Page 41 of The Demon's Little Girl
This close, I can see the flecks of gold in her amber eyes, can smell the faint scent of meadowmint from her hair. Her lipspart slightly, and for a moment the air between us thrums with possibility. With the memory of last night and the promise of what could be if we both stopped being so careful.
I want to kiss her. Want to cup her face in my hands and claim her mouth properly this time, without the desperate edge of uncertainty. Want to lift her onto this table and show her exactly how much she means to me, consequences be damned.
But then she turns her head away, breaking the spell, and I remember why I can't. Remember that pushing too hard, too fast, could send her running again. Could cost me the fragile trust we've been rebuilding.
I step back, creating distance before I do something we'll both regret.
Because that's what last night feels like—a regret for her. One I won't bring up or push. I'm just grateful she's here still.
"The small one is for Nalla," I manage, my voice steadier than I feel. "Same protections."
She nods, still not quite meeting my eyes. "I should get her dressed for the day."
It's another retreat, another moment of connection severed before it can fully form. But this time, I let her go without chasing. Because caring for her means respecting her boundaries, even when every instinct screams at me to claim what's mine.
Even when the wanting might just kill me.
22
LIORA
Icradle Nalla against my chest, rocking slowly in the chair by the window as moonlight spills across her sleeping face. Her tiny fist curls against my collarbone, and her breathing has finally settled into the deep rhythm that tells me she's truly asleep. But my mind won't quiet no matter how peaceful she looks.
The memory of Rovak's hands on my skin burns through me like wildfire. The way his fingers had traced along my jaw, so gentle yet possessive. The heat of his mouth moving against mine, claiming me in ways I'd only dreamed of. And then—gods help me—the desperate way I'd pressed against him, seeking friction and release like some wanton creature who'd never learned restraint.
I'd climaxed in his arms. Actually came apart completely while grinding against him like a woman possessed. The mortification should be overwhelming, but instead all I can think about is how incredible it felt. How right.
My cheeks burn with the memory of it—the way pleasure had built between my legs as I moved against the hard ridge of his arousal, the broken sounds that had escaped my throat, the wayhis hands had guided my hips as if he understood exactly what I needed. When the climax hit, it had been so intense I'd seen stars, my body clenching and shuddering as waves of sensation crashed through me.
But then reality crashed back just as hard, and I'd fled like the coward I am.
Nalla shifts in my arms, making a soft sound that has me automatically adjusting my hold. My beautiful, perfect daughter who doesn't deserve to pay for the circumstances of her conception. She's mine in every way that matters, but the brutal truth of how she came to be tears at me like claws.
Rovak knows I have a child. He's been nothing but kind to both of us, playing with her and making her laugh in ways that twist something painful in my chest. But he doesn't know the truth about who her father is. Doesn't know that she exists because of violence and shame, that every time I look at those pale gold eyes I'm reminded of the worst night of my life.
Would he still want me if he knew? Would he still look at me with that carefully banked desire if he understood that I'm ruined goods, soiled by another demon's touch in the most brutal way possible?
The questions circle through my mind like vultures, picking at every insecurity I've tried to bury. Xharn's words echo in my memory—that Rovak's honor wouldn't let him keep me once he knew what had been done to me. That I was worthless now, damaged beyond repair.
Logically, I know Rovak isn't Xharn. Know that he's shown me nothing but kindness and respect in all the years I've known him. But the fear runs deeper than logic, rooted in shame and trauma that two years of distance hasn't managed to heal.
Nalla's completely limp now, lost in whatever dreams occupy a one-year-old's mind. Probably something involving the wooden blocks Rovak carved for her, or the way he makes sillyfaces that send her into fits of giggles. She adores him already, and the feeling seems mutual. Another complication in an already impossible situation.
I ease out of the rocking chair carefully, settling her into the small crib that appeared in my room the day after we arrived. Rovak had it made for her without being asked, another small kindness that makes my chest ache with things I can't name.
Sleep isn't coming for me tonight—too much restless energy thrumming under my skin, too many memories of strong hands and desperate kisses. Maybe some meadowmint tea will help settle my nerves, give me something to focus on besides the way my body still tingles from earlier.
The corridors are quiet at this hour, lit only by the occasional torch flickering in its sconce. My bare feet make no sound against the cool stone as I make my way toward the kitchen, grateful for the concealment charm resting against my throat. The obsidian feels warm against my skin, a tangible reminder of Rovak's protection.
The kitchen is dim but not empty. Avenor sits at the small table in the corner, nursing what looks like a cup of amerinth. His silver hair catches the lamplight as he glances up at my entrance, navy eyes sharp despite the late hour.
"Can't sleep?" His voice carries that familiar note of dry amusement, but there's genuine concern underneath.
"Just wanted some tea." I move toward the cupboards, hyperaware of his gaze tracking my movements. Avenor sees too much, always has. It's what makes him good at his job and terrible for my peace of mind.
"Meadowmint's in the blue jar," he says helpfully, then takes another sip of his drink. The silence stretches between us as I prepare the tea, but it's not comfortable. He's waiting for something, probably for me to spill whatever's obviously eating at me.
The water takes forever to heat, giving me too much time to think and him too much time to study me. When I finally settle across from him with my steaming cup, his expression has shifted to something more serious.
