Page 38 of The Demon's Little Girl
"I missed this place," I say instead of the more dangerous admission. "Missed the gardens, missed having purpose beyond just surviving day to day."
"Is that all?" His voice is carefully neutral, but there's something underneath it that makes my pulse quicken. "You missed the place?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with implications I'm afraid to examine too closely. Because he's asking about more than geography, more than gardens and familiar routines. He's asking if I missedhim, and the answer terrifies me with its intensity.
"I missed..." I start, then falter as courage wars with caution. "I missed the people here. Avenor's terrible jokes. The way the kitchen smells like fresh bread in the mornings."
"And?"
The single word is spoken so quietly I might have imagined it, but when I glance at him, his dark eyes are fixed on mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
"I missed you," I whisper, the admission dragging itself from somewhere deep in my chest. "I missed talking with you, missed the way you made me laugh even when everything else was falling apart."
The silence that follows feels charged with possibility, dangerous in ways that both thrill and terrify me. Because I've just crossed a line I've been carefully avoiding, admitted to feelings that could change everything between us.
His hand moves first—just the slightest shift on the stone bench between us. His knuckles brush against mine, the contact so light it could be accidental. Should be accidental.
But neither of us pulls away.
The touch is electric, sending warmth racing up my arm and settling somewhere low in my stomach. My skin feels hypersensitive where his fingers rest against mine, and I'm suddenly desperately aware of how long it's been since anyone touched me with gentleness instead of demand.
"Liora." His voice is rough now, lower than usual in ways that make my name sound like something precious. Important.
I turn my hand palm up, a silent invitation, and his fingers slide against mine with deliberate intent. No accident this time, no careful pretense of casual contact. His skin is warm and calloused from sword work, and when his thumb traces across my knuckles, I have to bite back a sound of pure want.
The careful distance we've been maintaining crumbles in the space between one heartbeat and the next. I lean closer without conscious decision, drawn by the magnetic pull that's always existed between us but has never been acknowledged aloud. The scent of him fills my lungs, and when he shifts to face me more fully, his knee brushes against mine through the fabric of our clothes.
"I looked for you," he says quietly, his free hand rising to trace the line of my jaw with fingertips that shake slightly. "Every day for two years, I looked for you."
The confession hits me like a physical blow, confirming what Avenor hinted at but in Rovak's own words. He searched for me. Spent two years trying to find someone who was just a servant in his household—except I was never just that to him, was I?
"Rovak..." His name comes out breathless, uncertain.
"You seemed hesitant when you came back," he continues, his thumb still stroking across my cheekbone with devastating gentleness. "I need you to know that for me, I always wanted you to. I never stopped looking."
The space between us has narrowed to inches, his words washing over my face in warm breath that smells like amerinthand something uniquely him. My heart is hammering so hard I'm certain he can hear it, and every instinct is screaming at me to close the remaining distance. To find out if his mouth is as soft as it looks, if kissing him will feel like coming alive after years of merely surviving.
But there's still space between us. Still choice.
So I lean into his touch, letting my eyes drift closed as his fingers map the curve of my cheek. Permission and invitation wrapped in a single gesture that changes everything.
20
LIORA
The moment stretches between us, heavy with two years of unspoken longing and the weight of admissions finally voiced. His fingers trace my jaw with reverent touches that make my skin burn, and I can see my own desire reflected in the depths of his black eyes.
"Liora," he breathes my name like a prayer, and then, like his restraint has snapped, his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is hesitant at first—soft, questioning lips that press against mine with careful restraint. As if he's afraid I'll bolt if he moves too quickly, too boldly. But there's nothing gentle about the fire that ignites in my chest, spreading through my veins until I feel like I might combust from the simple contact of his mouth against mine.
When I don't pull away—when I press closer instead—something shifts in him. His hand slides to cup the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my curls as he deepens the kiss with devastating thoroughness. His mouth moves against mine with growing confidence, tasting and claiming in ways that make my breath catch and my body arch toward him instinctively.
God, I'd forgotten this feeling. The electric thrill of being wanted, of having someone touch me like I'm precious instead of something to be used. Rovak's lips are softer than I'd imagined, but his kiss is firm and sure now that my response has given him permission to take what he wants.
My free hand finds his chest, fingers splaying against the warm expanse beneath his shirt. I can feel his heart hammering against my palm, matching the frantic rhythm of my own pulse as his tongue traces the seam of my lips. When I part for him, the soft groan that rumbles from his chest makes liquid heat pool low in my belly.
He tastes like amerinth and desire, dark and intoxicating in ways that make rational thought scatter. When his teeth catch my lower lip in the gentlest bite, I forget how to breathe entirely.
