Page 2 of The Demon’s Little Girl

I can't help but smile back, something genuine and unguarded that I quickly try to rein in. The problem is, when Rovak looks at me like that—like I'm more than just another servant delivering his meals—my carefully constructed walls start to crumble.

Because he really is devastatingly handsome.

The thought hits me with the force it always does, unwelcome and undeniable.

His features are carved with precise angles—the broad sweep of his nose, the sharp definition of his jaw, those high cheekbones that speak of aristocratic breeding.

He carries himself with the unconscious grace of someone born to command, every movement deliberate and controlled.

I force myself to look away, focusing on setting his tray down on the cleared space he always leaves at the corner of his desk. My hands are steadier than I have any right to expect as I arrange the dishes, making sure everything is within easy reach.

"Smells good," he says, settling back into his chair. The leather creaks under his weight, a sound I've come to associate with these quiet morning moments.

"Akira outdid herself with the tuskram." I step back, hands clasped behind me in what I hope looks like professional posture rather than an attempt to stop myself from fidgeting. "She got the spice blend just right."

He picks up a piece of the meat, examining it with the same attention to detail he brings to everything else. When he takes a bite, that almost-smile returns.

"Perfect, as always."

The praise shouldn't make my stomach flutter the way it does. He's complimenting the food, not me. I'm just the messenger. But something about the way his eyes linger on my face makes it feel more personal than it should.

"I should let you eat in peace?—"

"Sit."

The word is quiet but unmistakably a command. My eyes widen slightly as I look back at him, caught off-guard by the unexpected instruction.

"Sir?"

"You know I hate when you call me that." But I do it so I have the reminder. "Sit with me." He gestures to the chair across from his desk, the one usually reserved for business associates and visiting merchants. "You haven't eaten yet, have you?"

I hesitate, glancing toward the door. This isn't part of our usual routine. I bring his food, we exchange pleasantries, and I leave him to work in solitude. Sharing a meal feels... intimate in a way that makes my pulse race.

"I was planning to eat in the kitchens?—"

"Liora." There's something almost gentle in the way he says my name, like he's coaxing a skittish animal. "Sit. Please."

The 'please' undoes me completely. I move to the offered chair, settling onto the cushioned seat with as much grace as I can manage. The distance across his desk suddenly feels both too far and not nearly far enough.

Rovak tears a piece of bread in half and slides it across the polished wood toward me, along with the pot of honey Tom had reminded me about. The gesture is so casual, so natural, that it takes me a moment to fully register what's happening.

"I can't—" I start to protest.

"You can." He's already spreading honey on his own piece of bread, those large hands surprisingly deft with the small knife. "When's the last time you sat down for a proper meal instead of grabbing whatever's convenient between tasks?"

The question catches me off-guard because I can't actually remember. There's always something that needs doing, someone who needs help, a reason to eat quickly while standing in the kitchen before moving on to the next responsibility.

"That's what I thought." He takes a bite of the honey-sweetened bread, watching me with those unreadable dark eyes. "Eat."

I pick up the bread, still warm from Akira's ovens, and break off a small piece. The honey is golden and thick, probably from the hives Tom tends on the far side of the estate. It tastes like sunshine and summer flowers, rich and comforting on my tongue.

"Better?" Rovak asks, and there's something almost amused in his expression.

"Much." I take another bite, allowing myself to actually taste it this time instead of wolfing it down between chores. "Thank you."

"So." He leans back in his chair, cradling his mug of kafek between both hands. "What's on your agenda for today?"

The question surprises me. Masters don't typically ask about their servants' daily plans, beyond ensuring the work gets done. But here's Rovak, looking genuinely interested in my answer.

He's always been different in ways I shouldn't think about.

"Well, Akira wants help preparing for the market trip tomorrow.

We're running low on several spices, and she has a list of specific merchants she wants to visit.

