Page 23 of The Demon’s Little Girl

LIORA

I cradle Nalla against my chest, rocking slowly in the chair by the window as moonlight spills across her sleeping face.

Her tiny fist curls against my collarbone, and her breathing has finally settled into the deep rhythm that tells me she's truly asleep.

But my mind won't quiet no matter how peaceful she looks.

The memory of Rovak's hands on my skin burns through me like wildfire.

The way his fingers had traced along my jaw, so gentle yet possessive.

The heat of his mouth moving against mine, claiming me in ways I'd only dreamed of.

And then—gods help me—the desperate way I'd pressed against him, seeking friction and release like some wanton creature who'd never learned restraint.

I'd climaxed in his arms. Actually came apart completely while grinding against him like a woman possessed. The mortification should be overwhelming, but instead all I can think about is how incredible it felt. How right.

My cheeks burn with the memory of it—the way pleasure had built between my legs as I moved against the hard ridge of his arousal, the broken sounds that had escaped my throat, the way his hands had guided my hips as if he understood exactly what I needed.

When the climax hit, it had been so intense I'd seen stars, my body clenching and shuddering as waves of sensation crashed through me.

But then reality crashed back just as hard, and I'd fled like the coward I am.

Nalla shifts in my arms, making a soft sound that has me automatically adjusting my hold. My beautiful, perfect daughter who doesn't deserve to pay for the circumstances of her conception. She's mine in every way that matters, but the brutal truth of how she came to be tears at me like claws.

Rovak knows I have a child. He's been nothing but kind to both of us, playing with her and making her laugh in ways that twist something painful in my chest. But he doesn't know the truth about who her father is.

Doesn't know that she exists because of violence and shame, that every time I look at those pale gold eyes I'm reminded of the worst night of my life.

Would he still want me if he knew? Would he still look at me with that carefully banked desire if he understood that I'm ruined goods, soiled by another demon's touch in the most brutal way possible?

The questions circle through my mind like vultures, picking at every insecurity I've tried to bury. Xharn's words echo in my memory—that Rovak's honor wouldn't let him keep me once he knew what had been done to me. That I was worthless now, damaged beyond repair.

Logically, I know Rovak isn't Xharn. Know that he's shown me nothing but kindness and respect in all the years I've known him. But the fear runs deeper than logic, rooted in shame and trauma that two years of distance hasn't managed to heal.

Nalla's completely limp now, lost in whatever dreams occupy a one-year-old's mind.

Probably something involving the wooden blocks Rovak carved for her, or the way he makes silly faces that send her into fits of giggles.

She adores him already, and the feeling seems mutual.

Another complication in an already impossible situation.

I ease out of the rocking chair carefully, settling her into the small crib that appeared in my room the day after we arrived. Rovak had it made for her without being asked, another small kindness that makes my chest ache with things I can't name.

Sleep isn't coming for me tonight—too much restless energy thrumming under my skin, too many memories of strong hands and desperate kisses. Maybe some meadowmint tea will help settle my nerves, give me something to focus on besides the way my body still tingles from earlier.

The corridors are quiet at this hour, lit only by the occasional torch flickering in its sconce.

My bare feet make no sound against the cool stone as I make my way toward the kitchen, grateful for the concealment charm resting against my throat.

The obsidian feels warm against my skin, a tangible reminder of Rovak's protection.

The kitchen is dim but not empty. Avenor sits at the small table in the corner, nursing what looks like a cup of amerinth. His silver hair catches the lamplight as he glances up at my entrance, navy eyes sharp despite the late hour.

"Can't sleep?" His voice carries that familiar note of dry amusement, but there's genuine concern underneath.

"Just wanted some tea." I move toward the cupboards, hyperaware of his gaze tracking my movements. Avenor sees too much, always has. It's what makes him good at his job and terrible for my peace of mind.

"Meadowmint's in the blue jar," he says helpfully, then takes another sip of his drink. The silence stretches between us as I prepare the tea, but it's not comfortable. He's waiting for something, probably for me to spill whatever's obviously eating at me.

