Page 26 of The Demon’s Little Girl

ROVAK

T he sound of Avenor's boots in the hallway pulls my attention away from the bloodstone samples spread across my desk.

Xharn has stepped away to give me time to examine them without his hovering, something I've always preferred about his trading process, but something in my guard's stride has me pulled from my thoughts, my gut churning.

"What is it?" I ask without looking up as he enters.

"We have a problem." Avenor's voice carries that particular edge it gets when he's trying to stay professional while something eats at him. "It's Liora."

My head snaps up, every muscle in my body going tense. The memory of finding her gone two years ago, the months of searching, the sleepless nights—it all crashes back with brutal clarity.

"Where is she?"

"She's safe. I think." Avenor moves closer to the desk, those navy eyes dark with concern. "But she's hiding in the storage room with Nalla, and she's... she's in bad shape, Rovak. Scared out of her mind, crying, shaking like the day she disappeared."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I rise from my chair, bloodstone forgotten, every protective instinct I have roaring to life. "What triggered it?"

"I think it was Xharn." Avenor watches my face carefully as he delivers the words. "She mentioned she thought someone was in the house. I'm not positive, but I think maybe he… I don't know. Maybe he makes her uncomfortable?"

My mind runs over what he's said, and suddenly pieces I never wanted to connect start sliding into place with horrifying clarity.

Liora's unexplained disappearance. Her return with a daughter whose parentage she's never discussed.

The way she flinches away from everyone, the careful distance she maintains even as we've grown close again.

And Nalla's eyes. Those distinctive pale gold irises that I've seen somewhere before but could never quite place. Until now.

"Fuck." The curse tears from my throat as understanding crashes over me like a physical weight. Xharn's eyes. Those are Xharn's eyes staring back at me from a little girl that I could easily see as my own.

"You see it too." Avenor's voice is grim. "The resemblance."

My hands clench into fists as rage builds in my chest, white-hot and consuming. "She was running from him. When she disappeared—she was running from him." My stomach sours. "You found her upset that day?"

Avenor nods. "Disheveled and crying. Though alone when I found her."

Rage boils through me, my voice a low growl as I snarl, "Do you think he touched her?"

The words taste like ash and fury. Because I know Liora, know the quiet strength beneath her gentle exterior. She wouldn't have fled from just any demon trying to assert dominance. She wouldn't have hidden for two years unless something unspeakable had been done to her.

Something that left her pregnant and terrified and convinced she couldn't come home.

"I do." Avenor says softly, and instantly, I'm on my feet, moving toward the door.

"Where is he?"

"In the main hall. But you need to think about this?—"

"I have thought about it." My voice comes out as a growl, every syllable dripping with barely contained violence. "For two fucking years, I've thought about what could have driven her away. What could have made her so afraid that she'd rather face slavers than stay here."

He shakes his head, his eyes gleaming with anger. "Oh, I don't mean for you to think about mercy. But don't be rash." He steps closer, voice deep. "I want you to think this through and make him pay. Not be quick in your anger."

That only bolsters me. The walk to the main hall feels both too long and too short.

Each step pounds with the rhythm of my rage, building to a crescendo that threatens to tear me apart from the inside.

I've killed before—in business, in defense, in the heat of negotiation gone wrong—but never like this.

Never with this cold, methodical fury that demands not just death but suffering.

Xharn stands near the fireplace, examining one of the tapestries with that smug appreciation he brings to everything he considers beneath him.

His coal-colored skin gleams in the firelight, those angular horns casting sharp shadows across his features.

He looks exactly as he did two years ago, unmarked by guilt or consequence.

Those bright gold eyes—Nalla's eyes—turn toward me as I enter. His smile is all practiced charm and false warmth.

"Rovak. Ready to discuss those contracts? I think you'll find the new terms quite favorable."

I don't respond immediately. Instead, I take in every detail of his appearance, memorizing the face of the creature who violated what was mine. Who hurt Liora so badly that she's still hiding in storage rooms at the mere sound of his voice.

"Do you remember one of my servant girls? Liora?" I say quietly, moving closer with measured steps. "You would have seen her two years ago when she still worked at this estate."

Something flickers across his expression—too quick for most to catch, but I've spent decades reading demon faces across negotiation tables. Satisfaction. The same look he gets when he's brokered a particularly lucrative deal.

"I'm afraid I don't recall anyone particularly noteworthy." His laugh is gravelly, dismissive.

"Your memory seems selective." I'm close enough now to see the faint scarring along his knuckles, evidence of violence that I now understand might not have been consensual. "Perhaps I can help refresh it."

His eyes narrow, calculating. Whatever he sees in my expression makes him take a step back, but it's too late for caution now.

"She was that little human of yours, wasn't she?" he says with false casualness, voice taking on a quality that makes my skin crawl. "Pretty little thing. Very... accommodating."

The word slides off his tongue like poison, carrying implications that make my vision go red around the edges. Because I know Liora, know that any accommodation she might have shown was fear, not desire.

"Accommodating." I repeat the word slowly, tasting the violence it promises. "Interesting choice of words."

Xharn shrugs, seemingly unaware that he's just signed his own death warrant. "I had to sample the merchandise, didn't I? After watching you covet that sweet little toy for so long, I was curious what made her special."

He says it like he's discussing livestock. Like Liora is some object to be tested and discarded rather than the woman who makes my world brighter just by existing in it. The woman who trusted me to keep her safe while I was away conducting business.

"Toy." The word comes out as a whisper, but behind it lurks a roar that could shatter stone. "You called her a toy."

"Well, what else would you call a human?

" His smile widens, revealing those predatory canines that once seemed merely imposing.

