Page 37 of The Demon's Little Girl
The words seem to carry extra weight, though maybe that's wishful thinking on my part. Because lately, I've caught myself watching him more carefully. Cataloging the way his expression softens when Nalla smiles at him. The careful distance he maintains between us, like he's afraid of making me uncomfortable. The way his eyes linger on me sometimes when he thinks I'm not looking.
Avenor's words from days ago keep echoing in my mind:He never stopped looking for you.The implications of that statement feel too large to fully grasp. Because if it's true—if Rovak spent two years searching for me—then maybe his feelings run deeper than simple concern for a missing servant.
Maybe the careful way he touches my hand when passing me tea, the ready laughter at my terrible jokes, the fierceprotectiveness in his voice when he talks about Nalla—maybe it all means something more than friendship rebuilt.
The thought terrifies and thrills me in equal measure.
"I should let you prepare for your meeting," I say, starting to rise as Nalla fusses in his arms. "Come here, little troublemaker."
But when I reach to take my daughter, Rovak's fingers brush mine as he transfers her weight. It's the barest contact—the pad of his thumb against my knuckles—but it sends electricity racing up my arm. For just a moment, neither of us moves. His skin is warm and rough with calluses, and I find myself staring at the contrast between his gray flesh and my warmer bronze.
Then Nalla squirms impatiently, breaking the spell, and I step back with my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Thank you," I manage, settling her against my hip. "For breakfast. For helping with her."
"Always." The single word carries weight that makes my breath catch, and when I look up, his black eyes are intense on mine. "You know that."
I do know it. That's what makes this so complicated, so dangerous to the careful equilibrium I've been trying to maintain. Because Rovak has always been willing to help, always been gentle with me in ways that made it far too easy to imagine something more than master and servant between us.
Now, with the formal boundaries of our old relationship dissolved, those old feelings are stirring again. Stronger than before, complicated by gratitude and the way he looks at my daughter like she's precious beyond measure.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of mundane tasks made strange by the undercurrent of anticipation thrumming beneath my skin. I tend to laundry and mending while Nalla naps, organize the pantry shelves that don't really need organizing, pick aracin blossoms for the house arrangements. Anything tokeep my hands busy and my mind from dwelling on the warmth of Rovak's touch this morning.
But as evening approaches, I find myself gravitating toward the gardens like I'm drawn by invisible threads. The sun is setting behind the stone walls, painting everything in shades of gold and amber that match the restless energy building in my chest. Nalla is finally asleep after a day of unusually good behavior, and the house feels too quiet, too full of my own scattered thoughts.
The fountain provides a focal point for my wandering, its steady splash masking the sound of footsteps on gravel paths. I settle on the stone bench where Rovak held my daughter this afternoon, running my fingers along the worn surface while I try to make sense of the longing that's been growing stronger each day.
I missed him. The realization hits with unexpected force, though it shouldn't surprise me. I missed him while I was gone—missed his dry humor and steady presence, missed the way he made me feel safe and valued. But admitting it feels like opening a door I've kept carefully locked, acknowledging feelings I've spent years trying to suppress.
"Couldn't sleep?"
His voice from behind me sends my heart into my throat. I turn to find Rovak approaching through the gathering dusk, still dressed for his meetings but with his formal jacket discarded and his dark hair loose around his shoulders. The sight of him like this—relaxed and unguarded—makes my mouth go dry.
"Nalla finally went down," I explain, scooting over to make room on the bench. "I wanted some air."
He settles beside me, close enough that I can catch his scent—leather and something darker, more complex. The careful distance he usually maintains seems smaller tonight, or maybe I'm more aware of every inch between us.
"How did the negotiations go?"
"Better than expected." He leans back against the bench, extending his legs with a satisfied grunt. "The Bilgonith traders are signing the exclusive rights agreement tomorrow. Means steady work for the docks and better prices on raw materials."
The practical benefits should interest me more than they do, but I find myself distracted by the way moonlight catches the silver threading through his black hair. He's handsome in ways that still catch me off guard sometimes—all sharp angles and contained power, softened by the genuine warmth in his eyes when he looks at Nalla.
When he looks at me.
"That's good," I manage, though I'm not entirely sure what I'm responding to anymore.
We sit in comfortable silence, listening to the fountain and the distant sounds of the city beyond the estate walls. A night breeze stirs the aracin blossoms, carrying their sweet scent through the garden air. It should be peaceful, this moment of quiet companionship, but I'm too aware of his presence beside me. The steady rhythm of his breathing. The way his hands rest relaxed on his thighs, close enough to touch if I had the courage.
"Liora." My name on his lips pulls my attention back to his face. "Are you happy? Being back here?"
The question catches me completely off guard. Not because it's unexpected—he has every right to wonder—but because it forces me to examine feelings I've been carefully avoiding.
"Yes," I say without hesitation, then pause to consider the deeper truth. "Happier than I've been in a long time. Nalla loves it here, loves having space to explore and people to fuss over her. And I..."
The words stick in my throat, too honest and revealing to voice aloud. Because the truth is that being back here feels like coming home in ways that have nothing to do with familiarsurroundings and everything to do with the man sitting beside me.
"And you?" he prompts gently.
