Page 9 of The Demon’s Little Girl

ROVAK

T he dream always starts the same way—with her sitting across from me in my study, steam rising from her cup of meadowmint tea like morning mist. Her amber eyes catch the light from the window, warm and alive in ways that make my chest tighten even in sleep.

She's wearing the simple brown dress she favored for morning chores, the one that brought out the bronze undertones in her skin.

"Where are you?" I ask her, my voice rough with desperation I never let show when awake. "Why did you leave?"

She tilts her head, curls shifting against her shoulders in that familiar way that used to make my hands ache to touch them. Her lips part as if she's about to speak, to finally give me the answers I've been craving for months. But no words come. They never do.

"Liora, please." The plea tears from my throat, raw and broken. "Just tell me why."

Her image wavers like heat shimmer over stone, those expressive eyes growing distant before she fades entirely. I reach across the desk, fingers grasping at empty air where moments before she sat so real I could have sworn I smelled the soap she used in her hair.

I wake with a violent jolt, my hand still outstretched toward nothing.

The ache in my chest hits immediately—a hollow, gnawing sensation that's become as familiar as breathing over these past months.

It settles behind my ribs like a physical weight, heavy enough that sometimes I press my palm against my sternum just to make sure my heart hasn't actually been carved out.

The estate feels different without her. Smaller somehow, despite being exactly the same size it's always been.

Empty in ways that have nothing to do with the number of servants moving through its halls.

She used to fill spaces without even trying—her quiet presence in the kitchen during breakfast, the way she'd hum softly while working in the garden, the sound of her laughter when something genuinely amused her.

Now there's just silence where she should be.

I drag myself upright, running both hands through my hair to ground myself in the present. The sheets are damp with sweat despite the cool morning air filtering through the windows.

These dreams have been getting worse lately, more vivid, more frequent. Sometimes I have the same one three nights running, always ending the same way—with questions that receive no answers and an emptiness that follows me into daylight.

The public search ended two months ago. Officially, anyway.

I told everyone I'd done what I could, that a runaway servant wasn't worth the continued expense of tracking down.

Most accepted this explanation without question—demons lose human servants all the time, whether to death or desertion or simple bad luck.

But privately, the search never stopped.

It's been six months, and I haven't found a scrap of information.

I dress methodically, each movement precise and controlled despite the chaos churning beneath my skin.

Dark leather pants, boots that reached mid-calf, a shirt that wouldn't show stains if business turned messy today.

The routine helps organize my thoughts, creates the illusion of normalcy even when everything inside me feels fractured.

Today's agenda includes meetings with three different trading partners, a review of shipping manifests from the eastern ports, and a negotiations session with the silk merchants from Vorthek.

Standard business that should occupy my full attention.

Instead, I find myself wondering if any of the ships currently in harbor might have carried news from the northern territories.

Trade captains hear everything—rumors, gossip, stories about strange passengers or unusual requests for passage.

The kitchen staff maintains careful distance as I move through the estate toward my study.

They've learned not to engage unless directly addressed, sensing something volatile in my mood that's been building for weeks.

Even my morning meal gets delivered without the usual chatter about weather or local happenings.

I miss her voice more than seems rational. The way she'd make observations about people or situations that were simultaneously sharp and kind, finding humor in small moments without cruelty. She never filled silence just to avoid it—when Liora spoke, she had something worth saying.

The ledgers on my desk blur together as I try to focus on shipping schedules and profit margins.

Numbers that should command my complete attention become meaningless scratches on parchment while my mind wanders to more pressing concerns.

Where would she go with limited resources?

What skills could she leverage to survive on her own?

The questions circle endlessly, each possibility spawning ten more until my thoughts become a tangled mess of worry and speculation.

A knock on the study door interrupts the spiral.

"Enter."

Avenor steps inside, his usually cocky demeanor subdued in that particular way that means he's been watching me too closely again.

His navy blue eyes take in my appearance with the assessment of someone trained to read threats and weaknesses—noting, no doubt, the tension in my shoulders and the way my jaw keeps clenching despite my efforts to appear calm.

