Page 3 of The Demon’s Little Girl

ROVAK

T he negotiations went exactly as I'd expected—which is to say, poorly for the merchant and efficiently for me.

Three hours of posturing, threats disguised as diplomatic language, and increasingly desperate attempts to salvage a deal that was never going to favor him.

By the time I walked out of that overpriced establishment in the merchant quarter, I had both my original contracts intact and a new supplier lined up for the winter spice shipments.

The ride back to the estate should have left me in a good mood.

Instead, I find myself restless, the familiar weight of isolation settling over my shoulders like an unwelcome cloak.

The city always reminds me why I prefer the relative solitude of my lands—too many demons playing political games, too much posturing and false courtesy.

Give me honest work and straight dealing any day.

I stable my mount myself rather than calling for Tom, needing the physical activity to burn off the lingering irritation from the day's business.

The massive beast snorts his appreciation when I remove his tack, his dark coat gleaming with sweat from our hard ride.

At least zarryn are straightforward creatures—feed them well, treat them fairly, and they'll serve you without reservation or hidden agendas.

If only all relationships were so simple.

The thought catches me off-guard, and I pause in brushing down the stallion's flanks. Where did that come from? I'm not the type for philosophical musings about relationships. I have business associates, employees, and the occasional alliance of convenience. That's it. That's all I've ever needed.

Except lately, the boundaries of those categories have started to blur in ways that make me deeply uncomfortable.

I finish with the zarryn and step out of the stables, intending to head straight to my study to update the trade ledgers while the day's negotiations are still fresh in my mind.

The numbers won't record themselves, and there's satisfaction in the orderly columns of profit and loss, in problems that can be solved with logic and careful planning.

But as I round the corner toward the main house, voices drift from the kitchen gardens, drawing my attention despite my intention to bury myself in paperwork.

I recognize the speakers immediately—Akira's practical tones mixing with Tom's more animated chatter, and underneath it all, a third voice that never fails to make me pause.

Liora.

Instead of continuing toward the house, I find myself moving toward the garden wall where a gap in the stone provides a clear view of the working area.

I tell myself I'm just checking on the progress of the autumn preparations, ensuring my staff has everything they need for the coming season. That's all.

It has nothing to do with the way my pulse quickens at the sound of her laughter.

The scene before me is purely domestic—Akira directing the cleaning and sorting of tools while Tom sharpens blades on a whetstone, his technique improving but still requiring the occasional correction. And there, kneeling beside a collection of hand tools, is Liora.

She's traded her usual tunic for something more practical—a simple work dress in deep green that brings out the amber flecks in her eyes.

Her thick curls are pulled back from her face with a leather tie, though several strands have escaped to frame her features in the afternoon light.

She works methodically through each implement, checking for damage and setting aside those that need repair.

"This one's beyond saving," she says, holding up a small pruning knife with a blade worn down to barely an inch. "The handle's cracked too."

"Add it to the discard pile," Akira replies without looking up from her own task. "Tom can use the metal for something else. Waste not, want not."

"Could make a decent letter opener," Tom suggests, glancing over at the damaged tool. "Or maybe a small paring knife for detail work."

Liora nods, already reaching for the next item. "Good thinking. Akira, what about this one? The edge is chipped, but the rest seems solid."

I should move on. Should go to my study and let them work in peace. Instead, I remain where I am, watching the easy rhythm of their collaboration. There's something hypnotic about the way Liora moves—economical gestures, careful attention to detail, the quiet competence she brings to every task.

She's always been like that. From the first day she arrived at my estate, terrified and expecting the worst, she's approached everything with the same methodical dedication.

I remember watching her learn the layout of the house, memorizing the locations of supplies and the preferences of other staff members.

Never demanding special treatment or trying to charm her way into easier assignments.

Just...steady. Reliable. Strong in ways that have nothing to do with physical power.

"You're wool-gathering again," Akira says to her, and Liora's cheeks color slightly.

"Sorry. Just thinking about the best way to organize these for storage."

But I caught the dreamy expression that crossed her features before Akira spoke, the way her hands stilled on the tool she was examining. Whatever she was thinking about, it wasn't storage solutions.

The knowledge that she has thoughts and dreams beyond the daily routine of my household doesn't bother me. She's not property, despite the circumstances that brought her here. She's a person with her own inner life, her own hopes and concerns and secret wishes.

I wonder what she was thinking about. I wonder far more often than I should.

Tom launches into a story about his attempts to train the younger stable hands, his voice animated with the kind of enthusiasm he brings to everything.

Liora listens with genuine interest, asking questions and offering suggestions that show she's actually paying attention rather than just being polite.

That's another thing about her—she cares.

Not just about her own responsibilities, but about the people around her.

She remembers that Tom worries about the animals during storms, that Akira's joints ache more in cold weather, that the scullery maids get overwhelmed during busy periods.

Small kindnesses that she has no obligation to provide.

Kindness that extends to me as well, though I've never done anything to earn it beyond basic decency.

She laughs at something Tom says, the sound bright and genuine, and I feel that familiar tightness in my chest. When did her happiness become so important to me? When did the sound of her voice become something I actively seek out during the day?

I know exactly when. Two years ago, during the worst of the trade disputes that nearly cost me three major contracts.

