Page 4 of The Demon’s Little Girl

LIORA

T he last of the evening cleaning finishes just past the tenth hour, when most of the estate has settled into quiet routines.

I help Akira stack the final dishes in the scullery before hanging up my apron, muscles pleasantly tired from a full day's work.

The others drift toward their quarters with quiet goodnights and plans for tomorrow's tasks.

But as I pass the main corridor, light spills from beneath the study door in a familiar golden rectangle across the stone floor.

He's still working.

My steps slow without conscious thought, even as the rational part of my mind insists I should head straight to my room.

Rovak keeps late hours when he's deep in contract negotiations or planning seasonal trades, sometimes working until well past midnight with nothing but kafek and stubborn determination to sustain him.

I should leave him be. Should respect the boundary between master and servant that he's so careful to maintain.

Instead, I find myself turning toward the kitchens.

Akira looks up from banking the overglow in the main cooking hearth, her weathered hands still nimble despite the late hour. She takes in my direction, the thoughtful expression on my face, and something that might be amusement flickers in her dark eyes.

"Tea?" she asks simply.

Heat creeps up my neck. "He's still working. Thought he might want something warm."

"Mmm." Akira reaches for the tin of meadowmint leaves without further comment, but I catch the knowing look she gives me as she measures them into the infuser. "Mind you steep it properly. Nothing worse than weak tea after a long day."

She doesn't ask why I'm brewing enough for two cups instead of just preparing something he can take on his own. Doesn't comment on the way I carefully arrange everything on the good tray with two matching cups and the small pot of honey he prefers.

Just gives me that look that says she sees exactly what I'm doing, even if I'm not entirely sure myself.

"Sleep well, Akira," I murmur as I lift the tray.

"You too, child." The words carry layers of meaning I'm not ready to examine too closely.

The corridors feel different at this hour, shadows deeper and sounds more intimate. My footsteps echo softly against the stone as I make my way toward the study, the tray steady in my hands despite the strange flutter in my stomach that seems to intensify with every step.

It's ridiculous. I bring him tea regularly, have done so countless times over the six years I've worked here. There's nothing unusual about checking on his needs when he's working late.

Except for the way my pulse quickens as I near his door. Except for the careful attention I paid to my appearance before leaving the kitchen, smoothing my hair and adjusting my sleeve cuffs like I'm preparing for something more significant than serving refreshments.

Except for the anticipation that builds behind my ribs at the thought of having his attention focused entirely on me, even for a few minutes.

"Planning to actually knock, or just stand there contemplating the door hinges?"

I spin toward the voice, nearly sloshing tea over the tray's edge. Avenor leans against the wall a few paces away, arms crossed and that familiar smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. His gray skin seems to absorb the torchlight, making his navy eyes appear almost luminous in the dim corridor.

"You're very quiet for someone wearing boots," I accuse, settling the tray more securely in my grip.

"Occupational requirement." He pushes away from the wall with that fluid grace all demons seem to possess, moving closer with predatory smoothness. "Interesting hour for tea service."

"He's working late. Thought he might be thirsty."

"I'm sure that's exactly what you thought." The words carry gentle mockery, but his expression remains fond rather than cruel. "Two cups, I notice."

I resist the urge to look down at the tray. "In case he wants me to join him. For..." I search for a plausible reason that doesn't sound like wishful thinking. "For discussion about tomorrow's tasks."

"Right. Tasks." Avenor's grin widens, revealing the slightly pointed canines that mark his mixed heritage. "At this hour. Very dedicated of you."

Heat flares in my cheeks. "Don't you have guard duties to attend to instead of lurking in corridors making observations about tea trays?"

"Currently on break. And someone has to keep an eye on the staff wandering around with refreshments for the master." He steps aside with exaggerated courtesy, gesturing toward Rovak's door. "Don't let me keep you from your... task discussion."

