back into my life, I'm not letting them disappear again.
Something flickers across Liora's expression, too quick for me to identify completely. Relief, maybe. Or fear that promises like that are too good to be true. She's learned to be careful with hope, and I understand why.
But she nods, just a small dip of her chin that says she's heard me. That maybe, eventually, she might even believe me.