Page 17 of The Demon's Little Girl
But even as I say it, everything clicks into place with horrible clarity. The exhaustion. The nausea. The changes in my body that I attributed to stress and poor nutrition. It all makes sense now, forms a picture I never wanted to see.
I carry a piece of him inside me. A permanent reminder of hands that took what was never offered, of violence disguised as desire. The thing growing in my body is made from his cruelty,and I don't know how to reconcile that with the fact that it's also mine.
"There are options," the healer says carefully, her voice cutting through the spiral of panic threatening to consume me. "Ways to end a pregnancy this early, if that's what you want."
But I can barely process her words through the crushing weight of this new reality. I stumble off the examination table, fumbling for the coins in my pocket to pay her fee, desperate to escape this small room that suddenly feels like it's shrinking around me.
"Think about it," she calls as I reach the door. "You don't have to decide anything today."
I make it exactly three steps into the alley behind her shop before my body expels everything in my stomach with violent efficiency. The retching goes on and on until I'm dry heaving into the dirt, tears streaming down my face as the full magnitude of my situation settles over me like a crushing weight.
Pregnant. With Xharn's child. The demon who destroyed me, who took everything I thought I knew about myself and twisted it into something unrecognizable—he's left me with this final insult, this permanent mark of his ownership.
I curl up against the wooden wall of the healer's shop, pulling my knees to my chest as sobs rack my body with merciless intensity. Everything I've been running from, everything I thought I might eventually heal from, means nothing now. This changes everything, makes escape impossible in ways I'm only beginning to understand.
The child will look like him. Move like him. Carry his blood in ways that will remind me daily of what he did, what he took, what he left behind.
Unless I don't let it.
8
ROVAK
The 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 momentsbefore 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? Whatskills 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.