I roll my eyes at him, but can't quite suppress the smile tugging at my lips. For all his teasing, Avenor has never made me feel judged or foolish for the careful attention I pay to Rovak's comfort. If anything, he seems almost protective of whatever this undefined thing between us might be.

"Good night, Avenor."

"Enjoy your tea," he replies, already fading back into the shadows with that unnerving demon ability to simply disappear when they choose.

I take a steadying breath and knock on the study door, the sound crisp in the corridor's quiet.

"Enter."

Rovak's voice carries the slight roughness that creeps in when he's been working for hours without a break. I push the door open and step inside, immediately enveloped by the familiar scents of parchment, ink, and the faint metallic tang that seems to cling to everything in demon households.

My eyes immediately fall to Rovak.

Even seated, he commands attention—shoulders broad enough to fill the chair's substantial frame, dark hair escaping from its leather tie to frame the sharp angles of his face.

His horns catch the lamplight, polished obsidian that speaks to pride in his appearance despite the late hour.

He's removed his formal jacket, working in shirtsleeves that reveal the powerful line of his forearms as he writes.

When he looks up at my entrance, those black eyes focused entirely on me, something warm and dangerous unfurls in my chest.

"Liora." My name sounds different when he says it, like something valuable rather than just a designation. "You should be sleeping."

"So should you." I move toward the desk, hyperaware of the way his gaze tracks my movement. "Thought you might want some tea. You've been working since you returned from the city."

Interest flickers across his features, replaced quickly by the careful neutrality he maintains in our interactions. But not before I catch that moment of pleased surprise, as if my attention to his schedule matters more than simple servant efficiency would warrant.

"That's thoughtful of you." He sets down his pen, giving me his full attention in a way that makes my skin feel suddenly tight. "What kind?"

"Meadowmint. Good for late nights." I set the tray on the empty corner of his desk, careful not to disturb any of his papers. "I made enough for two, if you'd like company."

The words hang between us for a heartbeat, neither quite professional nor entirely personal. We exist in this strange space together, where the normal boundaries of master and servant have blurred into something more complex but never clearly defined.

"I'd like that," he says finally, and the simple admission sends warmth spiraling through me. "These contracts are starting to blur together."

I pour for both of us, adding honey to his cup the way he prefers while leaving mine plain. The ritual gives me something to do with my hands, a way to avoid the intensity of his regard while I settle into the chair across from his desk.

"Difficult negotiations?" I ask, cradling my cup and letting the steam warm my face.

Rovak leans back, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he takes his first sip. "Tedious more than difficult. Spent three hours listening to Merchant Vorthak explain why he deserved better terms despite failing to meet half his delivery commitments last season."

"Ah." I hide my smile behind my cup. "One of those conversations where you had to pretend his reasoning made sense."

"Exactly." His mouth quirks upward, the closest thing to a smile I've seen from him all day. "He kept insisting that market conditions had changed unexpectedly, as if anyone with half a brain couldn't have predicted the supply shortages months ago."

"What did you tell him?"

"That market conditions change for everyone, but only some people plan accordingly." He takes another drink, visibly relaxing as the tea's warmth spreads through him. "By the end, he was practically begging to keep the original terms."

I laugh, unable to contain my amusement at the mental image of the pompous merchant I've met twice being taken down by Rovak's implacable logic. "I bet that was satisfying."

"More than it probably should be." He studies me over the rim of his cup, something almost fond in his expression. "You have a vindictive streak."

"Only when people deserve it." I meet his gaze steadily, enjoying this rare moment of easy conversation. "Some humans underestimate demons, but just as many demons underestimate humans. Neither group learns until reality corrects their assumptions."

"Spoken like someone who's done her share of assumption correcting."

The comment carries weight beyond casual observation. He knows my history, the circumstances that brought me to his household. Knows I didn't arrive as a willing servant but as someone with limited choices and fewer options.