"The merchants from Lorthak are here for the morning meeting," he reports, but his tone suggests that's not why he's really here.

"Fine. Show them to the office. I'll be along shortly."

He doesn't move toward the door. Instead, he shifts his weight in that subtle way that means he's considering saying something he knows I won't want to hear.

"Spit it out."

"You look like shit," he says bluntly, because Avenor has never believed in diplomatic phrasing when direct honesty will suffice. "When's the last time you slept through the night?"

"My sleep patterns aren't your concern."

"They are when they affect your judgment during business negotiations." His pointed ears twitch slightly—a tell that means he's annoyed but trying to control it. "The Vorthek traders commented on your... distraction during last week's meeting."

Heat flares behind my breastbone. Bad enough that I can't stop thinking about her; worse that it's become obvious enough for others to notice. My reputation depends on being unshakeable, coldly competent in ways that make other demons think twice before attempting to cheat or manipulate me.

"I'm handling my business just fine."

"Are you?" He takes a step closer, lowering his voice despite the fact that we're alone. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're driving yourself crazy chasing shadows."

The accusation hits too close to the truth for comfort.

I've been tracking whisper networks and trade rumors with obsessive thoroughness, following every thread that might conceivably lead back to her.

Merchants who deal in passage for humans seeking new opportunities.

Ship captains known for asking few questions about their passengers.

Trade routes that intersect with northern settlements where humans sometimes gather.

All of it has yielded exactly nothing.

"She didn't just vanish," I say, the words coming out harsher than intended. "People don't disappear without leaving traces."

"Some do." Avenor's expression gentles slightly, which somehow makes this conversation worse. "Especially when they don't want to be found."

The suggestion that Liora might be actively avoiding discovery—that her absence might be intentional rather than circumstantial—sends fresh anger coursing through my veins. Not at her, but at the situation, at my own inability to understand what went wrong between one day and the next.

"She wouldn't just leave," I insist, though even as I say it, doubt gnaws at the certainty I'm trying to project. "Not without reason. Not without..."

Without what? Without saying goodbye to the demon who owned her? Without explanation to someone who never gave her cause to think her feelings mattered beyond basic courtesy?

The truth is, I don't know what Liora was thinking when she left.

Don't know if something happened that frightened her, or if she simply grew tired of a life where her choices weren't entirely her own.

The not knowing is the worst part—worse than her absence, worse than the empty spaces where her presence used to bring warmth.

"Maybe she did have reason," Avenor suggests quietly. "Maybe something happened that you don't know about."

"Like what?"

He shrugs, but there's something careful in the gesture that makes my spine straighten. Avenor knows something, or suspects something, that he's not sharing. The realization hits like cold water.

"What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing concrete." But his ears twitch again, and he won't quite meet my gaze. "Just... the day before she left, I found her in the east wing. She looked upset. Shaken."

"Why didn't you mention this before?"

"Because she asked me not to." The admission comes reluctantly, pulled from him by months of watching me tear myself apart. "Said she was fine, that it was nothing important. I believed her."

The east wing houses guest quarters and storage rooms, areas Liora would clean but no one should have been. If something happened there—if someone hurt her or threatened her in ways that made staying impossible...

My hands curl into fists before I can stop them, claws extending slightly as fury builds behind my ribs. The idea that someone might have harmed her while she was under my protection, in my own estate, makes violence seem not just acceptable but necessary.

"Who was in the east wing that day?"

"Several people. I've thought it over and I'm not sure what it could have been. But something was definitely wrong. I just don't know what it was."

That sends my mind spinning. I know Liora, know how she carried herself. Cautious, yes, but never to the point of genuine fear. She'd learned to read people during her years here, to distinguish between those who might cause problems and those who were merely passing through.

If she was afraid enough to run, something real had threatened her.

The merchants from Lorthak will have to wait. Business suddenly seems far less pressing than tracking down answers that might finally explain why the woman I— why Liora felt she had to disappear rather than trust me to handle whatever was wrong.

It eats at me.