Page 20 of The Demon’s Little Girl

LIORA

T he days blur together in ways that feel both foreign and achingly familiar.

Breakfast with Rovak has become routine again—not the careful, distant politeness of those first few days after my return, but something that echoes the easy companionship we shared before. Before I ruined everything by leaving.

This morning, he sits across from me with Nalla balanced on his lap, letting her grab at the edge of his cup while he drinks his tea.

She's fascinated by the steam rising from the liquid, reaching for it with chubby fingers that close on nothing but air.

Each failed attempt makes her more determined, and I can't help but smile at her stubborn persistence.

"She's going to knock that right out of your hands," I warn, spreading preserves on a piece of bread.

"She can try." His voice carries that low amusement that used to make my stomach flip, back when I was young and foolish enough to think my feelings for him meant something. "But I've got better reflexes than most one-year-olds."

As if summoned by the challenge, Nalla makes a sudden grab for the cup.

Rovak smoothly lifts it out of reach, earning an indignant squawk from my daughter that makes both of us laugh.

The sound feels rusty in my throat—genuine laughter has been rare these past two years—but it comes easier now. With him.

"You're encouraging her," I accuse, though there's no real heat in it.

"She's already plenty encouraged on her own." He shifts Nalla to his other arm so she can reach the small bowl of cut fruit I've prepared for her. "Yesterday she tried to climb Avenor while he was standing still. Nearly made it to his shoulder before he noticed."

The image of my tiny daughter using Avenor like a tree to scale makes me snort with laughter. "I'm sorry. I should watch her more carefully?—"

"Don't apologize." The firmness in his voice cuts through my automatic self-deprecation. "She's curious and bold. Those aren't faults to correct."

There's something in the way he says it, looking down at Nalla with what can only be described as fondness, that makes my chest tighten with emotions I'm not ready to examine.

He's good with her in ways I never expected, patient with her fussing and genuinely delighted by her small discoveries.

When she babbles her nonsense words at him, he responds like it's the most important conversation he's ever had.

It reminds me why I fell for him in the first place, all those years ago. The careful gentleness he showed beneath all that controlled strength. The way he made me feel seen and valued even when I was just another servant in his household.

"The traders from Bilgonith are arriving today," he mentions, pulling me from dangerous thoughts. "I'll be tied up in meetings most of the afternoon."

I nod, trying not to let disappointment show on my face.

These negotiations have been weeks in the making—important enough that he's mentioned them several times.

But I've grown accustomed to his presence during the day, to the sound of his voice drifting from his study or catching glimpses of him in the corridors.

"Will you be working late?" The question slips out before I can stop it, and I immediately feel foolish for asking. His schedule isn't my concern, no matter how much I've come to anticipate our evening conversations in the gardens.

"Probably." His dark eyes find mine across the table. "But not too late. These traders like their amerinth, and negotiations always go smoother once they're properly drunk."

Nalla chooses that moment to successfully grab a piece of fruit, immediately trying to shove the entire thing in her mouth at once. Rovak's quick intervention prevents choking, breaking the fruit into smaller pieces while she protests the interference with vigorous arm-waving.

"Patience," he tells her in that same gentle rumble he uses when she's fussing. "Good things are worth waiting for."

The words seem to carry extra weight, though maybe that's wishful thinking on my part.

Because lately, I've caught myself watching him more carefully.

Cataloging the way his expression softens when Nalla smiles at him.

The careful distance he maintains between us, like he's afraid of making me uncomfortable.

The way his eyes linger on me sometimes when he thinks I'm not looking.

Avenor's words from days ago keep echoing in my mind: He never stopped looking for you. The implications of that statement feel too large to fully grasp. Because if it's true—if Rovak spent two years searching for me—then maybe his feelings run deeper than simple concern for a missing servant.

Maybe the careful way he touches my hand when passing me tea, the ready laughter at my terrible jokes, the fierce protectiveness in his voice when he talks about Nalla—maybe it all means something more than friendship rebuilt.

The thought terrifies and thrills me in equal measure.

"I should let you prepare for your meeting," I say, starting to rise as Nalla fusses in his arms. "Come here, little troublemaker."

But when I reach to take my daughter, Rovak's fingers brush mine as he transfers her weight.

It's the barest contact—the pad of his thumb against my knuckles—but it sends electricity racing up my arm.

For just a moment, neither of us moves. His skin is warm and rough with calluses, and I find myself staring at the contrast between his gray flesh and my warmer bronze.

Then Nalla squirms impatiently, breaking the spell, and I step back with my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Thank you," I manage, settling her against my hip. "For breakfast. For helping with her."

"Always." The single word carries weight that makes my breath catch, and when I look up, his black eyes are intense on mine. "You know that."

I do know it. That's what makes this so complicated, so dangerous to the careful equilibrium I've been trying to maintain. Because Rovak has always been willing to help, always been gentle with me in ways that made it far too easy to imagine something more than master and servant between us.

Now, with the formal boundaries of our old relationship dissolved, those old feelings are stirring again. Stronger than before, complicated by gratitude and the way he looks at my daughter like she's precious beyond measure.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of mundane tasks made strange by the undercurrent of anticipation thrumming beneath my skin.

I tend to laundry and mending while Nalla naps, organize the pantry shelves that don't really need organizing, pick aracin blossoms for the house arrangements.

Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind from dwelling on the warmth of Rovak's touch this morning.

But as evening approaches, I find myself gravitating toward the gardens like I'm drawn by invisible threads.

The sun is setting behind the stone walls, painting everything in shades of gold and amber that match the restless energy building in my chest. Nalla is finally asleep after a day of unusually good behavior, and the house feels too quiet, too full of my own scattered thoughts.