The water takes forever to heat, giving me too much time to think and him too much time to study me. When I finally settle across from him with my steaming cup, his expression has shifted to something more serious.

"All right, what's going on?"

I nearly choke on my first sip. "What do you mean?"

"Liora." His tone is patient but firm, the one that says he's not buying my deflection. "You look like someone who's been wrestling with demons all night. And not the literal kind."

Heat floods my cheeks before I can stop it, and his eyebrows rise slightly at my reaction. Damn him for being so perceptive.

"It's nothing."

"Right." He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement emphasizes the lean muscle of his forearms, the deadly grace that makes him so effective as Rovak's guard. "Try again."

The tea burns my tongue as I take another sip, buying time I don't really have. Avenor will sit here all night if necessary, waiting me out with that infinite patience he's perfected over the years.

"Rovak and I..." I start, then falter. How exactly does one explain what happened in the garden? "We kissed."

Something that might be satisfaction flickers across his features, gone too quickly to be certain. "About time."

"It was a mistake."

"Was it?" He tilts his head slightly, studying me with those unsettling eyes. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like something that should have happened years ago."

"You don't understand?—"

"Then explain it to me."

The simple request hangs between us, heavy with implications. Part of me wants to tell him everything, to finally share the burden I've been carrying alone. But shame holds my tongue, makes the words stick in my throat like thorns.

"I... I did more than just kiss him." The admission comes out barely above a whisper, but Avenor's enhanced hearing catches it easily.

A slow smirk spreads across his face. "How much more?"

"I—" My face burns hotter. "I sort of rode him. With our clothes on."

"Good for you." His reaction is so matter-of-fact that I nearly spill my tea.

"Good for me? Avenor, I practically attacked him like some kind of?—"

"Like a woman who wants the man she cares about?" He shrugs, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "Trust me, he didn't mind."

The casual dismissal of my mortification stuns me into silence for a moment. "It was still a mistake."

"Why?"

Such a simple question, but it cuts straight to the heart of everything I can't say. Because I'm ruined. Because if he knew the truth about Nalla, about what Xharn did to me, he'd see me differently. Because I'm not worthy of someone like him.

"If Rovak knew everything about me, he wouldn't want me." The words taste bitter on my tongue, but they feel true in my bones.

Avenor's expression shifts, becoming more serious. "That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" I meet his gaze directly, letting him see some of the pain I usually keep hidden. "You don't know what I've done. What's been done to me. If he knew the truth about... about everything, he'd realize I'm not worth the trouble."

For a long moment, neither of us speaks. Avenor studies me with those penetrating eyes, and I have the uncomfortable feeling he's seeing more than I want him to. More than anyone should.

"You're wrong," he says finally, voice gentler than usual. "But I can see you're not ready to believe that yet."

He doesn't push, doesn't demand explanations I'm not ready to give. It's one of the things I've always appreciated about Avenor—he sees everything but respects boundaries, even when he disagrees with them.

"He cares about you," he continues, swirling the amerinth in his cup. "More than you realize. Whatever you think would change his mind... you're wrong about that too."

The certainty in his voice makes something flutter in my chest, hope and fear tangled together in impossible knots. "You don't know?—"

"I know him." Avenor's interruption is quiet but firm. "Better than almost anyone. And I know he'd walk through fire for you without hesitation. Has been walking through fire for you, actually, ever since you disappeared."

The reminder of those two years hits like a physical blow. Two years of hiding, of raising Nalla alone, of believing I was protecting him by staying away. But according to Avenor, all I'd done was cause him pain.

"I should go back to bed," I murmur, suddenly exhausted by the weight of everything unsaid.

"Probably." But he doesn't move to stop me as I stand, just watches with those knowing eyes. "Liora?"

I pause at the doorway, not quite turning back. "What?"

"Stop punishing yourself for things that aren't your fault. And stop punishing him for things he doesn't even know about."