Page 2 of The Demon's Little Girl
It should be a relief. It is a relief.
So why does some traitorous part of me wish?—
"Liora." Akira's voice is gentler now. "He's good to you. To all of us. Don't forget that."
I meet her eyes, seeing years of wisdom there. Akira came here long before I did, back when Rovak first established this estate. She's seen servants come and go, watched how he treats those under his protection.
"I know." The words come out quieter than I intended. "I never forget that."
She nods, satisfied, and returns to her cooking. But her words linger as I head toward the kitchen doors, tray balanced perfectly in my hands. He is good to me. Better than good. Hegave me a life here that's more comfortable than anything I'd dared hope for.
My own room in the servants' wing—not a closet or a shared space, but an actual room with a window and a proper bed. Clothes that fit and keep me warm. Work that's manageable and varied enough to keep me from going stir-crazy.
The freedom to speak my mind without fear of punishment.
Most masters would have demanded I call them by title, dress in whatever pleased their aesthetic sensibilities, keep my eyes down and my mouth shut. Rovak had simply told me to call him by name and left me to figure out the rest.
I pause at the kitchen doors, taking a deep breath of the warm, bread-scented air before pushing through into the main corridor. The morning light streams through tall windows, casting long rectangles of gold across the stone floors. My soft leather boots make barely a whisper of sound as I walk.
Six years of this. Six years of bringing him meals and cleaning his spaces and learning the rhythm of his days. Six years of watching him work himself to exhaustion over trade agreements and port disputes. Six years of those brief moments when his carefully controlled expression would slip, revealing glimpses of something warmer underneath.
And somewhere in the last few, I've started telling myself that the flutter in my chest when he looks at me is just gratitude.
The corridor stretches before me as I make my way toward Rovak's study, the tray steady in my hands despite the way my pulse quickens with each step. His door comes into view—heavy oak reinforced with iron bands, carved with intricate patterns that speak of old demon craftsmanship. I've stood before this door countless times, yet something about this morning feels different. Maybe it's the way the light hits the wood, or maybe it's just my imagination running wild again.
I balance the tray against my hip and knock three times, the sound echoing down the empty hallway.
"Enter."
His voice carries through the thick wood, that familiar deep rumble that never fails to send a small shiver down my spine. I push the door open with my shoulder, stepping into the warm glow of his private space.
Rovak's study is a reflection of the man himself—organized, purposeful, with an underlying elegance that few people ever get to see. Tall bookshelves line two walls, filled with leather-bound ledgers and trade manuals. A massive desk dominates the center of the room, its surface scattered with papers and maps, ink wells and brass instruments I couldn't begin to identify. The fireplace crackles quietly in the corner, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls.
And there, rising from his chair behind the desk like a mountain of controlled power, is Rovak himself.
My breath catches the way it always does when I first see him each morning. Six years, and the sight of him still affects me like a physical force. He stands at his full towering height, dark gray skin seeming to absorb the firelight while those obsidian horns catch and reflect it. His black hair is already tied back with that leather cord he favors, though a few strands have escaped to frame his angular face.
When his pitch-black eyes meet mine, something warm unfurls in my chest.
"Good morning." The words come out steadier than I feel.
"Morning, Liora."
There it is—that slight upturn at the corner of his mouth that transforms his entire face. It's barely a smile by most standards, just the faintest softening of his usually stoic expression. But I've learned to read the subtle shifts in his features, and that small curve means more than a full grin from anyone else.
I can't help but smile back, something genuine and unguarded that I quickly try to rein in. The problem is, when Rovak looks at me like that—like I'm more than just another servant delivering his meals—my carefully constructed walls start to crumble.
Because he really is devastatingly handsome.
The thought hits me with the force it always does, unwelcome and undeniable. His features are carved with precise angles—the broad sweep of his nose, the sharp definition of his jaw, those high cheekbones that speak of aristocratic breeding. He carries himself with the unconscious grace of someone born to command, every movement deliberate and controlled.
I force myself to look away, focusing on setting his tray down on the cleared space he always leaves at the corner of his desk. My hands are steadier than I have any right to expect as I arrange the dishes, making sure everything is within easy reach.
"Smells good," he says, settling back into his chair. The leather creaks under his weight, a sound I've come to associate with these quiet morning moments.
"Akira outdid herself with the tuskram." I step back, hands clasped behind me in what I hope looks like professional posture rather than an attempt to stop myself from fidgeting. "She got the spice blend just right."
He picks up a piece of the meat, examining it with the same attention to detail he brings to everything else. When he takes a bite, that almost-smile returns.