But he's never treated me like damaged goods or a victim to be pitied. From the beginning, he's interacted with me as if my thoughts and opinions have value, as if I'm more than just another warm body to perform household tasks.

It's one of the things that drew my attention in the first place—the careful respect he shows everyone in his employ, regardless of their species or station. The way he listens when people speak to him, considers their input before making decisions that affect their lives.

The way he looks at me sometimes, like right now, as if what I think actually matters to him.

"Tell me about the spice contracts," I say, leaning forward slightly. "Are we looking at supply issues this winter?"

His eyebrows rise a fraction, surprise flickering across his features.

Most people wouldn't follow up on business details that don't directly affect them, but I've always been curious about the broader patterns of his trade empire.

Partly because understanding his work helps me anticipate his needs, but mostly because I genuinely find it interesting.

"Not anymore." He shifts in his chair, the movement bringing him fractionally closer. "Vorthak was trying to renegotiate pricing based on predicted shortages, but I'd already secured alternate suppliers weeks ago. His desperation just confirmed I made the right choice."

"Always one step ahead." I can't quite keep the admiration out of my voice. "That kind of planning must take incredible attention to detail."

"Experience more than cleverness." But pleasure colors his tone at the compliment. "You learn to read the signs when failure means losing everything you've worked to build."

The conversation flows easily after that, natural give-and-take that feels more like friendship than the careful politeness we usually maintain.

He tells me about the ridiculous demands the merchant made, the increasingly creative excuses for his failures, the moment when Rovak finally stopped pretending to consider any compromise.

I find myself laughing more than I have in weeks, delighted by his dry observations and unexpected flashes of humor. He has a gift for mimicry when he chooses to use it, capturing the merchant's pompous mannerisms with subtle accuracy that makes his ultimate defeat all the more amusing.

"You're wicked when you want to be," I accuse after his particularly devastating impression of Vorthak's final, desperate plea for consideration.

"Only when dealing with people who mistake patience for weakness." His eyes glitter with dark amusement in the lamplight. "I prefer fair dealing when possible, but some individuals require firmer instruction."

The words carry an edge that reminds me exactly how dangerous Rovak can be when crossed. I've seen glimpses of the ruthless trader who built his fortune through careful calculation and iron determination. But somehow, that knowledge doesn't frighten me the way it probably should.

If anything, knowing that he chooses to be gentle with me, that his consideration isn't born from weakness but from conscious decision, makes the warmth in my chest burn brighter.

His gaze sharpens as he notices something, attention focusing with the intensity that makes my breath catch. Without warning, he leans forward across the desk, reaching toward my face with one large hand.

"You have..." His fingers brush against my cheek, barely more than a whisper of contact as he removes what must be a speck of dust or lint from my skin.

The touch lasts perhaps two seconds. Light enough that I might have imagined it if not for the way my entire body seems to spark at the contact, electricity racing along nerve endings that have no business responding so intensely to such an innocent gesture.

His hand hovers for a heartbeat longer than necessary, thumb ghosting across the spot where whatever it was had been.

His skin is warm, slightly rough from years of physical work despite his current position.

The scent of him surrounds me—something clean and masculine with hints of the spices he trades.

Then he pulls back, settling into his chair as if nothing happened, but the air between us still crackles with awareness that has nothing to do with the oil lamps' glow.

This is what drives me to distraction about him.

These moments of careful distance punctuated by touches that feel like promises he never intends to keep.

The way his eyes follow me sometimes when he thinks I'm not paying attention, heat in their depths that disappears the moment our gazes meet directly.

He wants me. I'm certain of it, have been for months now. But he maintains these careful boundaries, never crossing lines that might complicate the professional relationship we're supposed to have.

And I wish, desperately, that he would stop pretending the tension between us is entirely one-sided. That he would acknowledge what builds every time we're alone together, this tension that makes my skin feel too tight and my pulse race.

Instead, he reaches for his tea again, fingers steady despite the charged moment we just shared.

As if touching me means nothing to him at all.