The fountain provides a focal point for my wandering, its steady splash masking the sound of footsteps on gravel paths.

I settle on the stone bench where Rovak held my daughter this afternoon, running my fingers along the worn surface while I try to make sense of the longing that's been growing stronger each day.

I missed him. The realization hits with unexpected force, though it shouldn't surprise me.

I missed him while I was gone—missed his dry humor and steady presence, missed the way he made me feel safe and valued.

But admitting it feels like opening a door I've kept carefully locked, acknowledging feelings I've spent years trying to suppress.

"Couldn't sleep?"

His voice from behind me sends my heart into my throat.

I turn to find Rovak approaching through the gathering dusk, still dressed for his meetings but with his formal jacket discarded and his dark hair loose around his shoulders.

The sight of him like this—relaxed and unguarded—makes my mouth go dry.

"Nalla finally went down," I explain, scooting over to make room on the bench. "I wanted some air."

He settles beside me, close enough that I can catch his scent—leather and something darker, more complex. The careful distance he usually maintains seems smaller tonight, or maybe I'm more aware of every inch between us.

"How did the negotiations go?"

"Better than expected." He leans back against the bench, extending his legs with a satisfied grunt. "The Bilgonith traders are signing the exclusive rights agreement tomorrow. Means steady work for the docks and better prices on raw materials."

The practical benefits should interest me more than they do, but I find myself distracted by the way moonlight catches the silver threading through his black hair.

He's handsome in ways that still catch me off guard sometimes—all sharp angles and contained power, softened by the genuine warmth in his eyes when he looks at Nalla.

When he looks at me.

"That's good," I manage, though I'm not entirely sure what I'm responding to anymore.

We sit in comfortable silence, listening to the fountain and the distant sounds of the city beyond the estate walls.

A night breeze stirs the aracin blossoms, carrying their sweet scent through the garden air.

It should be peaceful, this moment of quiet companionship, but I'm too aware of his presence beside me.

The steady rhythm of his breathing. The way his hands rest relaxed on his thighs, close enough to touch if I had the courage.

"Liora." My name on his lips pulls my attention back to his face. "Are you happy? Being back here?"

The question catches me completely off guard. Not because it's unexpected—he has every right to wonder—but because it forces me to examine feelings I've been carefully avoiding.

"Yes," I say without hesitation, then pause to consider the deeper truth. "Happier than I've been in a long time. Nalla loves it here, loves having space to explore and people to fuss over her. And I..."

The words stick in my throat, too honest and revealing to voice aloud. Because the truth is that being back here feels like coming home in ways that have nothing to do with familiar surroundings and everything to do with the man sitting beside me.

"And you?" he prompts gently.

"I missed this place," I say instead of the more dangerous admission. "Missed the gardens, missed having purpose beyond just surviving day to day."

"Is that all?" His voice is carefully neutral, but there's something underneath it that makes my pulse quicken. "You missed the place?"

The question hangs between us, heavy with implications I'm afraid to examine too closely. Because he's asking about more than geography, more than gardens and familiar routines. He's asking if I missed him , and the answer terrifies me with its intensity.

"I missed..." I start, then falter as courage wars with caution. "I missed the people here. Avenor's terrible jokes. The way the kitchen smells like fresh bread in the mornings."

"And?"

The single word is spoken so quietly I might have imagined it, but when I glance at him, his dark eyes are fixed on mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

"I missed you," I whisper, the admission dragging itself from somewhere deep in my chest. "I missed talking with you, missed the way you made me laugh even when everything else was falling apart."

The silence that follows feels charged with possibility, dangerous in ways that both thrill and terrify me. Because I've just crossed a line I've been carefully avoiding, admitted to feelings that could change everything between us.

His hand moves first—just the slightest shift on the stone bench between us. His knuckles brush against mine, the contact so light it could be accidental. Should be accidental.

But neither of us pulls away.

The touch is electric, sending warmth racing up my arm and settling somewhere low in my stomach. My skin feels hypersensitive where his fingers rest against mine, and I'm suddenly desperately aware of how long it's been since anyone touched me with gentleness instead of demand.

"Liora." His voice is rough now, lower than usual in ways that make my name sound like something precious. Important.

I turn my hand palm up, a silent invitation, and his fingers slide against mine with deliberate intent.

No accident this time, no careful pretense of casual contact.

His skin is warm and calloused from sword work, and when his thumb traces across my knuckles, I have to bite back a sound of pure want.

The careful distance we've been maintaining crumbles in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

I lean closer without conscious decision, drawn by the magnetic pull that's always existed between us but has never been acknowledged aloud.

The scent of him fills my lungs, and when he shifts to face me more fully, his knee brushes against mine through the fabric of our clothes.

"I looked for you," he says quietly, his free hand rising to trace the line of my jaw with fingertips that shake slightly. "Every day for two years, I looked for you."

The confession hits me like a physical blow, confirming what Avenor hinted at but in Rovak's own words. He searched for me. Spent two years trying to find someone who was just a servant in his household—except I was never just that to him, was I?

"Rovak..." His name comes out breathless, uncertain.

"You seemed hesitant when you came back," he continues, his thumb still stroking across my cheekbone with devastating gentleness. "I need you to know that for me, I always wanted you to. I never stopped looking."

The space between us has narrowed to inches, his words washing over my face in warm breath that smells like amerinth and something uniquely him.

My heart is hammering so hard I'm certain he can hear it, and every instinct is screaming at me to close the remaining distance.

To find out if his mouth is as soft as it looks, if kissing him will feel like coming alive after years of merely surviving.

But there's still space between us. Still choice.

So I lean into his touch, letting my eyes drift closed as his fingers map the curve of my cheek. Permission and invitation wrapped in a single gesture that changes everything.