Now they look like the tools of violence they've always been.

"Sweet little Liora played her part perfectly.

Bit of struggling at first, but they all come around eventually. "

That's when I snap.

The rational part of my mind—the part that understands politics and consequences and the careful balance of power—simply ceases to exist. All that remains is fury so pure and absolute that it feels like being touched by the divine.

My hands close around his throat before he can react, thick fingers finding purchase on that coal-dark skin. His eyes go wide with shock and the beginning of fear as I lift him clear off the ground, his considerable weight meaning nothing against the tide of rage flowing through my limbs.

"She wasn't your toy to play with," I snarl, squeezing just enough to cut off his air without crushing his windpipe entirely. Not yet. Death will come, but slowly. With the kind of methodical precision he showed when he hurt what was mine.

He claws at my hands, trying to break my grip, but I've held tuskrams that fought harder. His struggles only serve to fuel the fire burning in my chest, the need to make him understand exactly what he took from me.

From her.

"You want to know what makes her special?" I carry him across the room like he weighs nothing, then slam him against the stone wall hard enough to crack the mortar. "She trusted me. Felt safe in my house. And you destroyed that."

His feet scramble for purchase against the unforgiving stone as I lean my full weight into my grip. The gold of his eyes—Nalla's gold, stolen and corrupted—begins to dim as oxygen becomes scarce.

"Was just... just a human..." he gasps, voice raw and desperate.

"She was mine ." The words tear from my throat with such force that dust rains down from the ceiling.

"My human that you never should have fucking gone near.

My girl that only trusted me —" My voice breaks slightly, thinking of all the moments I should have had with her that his violence stole away. "You took her from me."

I release his throat just enough to let him draw a ragged breath, watching as understanding finally dawns in those familiar eyes. Fear, real and absolute, replaces his earlier arrogance as he realizes that his wealth and connections won't save him now.

"Rovak, please—we can work this out. Business is business, but?—"

My fist slams into his face, driving the words back down his throat along with most of his remaining air. The sound he makes is nearly animalistic, all desperate gasping and pain.

"Business?" I grab a fistful of his slicked-back hair and wrench his head to one side, exposing the thick column of his throat. "You think raping women is business?"

"She... she was just..." Another gasp, weaker this time. "A servant… Available..."

The word pushes me past the point of any remaining restraint. Available. As if Liora's presence in my house made her fair game for any demon with an appetite for violence. As if her humanity made her less deserving of basic dignity.

My hand moves to his jaw, fingers digging into pressure points that make him whimper. "She left because of you. Spent two years hiding, thinking she wasn't worthy of coming home because of what you did to her."

His struggles are weakening now, blood beginning to trickle from where my nails have punctured his skin. But it's not enough. Will never be enough to balance the scales of what he took from us.

"Rovak..." he wheezes. "She's… just a girl."

"No." My voice drops to a whisper that somehow carries more menace than any shout. "She's fucking everything."

I shift my grip, one hand still holding him against the wall while the other moves to his throat. Not squeezing yet, just... promising.

My fingers tighten incrementally, cutting off another portion of his air supply. "You deserve to feel the pain and fear that you inflicted on her. You deserve to have everything stripped away."

"Please..." The word is barely audible, almost lost in his labored breathing. "I... I didn't know... she meant something to you..."

"She's meant something to me since the day she arrived." Each word is punctuated by increasing pressure against his windpipe. "And you hurt her. Made her afraid. Made her run."

His face is beginning to turn interesting colors now, purple creeping in around the edges of that coal-dark skin. But his eyes—those fucking eyes that I see every time I look at my daughter—are still aware. Still afraid.

Good.

"Here's what's going to happen," I murmur, close enough that my breath stirs the hair near his ear. "You're going to die. Slowly. And while you do, you're going to think about what you stole from her. From me. From the life we could have built if you'd kept your hands to yourself."

My grip tightens further, cutting off another increment of precious air. He makes a sound like a broken bellows, all desperate wheeze and panic.

"She's in a storage room right now," I continue in that same conversational tone. "Hiding with our daughter because the sound of your voice sent her right back to whatever you put her through. Do you understand what that means?"

His mouth works soundlessly, trying to form words that won't come.

"It means you don't just die for what you did. You die for what you're still doing to her. Every nightmare. Every moment of fear. Every time she flinches away from kindness because creatures like you taught her the world isn't safe."

The pressure increases again. His struggles are mostly reflex now, uncoordinated spasms as his brain begins to starve. But I'm patient. This needs to be done right.

"The irony," I muse, watching his eyes begin to bulge, "is that you probably thought you were taking something from me. Marking what was mine as a way to assert dominance."

Another increment of pressure. His hands have stopped clawing at mine, hanging limp at his sides.

"But all you did was create something precious." My voice softens slightly, thinking of Nalla's laugh, her tiny hands patting my face with absolute trust. "Something worth protecting with my life. So in a way, I should thank you."

His eyes are rolling back now, consciousness flickering like a dying flame. Almost time to finish this.

"But I won't," I whisper against his ear. "Because the cost was too high. It shouldn't have taken her pain to give me purpose."

I feel the exact moment his windpipe begins to collapse under my grip. The wet crackling sound of cartilage giving way. His eyes go wide one last time, a flash of pure terror and regret, before beginning to glaze.

"You don't touch what's mine," I tell his dying face, each word carved from granite and rage. "Ever."

The light fades from those gold eyes—Nalla's eyes, but empty now of everything that made them familiar. His body goes limp in my grip, a dead weight that I hold for another long moment just to be certain.

When I finally release him, he crumples to the floor like discarded trash. Which, I suppose, is exactly what he's always been.