Page 6 of The Demon’s Little Girl

LIORA

T he cold stone floor presses against my cheek as I lie curled in on myself, every muscle in my body aching with a pain that goes far deeper than physical.

My clothes hang loose and disheveled, fabric twisted in ways that feel wrong against my skin, but at least they're still intact.

Small mercies in a world that just proved it has none.

Above me, Xharn adjusts his belt with the casual precision of someone completing a routine task.

The sound of metal against leather makes my stomach lurch, bile rising in my throat as I bite down hard on my lower lip to keep from retching.

The metallic taste of blood mingles with the nausea, but it's better than the alternative sounds that want to escape.

I won't give him the satisfaction of hearing me break completely.

"Well." His voice carries that same smooth satisfaction it always does, but now there's a new note of smug completion that makes my skin crawl with fresh revulsion. "That was fun."

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, willing myself to disappear into the floor, to become nothing more than dust and shadow that he can't touch anymore.

But my body refuses to cooperate, every nerve ending screaming with the memory of his hands, his weight, his breath against my neck as he whispered things that will poison my dreams for years to come.

He smooths his hair back into its perfect arrangement, checking his reflection in the polished surface of a nearby decorative vase. Vanity even now, as if what just happened was nothing more than a minor interruption in his day.

But then he pauses, golden eyes finding me again with the predatory focus of someone who isn't quite finished playing with his prey.

"Oh, one more thing." His tone shifts to something almost conversational, which somehow makes it infinitely worse. "You might want to keep this between us."

I don't respond, can't respond, but he continues anyway with the confidence of someone who knows he has a captive audience.

"Rovak's quite particular about honor, you know. Has very specific ideas about purity and worth." He crouches down, bringing himself closer to my level, and I have to fight not to scramble away like a wounded animal. "He won't want used goods cluttering up his household."

The words hit like physical blows, each one carefully chosen to inflict maximum damage. But worse than the cruelty is the ring of truth in them, the way they slot perfectly into fears I've carried for years without fully acknowledging them.

"In fact," Xharn continues, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "I'd say finding out you're ruined would be grounds for immediate dismissal. Can't have damaged servants reflecting poorly on the estate, can we?"

My breath comes in short, sharp gasps that I try to muffle against my arm.

He's right. Of course he's right. Whatever fragile protection I've built for myself here, whatever small kindness Rovak has shown me over the years, it's all built on the assumption that I'm worthy of it.

That I haven't been contaminated by something like this.

"He might even kill you." The casual way he delivers this possibility makes it sound inevitable rather than merely probable. "Honor demands it, after all. Can't have word getting around that his household harbors spoiled goods."

I see it with horrible clarity—the look of disgust that would cross Rovak's face when he learned what happened. Not disgust at Xharn for what he did, but at me for allowing it to happen. For failing to protect what wasn't really mine to begin with.

"Smart girl." Xharn's satisfied chuckle tells me my horror is written clearly across my features. "I knew you'd understand. We'll keep this as our little secret."

He stands again, brushing imaginary dust from his perfectly pressed clothes, and heads for the door with the easy stride of someone whose day has gone exactly according to plan.

"Until next time," he says over his shoulder, and the promise in those words nearly breaks what's left of my composure.

The door closes behind him with a soft click that somehow sounds louder than a slam would have. I'm alone again, but the silence feels different now—heavier, contaminated with echoes of his voice and the lingering scent of bloodstone and ash that makes my stomach heave anew.

I don't know how long I lie there on the cold floor, counting the stones in the pattern beneath my cheek and trying to remember how to breathe normally. Time moves strangely when you're trying not to exist, minutes stretching into hours or maybe just seconds that feel eternal.

The tears come in waves—silent, bitter things that leak from my closed eyes without permission.

Each sob that builds in my chest gets swallowed down, transformed into the kind of dry heave that leaves me gasping and shaking but produces nothing.

My body wants to purge itself, to expel the violation through any means possible, but there's nothing left inside me except hollow ache.

I should get up. Should straighten my clothes and return to my duties like nothing happened. Should smile and nod and pretend that the world hasn't fundamentally shifted on its axis in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

But I can't move. Can't imagine standing on legs that feel broken even though I know they're not. Can't picture walking through corridors where he might appear around any corner with that triumphant smile and the knowledge that I belong to him now in ways I never wanted to belong to anyone.

The sound of approaching footsteps sends panic shooting through my system like lightning.

I scramble upright, fingers fumbling to straighten my disheveled clothing and smooth down hair that feels wrong against my scalp.

My reflection in that same decorative vase shows a girl I barely recognize—hollow-eyed and pale, with something fundamental missing from her expression.

But the footsteps are lighter than Xharn's, quicker and more purposeful in a way that speaks to efficiency rather than predatory leisure.

When the door opens, it's Avenor who steps through, his silver hair catching the light as his navy eyes scan the room with the automatic precision of someone trained to notice details others might miss.