" I count off tasks on my fingers. "The guest rooms need airing out—not that we're expecting anyone, but she insists on keeping them ready.

And Tom mentioned the garden tools need sharpening before the autumn planting. "

"Busy day, then."

"Always." I smile despite myself. "But I like staying busy. Gives me less time to think."

The moment the words leave my mouth, I realize how they sound. Less time to think about what? About the comfortable life I've built here? About the master who treats me with more kindness than I know what to do with?

About the way my heart skips when he smiles at me like he's doing right now?

"And what terrible thoughts are you trying to avoid?" There's a teasing note in his voice that makes my cheeks warm.

"Oh, you know. The usual servant concerns. Whether the laundry will dry properly, if the roof needs repairs before the autumn rains start." I take another bite of bread to give myself time to think. "Deeply philosophical stuff."

Rovak actually chuckles—a low, rumbling sound that I feel as much as hear. The rare display of genuine amusement transforms his entire face, softening the harsh angles and making him look younger, more approachable.

More human, despite the horns and gray skin that mark him as decidedly other.

"I'm sure Akira appreciates having such a dedicated philosopher on staff."

"She mostly appreciates having someone who can reach the high shelves without a stepladder."

Another chuckle. God help me, I could get addicted to that sound. I have .

"Speaking of reaching things," Rovak's expression grows more serious, though not in an unpleasant way. "I have to ride into Sarziroch later today. Meeting with a merchant who's been... difficult about some import agreements."

He says 'difficult' like other people might say 'pestilence' or 'plague.

' I've heard enough about Rovak's business dealings over the years to know that when he describes someone as difficult, it usually means they're either trying to cheat him or have severely underestimated what they're dealing with.

"The spice merchant from the eastern ports?"

"The very one." He takes a long sip of kafek, and I catch the slight tightening around his eyes that means he's already strategizing. "Seems to think that because there's a cease-fire with the xaphan, he can renegotiate our existing contracts in his favor."

"And he's about to learn otherwise."

"Oh, he's definitely about to learn otherwise.

" There's something almost predatory in Rovak's smile now, the kind of expression that probably makes hardened merchants reconsider their life choices.

"I don't particularly enjoy these trips to the city, but some lessons can only be delivered in person. "

I can picture it—Rovak in one of his formal coats, sitting across from some overly confident merchant who thinks he can intimidate or manipulate his way to a better deal. The poor fool probably has no idea what kind of force of nature he's about to face across a negotiating table.

"Is Avenor going with you?" He might be my closest friend here, even if I sometimes go days without seeing him with his guard duties. And I know that Rovak is close to him, too.

"No." He shakes his head. "He's going to pick up some of our imports from the other side of the city. He'll probably be back late."

"Oh. Will you be back for dinner?"

The question slips out before I can stop it, too casual and concerned to be strictly professional. I busy myself with the bread, hoping he doesn't notice the way my voice caught slightly on the words.

"Planning on it. Though if the negotiations run long..." He shrugs, a gesture that manages to convey both resignation and mild irritation. "City merchants love to drag things out, convinced that wearing down their opponents is a valid strategy."

"They clearly haven't met you."

"No, they haven't." His smile returns, warmer this time, and I feel that dangerous flutter in my chest again. "But they will today."

The conversation flows so easily, so naturally, that I almost forget this isn't normal.

That I'm a human servant sharing breakfast with a demon lord, discussing his business affairs like we're equals.

That every smile he gives me, every moment of his attention, is a gift I have no right to treasure the way I do.

Because that's all this is—kindness from a good master. Rovak treats his animals well too, makes sure they're fed and comfortable and cared for. It doesn't mean anything beyond basic decency.

I need to remember that.

I need to remember that no matter how handsome he is, no matter how his rare laughter makes my heart race, I'm still just a human who was lucky enough to end up with a master who doesn't believe in cruelty. That's all this is. That's all it can ever be.

The bread suddenly tastes like ash in my mouth.