Page 5 of The Demon’s Little Girl
LIORA
T he morning sun filters through the tall windows as I work my way through the corridor with practiced efficiency, dust cloth moving in smooth strokes across each surface.
Rovak left an hour ago for his quarterly meeting with the eastern trade council, which means I have the better part of the day to complete the deep cleaning that's harder to manage when the household runs at full capacity.
I prefer these quieter moments, when I can work without constantly measuring my movements against the presence of others. The rhythm of cleaning soothes something in me—the methodical attention to detail, the visible transformation from cluttered to organized, dusty to pristine.
The tall case clock in the main hall needs careful attention around its ornate moldings, and I stretch to reach the higher carved details, working the cloth into each groove and curve.
Most of the staff avoids this particular piece since it requires a ladder, but I've always been nimble enough to manage if I'm careful about my footing on the narrow base.
Footsteps echo from the far end of the corridor, heavy and deliberate in a way that makes my shoulders tense automatically. I know that gait—measured, commanding, with an underlying swagger that speaks to someone who enjoys the effect his presence has on others.
Xharn.
My hands still on the cloth as I track the sound, hoping desperately that he'll turn down one of the side passages before reaching this section.
But the footsteps continue steadily in my direction, and when I risk a glance over my shoulder, I see his imposing figure approaching with that predatory grace that makes my skin crawl.
He's dressed impeccably as always, dark fabrics that emphasize his massive frame and the sharp angles of his horns.
Everything about his appearance screams wealth and power, from the heavy rings adorning his fingers to the way he carries himself like someone accustomed to having his desires met without question.
I turn back to my work, keeping my movements steady despite the way my pulse has quickened. Maybe if I appear busy enough, professional enough, he'll simply pass by with a nod or ignore me entirely.
No such luck.
"Well." His voice carries that smooth confidence that never fails to make my stomach clench. "Look what we have here."
I face him properly, executing the small bow appropriate for a servant acknowledging a guest. "Good morning, sir. The master is in meetings until this afternoon, if you need to speak with him."
"Oh, I'm not here for Rovak today." Golden eyes sweep over me with an assessment that feels invasive, lingering on details that have nothing to do with my professional capabilities. "Thought I'd take a look around, see how things are running."
The cloth crumples in my grip as every instinct I possess screams danger. Xharn has never shown interest in household management before, and the way he's looking at me has nothing to do with administrative oversight.
"Everything is running smoothly, sir. I should get back to my duties."
I take a step toward the servant's corridor, but he moves to block my path with casual precision. The motion brings him close enough that I catch his scent—bloodstone and ash with an underlying musk that makes my throat tighten with revulsion.
"No rush," he says, that false pleasantness coating words that sound more like threats than conversation. "We so rarely get time to chat, you and I. Strange, considering how often I visit."
"I stay busy with my work." I keep my voice level, professional, even as panic starts building behind my ribs. "The household requires constant attention."
"I'm sure it does." He takes another step closer, forcing me to back against the case clock. "You've been here quite a while now, haven't you?"
The fact that he knows exactly how long I've worked here sends ice through my veins. This isn't casual interest or coincidental conversation. He's been paying attention, tracking details about my life that he should have no reason to know.
"Yes, sir."
"Rovak speaks very highly of your work." His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, making my skin feel contaminated everywhere it touches. "Very dedicated, he says. Willing to go above and beyond for the household."
The words carry implications that make bile rise in my throat. Whatever he's heard or thinks he understands about my relationship with Rovak, he's twisting it into something ugly and exploitative.
"I take pride in doing my job well."
"Of course you do." He reaches out, fingers trailing along the edge of the cloth I'm still clutching. The brief contact with my hand makes me flinch, but I have nowhere to retreat with the clock at my back. "Such lovely hands for someone who works so hard."
"I really should return to my duties?—"
"Should you?" In one smooth motion, he grasps my wrist, thumb pressing against the pulse point there with enough pressure to make his meaning clear. "I think your duties can wait a few minutes."
I try to pull away, but his grip tightens with casual cruelty. The smile that spreads across his face at my resistance is the stuff of nightmares—all predatory satisfaction and cold calculation.
"There's no need to be shy." His other hand comes up to brush against my cheek in a mockery of gentleness. "We're practically family, aren't we? With how often I work with Rovak."
The touch burns like acid against my skin. This isn't like when Rovak touched my face the other night—careful, reverent, charged with possibility. This is possession, dominance, the assumption that my body exists for his entertainment.
"Please let go of me."
"Please?" He laughs, a sound like breaking glass. "Such nice manners. Rovak has trained you well."
Without warning, he spins me around and propels me toward one of the smaller sitting rooms, his grip on my wrist like iron manacles. I dig in my heels, try to twist away, but he's enormous and unnaturally strong even for his size.
"Don't make this difficult," he murmurs against my ear as he forces me through the doorway. "We wouldn't want to make noise that might attract attention. Think how embarrassing that would be for everyone involved."
The threat in his words is unmistakable. He's counting on my shame, on the knowledge that if anyone finds us, I'll be the one who gets blamed regardless of the circumstances. Servants who cause problems disappear, especially servants who make accusations against powerful guests.
He shoves me further into the room and kicks the door shut behind us, the sound like a death knell in the sudden silence.
My back hits the wall beside a tall bookshelf, and he cages me against it with his massive body, one hand still imprisoning my wrist while the other braces against the wall beside my head.
"Much better." His breath is hot against my face, carrying the scent of amerinth and something rotten underneath. "Now we can get properly acquainted."
"I'll scream." The words tear from my throat, desperate and pathetic even to my own ears.
"Will you?" His free hand traces down my throat, fingers pressing just hard enough to remind me how easily he could crush my windpipe if he chose.
"And who exactly do you think will come running?
The other servants?" His laugh is cruel, delighted.
"They know better than to interfere with their betters' business. "
Horror crashes over me as I realize he's right. The staff keeps their heads down and their mouths shut because survival depends on invisibility. None of them will risk their own safety to help me, and even if they wanted to, what could they do against someone of Xharn's status and power?
"Rovak—"
"Isn't here." His hand moves lower, fingertips skimming along my collarbone with possessive familiarity that makes my stomach heave. "Won't be back for hours. Just you and me, sweetheart."
I try to twist away again, using every ounce of strength in my body, but he just laughs at my struggles. If anything, my resistance seems to excite him, golden eyes lighting up with sick pleasure at my fear.
"That's it," he purrs, pressing closer until I can feel the heat radiating from his massive frame. "Fight a little. Makes it more interesting."
His hand slides lower still, and the cloth falls forgotten from my nerveless fingers as true panic sets in. This can't be happening. Not here, not now, not when I've been so careful to avoid exactly this situation for months.
But careful doesn't matter when you're trapped by someone who's spent that same time planning, watching, waiting for the perfect opportunity to corner you alone.
"Such a pretty thing," he murmurs, voice thick with anticipation that makes my skin crawl. "Let's see what Rovak's been keeping all to himself."