Page 20 of The Demon's Little Girl
My daughter.
"What will you call her?" Kestra asks, cleaning up with efficient movements while giving me space to process this moment.
Names. I've avoided thinking about names, just like I avoided thinking about what comes after birth. But looking at her now, one comes to mind immediately.
"Nalla." The word feels right on my tongue, soft but strong. It means 'little star' in the old human texts I used to read in Rovak's library, back when I thought I had a future beyond survival. "Her name is Nalla."
Nalla lets out another cry, stronger this time, and I find myself smiling despite everything. Despite the uncertainty ahead, despite the fear that's been my constant companion for months, despite not knowing how I'm going to feed and clothe and care for this tiny person with barely any resources.
None of that matters right now. What matters is the warm weight of her against my chest, the way her crying settles whenshe hears my voice, the fierce protective instinct that flares to life the moment her golden eyes focus on my face.
I would kill for her. Die for her. The certainty of it hits like another contraction, just as overwhelming but infinitely sweeter.
"Hello, little star," I whisper, adjusting the cloth around her tiny body. She's so small, so fragile-looking, but there's something in her expression that hints at strength. Determination. She fought to get here, fought to be born despite everything working against her.
My daughter. My Nalla.
For the first time in months, the future doesn't feel quite so terrifying.
10
ROVAK
The ledgers blur before my eyes, numbers swimming together like ink in water. I've been staring at the same column of trade figures for the better part of an hour, and the sum still eludes me. Not because the math is complex—I've been calculating import duties and profit margins since before most demons learned to count past ten—but because concentration feels like grasping smoke these days.
Two years. Seven hundred and thirty-one days, if I'm being precise. And I am, because precision is all I have left to anchor me to something resembling normalcy.
I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking under my weight, and massage my temples where a familiar headache builds. The study feels smaller than it used to, walls pressing closer despite the high ceilings and expansive windows that overlook the estate grounds. Even with papers scattered across every surface and trade agreements stacked in towering piles, the space echoes with an emptiness that has nothing to do with physical volume.
Outside, the sun sets in shades of amber and gold that remind me of eyes I'll never see again. I close mine against thememory, but that only makes it worse. Behind my eyelids, she's there—always there—curled in the chair by my desk with a cup of tea growing cold in her hands, laughing at something I said. The sound of her laughter used to fill this room, bright and unexpected, cutting through the weight of business concerns like sunlight through storm clouds.
Now there's only silence.
Akira and Avenor have been nothing but gossips in the two years since Liora has been gone. They're not wrong to worry. I catch glimpses of myself in mirrors sometimes and barely recognize what looks back—hollow cheeks, eyes that burn red more often than they should, shoulders carrying tension that never fully releases. Sleep comes in fragments, when it comes at all, filled with dreams that feel more like torture than rest.
Dreams where she never left. Where I found the courage to tell her how I felt before it was too late. Where I wake up and she's still here, safe under my roof, protected by my strength instead of lost to whatever dangers lurk beyond the estate's borders.
I've searched everywhere. Hired every tracker, followed every lead, pursued rumors and whispers until they dissolved into nothing. The trail went cold within days of her disappearance, as if she simply vanished from existence. Part of me wonders if she used magic to hide herself, but Liora never showed aptitude for anything.
The more likely explanation is the one that keeps me awake at night, staring at the ceiling while rage builds in my chest like pressure in a forge. Someone took her. Someone hurt her. And I failed to protect the one person who mattered more than my own life.
And so she made damn sure to protect herself.
Heavy footsteps echo in the hallway outside, too measured to belong to any of the remaining staff. Avenor, then, making hisevening rounds. Or more accurately, making sure his lord hasn't finally succumbed to whatever madness drives me to wander these halls after midnight like a ghost haunting the scene of unfinished business.
The door opens without a knock. Only Avenor would dare such presumption, and only because we've known each other long enough that formality feels like an insult to our friendship.
"The eastern contracts need your signature," he says, setting a leather portfolio on the corner of my desk. His navy eyes take in the mess of papers, the cold dinner tray, the untouched glass of amerinth that's been sitting there since morning. "When's the last time you ate something that wasn't liquid?"
"I ate."
"Amerinth doesn't count as sustenance."
I grunt noncommittally and reach for the contracts, but Avenor's hand covers the portfolio before I can grab it. His fingers are pale against the dark leather, knuckles scarred from years of blade work. He's the only demon I know who could stop me from doing something I wanted to do, not through superior strength but through sheer stubborn will.
"Akira's worried about you." His voice carries that particular tone he uses when delivering news he knows I won't want to hear. "Says you're not eating the meals she prepares. Tom mentioned you nearly walked into him yesterday because you weren't watching where you were going."
"Tom talks too much."