I'd been working eighteen-hour days, surviving on kafek and stubbornness, when she'd appeared in my study with a tray that held more than the usual fare.

Hot soup, fresh bread, even a small dish of the honey cakes Akira makes for special occasions.

"Thought you might need more than just meat and bread today," she'd said simply, setting the tray down with the same efficient movements she always used.

But when I looked up at her, really looked, I'd seen something in her expression that stopped me cold. Concern. Not the careful attention of a servant worried about her master's mood, but genuine worry for my wellbeing.

"Thank you," I'd managed, and she'd smiled—not the polite curve of lips she offered during formal interactions, but something warm and real and directed entirely at me.

That was the moment everything changed. The moment I realized that somewhere in the routine of daily interactions, something had shifted between us. She wasn't just a servant in my household anymore. She was...

Well. She was Liora. And that meant something I couldn't quite define.

Now, watching her work in the afternoon light, I'm forced to confront the truth I've been avoiding.

She's beautiful. Has always been beautiful, but beauty isn't uncommon among the humans brought to Ikoth.

What makes her different is everything else—the quiet strength, the dry humor, the way she treats everyone around her with respect regardless of their station.

The way she looks at me sometimes, like she sees past the horns and the reputation to something worth her attention.

"Rovak's back," Tom announces suddenly, having spotted me despite my attempts to remain unobtrusive. "How'd the negotiations go?"

All three of them turn toward me, and I step forward rather than lurking behind the garden wall like some kind of voyeur. Liora's eyes meet mine briefly before she returns her attention to the tools, but not before I catch the slight upturn at the corner of her mouth.

Does she always smile when she sees me? The possibility sends warmth spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with the afternoon sun.

"As expected," I reply to Tom's question. "The merchant learned that reputation and reality don't always align in his favor."

"Meaning you got everything you wanted," Akira says with satisfaction. She's never had much patience for people who try to cheat their way to profit.

"Meaning I got everything we agreed to originally, plus a few concessions for his attempts to renegotiate in bad faith."

Liora glances up at that, those amber-brown eyes sharp with interest. "The spice contract you mentioned this morning?"

The fact that she remembered, that she was paying attention to details that don't directly affect her duties, shouldn't please me as much as it does.

But there's something gratifying about having someone who understands the broader context of my work, who can follow the implications without needing everything explained.

"That's the one. We'll have secure pricing for the winter imports, and he'll think twice before trying to manipulate contract terms again."

"Good." She returns to her sorting, but there's approval in her voice that sends another wave of unwelcome warmth through me. "Some people only learn when the lesson costs them something they can't afford to lose."

Exactly. That's exactly the philosophy I've built my business on, and hearing it reflected back by someone who has no obligation to understand or support my methods...

I need to stop this train of thought before it goes somewhere even more dangerous.

"I should let you get back to work," I say, already taking a step toward the house. "Those ledgers won't update themselves."

But my feet don't seem to want to follow through on the retreat.

Instead, I find myself watching as Liora examines a small hand rake, testing the flexibility of the tines with careful pressure.

Her attention to detail is fascinating—the way she considers each tool from multiple angles, weighing its current condition against future utility.

She's wearing a scent today, something light and floral that wasn't there this morning.

Not perfume—too subtle for that, and she's never been given to personal adornments.

Probably soap infused with flowers from the estate gardens.

The thought of her taking that small luxury for herself, of finding pleasure in simple sensory details, makes something twist pleasantly in my chest.

Everything about her fascinates me, and that's the problem.

The curve of her neck when she bends over her work.

The way her hands move with practiced efficiency.

The small expressions that cross her face when she thinks no one is watching—concentration, amusement, the occasional flash of something that might be longing.

I want to know what puts that expression on her face. Want to know what she dreams about during those moments when her attention drifts away from immediate tasks. Want to know if she ever thinks about me the way I find myself thinking about her.

Which is exactly the kind of thinking that needs to stop. Now.

She's human. She's my employee. She came to me through circumstances that give her precious little power to refuse anything I might demand.

The last thing she needs is her master developing an inappropriate interest in her, putting her in a position where she has to navigate rejecting advances from someone who controls every aspect of her daily life.

I've seen what happens when demons treat humans as playthings.

Seen the hollow looks in their eyes, the careful way they move around their masters, always calculating how to avoid attention while still fulfilling their duties.

The thought of Liora ever looking at me that way, of her warm smiles becoming calculated performances designed to keep her safe, makes my stomach turn.

So I maintain distance. Treat her with the same respectful professionalism I would any valued employee. Keep our interactions limited to practical matters and the occasional shared meal when propriety allows.

It's the right thing to do. The only thing to do.

Even if watching her laugh with Tom and Akira makes me realize how much I want to be part of that easy camaraderie, how much I want someone who looks forward to seeing me the way she seems to look forward to their daily conversations.

Even if the thought of her eventually moving on, finding a life beyond my estate, makes something clench painfully in my chest.

She deserves better than a life in service, no matter how comfortable I've tried to make it. Deserves someone who can offer her partnership rather than protection, freedom rather than security within careful boundaries.

I just wish the thought of her with someone else didn't feel like losing something I never had any right to claim.