Page 32 of The Demon's Little Girl
She's beautiful, regardless of who her father is. And watching the way Liora's entire expression softens when she looks at her daughter, it's clear that whatever circumstances brought this child into existence, she's thoroughly loved.
Nalla babbles something that sounds like a question and tugs at my hand, apparently deciding I'm interesting enough to investigate further. When I don't immediately respond, she tries a different approach—reaching for my face with her free hand like she wants to explore the texture of my skin.
"Nalla, no," Liora says gently, catching her daughter's questing fingers before they can make contact with my cheek. "You have to be gentle with people."
"She's fine." I shift closer, letting Nalla's small hand rest against my jaw. Her touch is featherlight, curious rather than demanding, and there's something unexpectedly soothing about the contact. "She's just figuring out the world."
The trust inherent in that small gesture—this tiny person who doesn't know enough to be afraid of me, who sees a face that most adults find intimidating and decides it's worth exploring—does something strange to my chest. Makes the protective instincts I feel toward Liora extend automatically to include her daughter.
Ourdaughter, some part of me whispers, though I push that thought away immediately. Nalla isn't mine by blood, and I have no claim to either of them beyond the one I'm hoping to rebuild through patience and careful attention.
But the little girl doesn't seem to care about technicalities. She pats my cheek with evident satisfaction, like she's just solved some important puzzle, then turns back to the more pressing matter of acquiring food.
"She's going to be a handful when she's older," I observe, helping to guide a piece of soft cheese toward her mouth when her grabbing becomes more earnest than accurate.
"She already is." Liora's smile is genuine this time, the first completely unguarded expression I've seen from her since she returned. "Yesterday she tried to climb onto the chair by the window. Nearly gave me a heart attack when I turned around to find her trying to climb up on the sill."
"Adventurous, like her mother."
The words slip out before I can think better of them, a reference to the way Liora used to explore every corner of the estate when she first arrived, driven by curiosity that was stronger than caution. She'd disappear for hours at a time, always turning up somewhere unexpected with dirt on her dress and stories about what she'd discovered.
For a moment, her expression goes carefully blank, like she's not sure how to respond to the reminder of who she used to be. Like the woman who explored for the joy of it feels too far removed from the cautious person she's become.
"That was a long time ago," she says quietly, and there's something almost wistful in her voice.
"Not that long." I keep my tone gentle, not wanting to push but needing her to know that I remember. That the things I valued about her before haven't been erased by time or distance or whatever walls she's built to protect herself.
She doesn't respond immediately, but some of the tension in her shoulders eases. Like maybe she's starting to believe that the person she was before is still welcome here, even if she's not ready to be that open again.
Nalla chooses that moment to make another grab for my tea cup, apparently deciding that whatever the adults are drinking must be more interesting than her carefully portioned food. I catch her wrist again, redirecting her attention to the piece of bread in front of her.
"Patient, aren't you?" I tell the little girl, who responds with a series of babbles that sound remarkably like she's arguing with me.
"She's very opinionated," Liora says, and there's pride in her voice alongside the affection. Like she's glad her daughter has a strong enough personality to make her preferences known, even if those preferences sometimes involve grabbing things she shouldn't have.
"Good. The world's not kind to people who don't know how to stand up for themselves."
The words come out more serious than I intended, weighted with awareness of how hard the last two years must have been for both of them. A woman alone with an infant, trying to stay hidden or safe or whatever combination of the two kept them alive and fed.
Liora's hands still around her tea cup, and I catch her watching me with that careful, measuring look she gets when she's trying to figure out what I'm thinking. Like she's notsure whether my comment was general observation or pointed reference to her own situation.
"She won't have to," I add, meeting her eyes directly so there's no misunderstanding. "Neither of you will. Not anymore."
The promise hangs in the air between us, heavier than it should be for such a simple statement. But it encompasses everything I can't say directly—that I want them here, that I'll make sure they're protected and provided for, that whatever brought them back into my life, I'm not letting them disappear again.
Something flickers across Liora's expression, too quick for me to identify completely. Relief, maybe. Or fear that promises like that are too good to be true. She's learned to be careful with hope, and I understand why.
But she nods, just a small dip of her chin that says she's heard me. That maybe, eventually, she might even believe me.
17
LIORA
The kitchen feels different at night. During the day, it hums with activity—Akira barking orders, Tom rushing between tasks, the constant clatter of preparation and cleanup. But now, with only the gentle crackle of banked embers in the hearth and moonlight streaming through the windows, it's transformed into something quieter. More intimate.
I move carefully around the familiar space, muscle memory guiding me to the right cupboards even in the dim light. Finding the tin of meadowmint tea, measuring leaves into the ceramic pot with practiced ease. The routine is soothing in a way I desperately need after spending the day walking on eggshells, trying to figure out where I fit in a place that used to feel like home.
The kettle whispers as it heats, and I lean against the counter, letting my shoulders drop for the first time all day. Nalla finally went down after what felt like hours of restless fussing—she's still adjusting to the new environment, new sounds and smells that aren't quite familiar yet. But she's safe in her crib now, breathing deep and even, one tiny fist curled against her cheek.
