Page 22 of The Demon's Little Girl
"Stop hovering," I repeat, but without the edge this time. Simple statement of fact rather than command. "I'll eat something. Sign the contracts. Pretend to be the lord this estate needs."
"That's all any of us can do." He pauses at the door, hand resting on the frame. "Pretend until pretending becomes real again."
The door closes behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with shadows and memories and the weight of two years' worth of unanswered questions. Outside, night settles over the estate like a familiar blanket, bringing with it the promise of another sleepless few hours spent walking empty corridors and stopping outside a door that leads to nothing but ghosts.
11
ROVAK
Idrift into sleep despite my best efforts to avoid it, amerinth finally doing what willpower couldn't. But even unconsciousness offers no mercy.
The dream unfolds with the cruel clarity that makes it feel more real than memory. I'm walking through the corridors of my estate, but something's wrong—the air tastes of copper and fear, shadows stretch longer than they should, and silence presses against my ears like water. My boots echo too loudly against stone as I make my way toward the eastern wing, following some instinct I can't name.
The servants' quarters door stands ajar. Not unusual, but the wrongness of it makes my skin crawl. I push it open with fingertips that suddenly feel too sensitive, and there she is.
Liora. Huddled in the corner like a wounded animal, arms wrapped around herself so tightly her knuckles have gone white. Her clothes are disheveled, rumpled in ways that make my vision blur red around the edges. She doesn't look up when I enter, doesn't even seem to notice my presence.
"Liora." Her name falls from my lips like a prayer, and finally—finally—those amber eyes meet mine. They're wide with shock,pupils blown so large they seem to swallow the gold entirely. Fear radiates from her in waves I can almost taste.
I drop to my knees without conscious thought, making myself smaller, less threatening. Every instinct screams at me to surge forward, to gather her against my chest and demand answers, but terror has turned her fragile as spun glass. One wrong move and she might shatter completely.
"It's me," I whisper, extending one hand palm-up between us. "You're safe now. Whatever happened, you're safe."
She stares at my hand like she's never seen one before. Minutes pass—or maybe hours, time moves strangely in dreams—before she unfolds slightly, just enough to reveal new bruises blooming across her throat like dark flowers.
Rage burns through me with the intensity of molten metal. Someone hurt her. Someone put their hands on what's mine and left marks that scream of violence. The need to hunt down whoever did this, to tear them apart with teeth and claws until nothing remains but memory, nearly overwhelms rational thought.
But she needs me here, now, whole and present and safe.
"Let me help you." I keep my voice soft, the tone I'd use with a spooked kilmar—gentle but steady, promising protection without demanding trust. "Let me take you somewhere warm."
This time when I extend my hand, she takes it. Her fingers are ice-cold and trembling, but they curl around mine with desperate strength. I lift her carefully, one arm beneath her knees and the other supporting her shoulders, cradling her against my chest like something infinitely precious.
She weighs nothing. Has she always been this light, or has whatever happened stolen substance from her along with peace? Her head rests against my shoulder, breath warm against my neck, and for a moment the wrongness of the day fades. This is right—her in my arms, safe and protected and mine.
"I wouldn't hurt you," I murmur into her hair, words spilling out before I can stop them. "You have to know that. You have to know I care about you."
She pulls back just enough to look at me, and something shifts in her expression. The fear recedes slightly, replaced by a sadness so profound it steals my breath. Her hands—when did she lift them?—frame my face with soft touches, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones.
"If only that was enough," she whispers.
The words hit like physical blows. Not 'I don't believe you' or 'I can't trust you.' If only that was enough. As if my caring, my protection, my promise to never harm her exists but simply can't reach whatever wound has been carved into her soul.
I jerk awake with her name on my lips, heart hammering against my ribs hard enough to bruise. The study comes back into focus slowly—familiar walls, familiar furniture, familiar emptiness that feels more crushing after the vivid presence of the dream. Weak morning light filters through windows I don't remember opening, and my neck aches from sleeping slumped over my desk.
The contracts Avenor brought yesterday remain unsigned, scattered across the desktop alongside cold amerinth and the remnants of dinner I never touched. My mouth tastes like ash and regret.
If only that was enough.
Even dreams offer no comfort, only fresh varieties of torment. In sleep, I can hold her, protect her, speak truths I never had courage to voice while awake. But even dream-Liora slips through my fingers, wounded by something my caring can't heal.
I push myself upright, joints protesting the awkward position I'd maintained for however long unconsciousness claimed me. Dawn light reveals the full scope of last night's destruction—papers everywhere, ink stains on the carpet where I'd knocked over the well, chair cushions bearing claw marks from when my control slipped entirely.
The estate wakes around me with familiar sounds that used to bring comfort. Servants moving through distant corridors, the kitchen staff beginning preparations for breakfast, garden doors opening to let in fresh air that carries hints of aracin blossoms. Life continuing its relentless forward momentum despite the gaping hole at its center.
I should wash. Change clothes. Pretend to be the man this household needs rather than the broken thing I've become. The eastern contracts won't sign themselves, and merchant captains expect their trade master to project strength and stability even when both feel like distant memories.
The sound of rapid footsteps in the hallway interrupts my attempts at pulling myself together. Too fast for casual movement, too heavy for most of the staff. Before I can straighten my appearance, the study door bursts open without ceremony.