Those sharp eyes find me immediately, taking in my defensive posture against the bookshelf and whatever my face is currently revealing despite my best efforts to school it into neutrality.

"There you are." Relief colors his voice before concern takes over, head tilting slightly as he studies my appearance. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

I clear my throat, trying to find my voice among the wreckage of the last hour. "I was cleaning."

"Akira said she hadn't seen you in a while. Started worrying when you missed the afternoon tea preparation." He takes a step closer, and I have to fight not to flinch away from the movement. "You never miss tea prep."

He's right. I never do. It's one of the small routines that keeps me grounded, the careful attention to temperature and timing that makes each cup perfect for Rovak when he returns from whatever business has kept him away.

But the thought of preparing tea with hands that still shake, of moving through the kitchen where other staff might notice something wrong in my face or posture, makes fresh nausea roll through my stomach.

"I lost track of time."

Avenor's pointed ears twitch slightly—a tell I've learned means he's not buying whatever explanation he's being offered. But instead of pressing for details, he simply nods and extends one hand in my direction.

"Come on. Let's get you back to your room."

The kindness in the gesture nearly undoes me completely. I want to collapse into it, to tell him everything and let someone else carry the weight of what just happened. But Xharn's words echo in my mind with poisonous clarity—spoiled goods, ruined, honor demands it.

I can't risk it. Can't risk losing the only safe harbor I've ever known by admitting what I've become.

"I'm fine." The lie tastes like ash on my tongue. "Just tired."

"Liora." My name carries gentle authority, the kind of tone he uses when he's made a decision and won't be argued out of it. "You're pale as a sheet and shaking like a leaf. Whatever's wrong, you don't have to carry it alone."

The tears threaten again at his quiet concern, but I blink them back ruthlessly. Crying will only invite questions I can't answer, sympathy I don't deserve anymore.

"Nothing's wrong."

He studies my face for a long moment, and I see the exact instant he decides not to push. It's there in the slight softening around his eyes, the way his shoulders settle into acceptance rather than interrogation.

"Alright." He doesn't believe me, but he's choosing to respect my boundaries anyway. "But you're coming back to your room regardless. Doctor's orders."

"You're not a doctor."

"Close enough." The hint of his usual dry humor creeps into his voice, though it's gentler than normal. "I've patched up enough idiots to qualify."

He waits patiently while I gather what remains of my composure, then falls into step beside me as we leave the sitting room. The corridor feels endless, each step requiring conscious effort as my legs remember how to function despite feeling disconnected from the rest of me.

Avenor doesn't try to fill the silence with conversation, doesn't ask probing questions or offer platitudes about whatever he thinks might be bothering me. He just walks beside me like a steady presence, ready to catch me if I stumble but not crowding me with unwanted support.

When we reach my small room, he follows me inside and settles into the single chair with casual familiarity.

We've done this before—not often, but enough times that it feels natural rather than intrusive.

Usually after particularly difficult days when the weight of servitude presses heavier than normal, or when nightmares about my life before Rovak's estate make sleep impossible.

But this is different. This is contamination and shame and the knowledge that everything I thought I knew about my place in the world just crumbled into dust.

I perch on the edge of my narrow bed, hands folded in my lap to hide their trembling, and try to figure out how to exist in this new reality where I'm no longer the person I was this morning.

"Want to talk about it?" The question comes without judgment, an offer rather than a demand.

"No."

"Fair enough." He leans back in the chair, making himself comfortable. "Mind if I sit here for a while anyway? Nowhere else I need to be."

The casual way he offers his presence without expecting anything in return breaks something loose in my chest. Not enough to make me speak, but enough to make breathing slightly easier.

We sit in silence as the afternoon light shifts through my small window, painting different patterns on the worn wooden floor. Avenor seems content to simply exist in the same space, a quiet guardian against whatever demons he can sense circling even if he doesn't know their names.

Eventually, the need to wash becomes overwhelming—not just the physical dirt and sweat from cleaning, but the invisible contamination that feels embedded in my skin like stains that will never come out.

"I need to bathe."

He nods immediately, already rising from the chair. "I'll cover for you with the evening duties. Tell everyone you're feeling unwell and need the night to recover."

"You don't have to?—"

"Yes, I do." His voice carries quiet conviction that brooks no argument. "Whatever happened today, you need time to process it. Take the time."

He pauses at the door, hand on the handle, and looks back at me with an expression I can't quite read.

"For what it's worth," he says quietly, "nothing you could tell me would change how I see you. You know that, right?"

The words hit like arrows to an already wounded heart, each one carrying kindness I no longer know how to accept. I want to believe him, want to trust that friendship could survive the knowledge of what I've become.

But Xharn's voice whispers in my mind, reminding me what happens to ruined things in a world built on honor and worth.

"Thank you." It's all I can manage without breaking completely.

He nods once and slips out, leaving me alone with the silence and the growing certainty that nothing will ever be the same again.

It makes what I'm about to do so much worse.