Page 45 of The Demon's Little Girl
As if summoned by her name, my little warrior abandons her thalivern hunt and comes toddling over, arms outstretched in clear demand. I scoop her up without hesitation, settling her against my chest as she babbles something that might be a greeting.
"Did you have fun today, little one?" I ask, smoothing down the dark curls that are already escaping from whatever Liora did to contain them this morning.
Nalla responds with a string of nonsense syllables delivered with great seriousness, as if she's giving me a detailed report ofher activities. Her tiny hand pats my horn, still fascinated by the texture despite having done this dozens of times already.
Liora laughs at something in Nalla's expression, the sound rich and unguarded in a way that makes warmth spread through my chest. This is the woman I fell for—not the careful, guarded version who first returned, but the one who glows when she's truly happy.
"She's been trying to tell me something all afternoon," Liora says, shifting closer so she can see Nalla's face better. "I think it involves the thalivern, but I can't quite translate."
The casual intimacy of the moment—the three of us together like an actual family—makes something ache in my chest. This is what Avenor meant. This is what I could have, if I'm brave enough to reach for it.
Nalla chooses that moment to grab a handful of my hair and tug experimentally, her face scrunched in concentration. The slight pain grounds me, reminds me that this is real. They're here, both of them, and for now that has to be enough.
Even if the wanting is slowly killing me.
I adjust Nalla's position, letting her explore while keeping her secure, and catch Liora watching me with an expression I can't quite read. There's something soft in her amber eyes, something that makes hope flutter dangerously in my chest.
Maybe having them here, happy and safe, could be enough. Maybe watching Liora smile and helping raise the daughter she clearly adores would fill the hollow spaces in my life that I'd forgotten existed. Maybe the constant ache of unfulfilled desire would eventually fade to something manageable.
But even as I try to convince myself of that comforting lie, I know the truth. Want doesn't fade—it grows, fed by every shared moment and stolen glance. The hunger for her has roots that go too deep to simply starve away.
For now, though, I can pretend. Can sit in this garden with the two people who've somehow become my whole world and imagine that this careful distance is sustainable. That I can keep my hands to myself and my heart locked away indefinitely.
Nalla discovers my ear and decides it needs thorough investigation, her tiny fingers surprisingly gentle as she traces the pointed tip. Liora reaches over to redirect her before she can grab too hard, and her hand brushes mine in the process.
The brief contact sends heat shooting up my arm, and from the way Liora's breath catches, she feels it too. For a moment, we're frozen there—hands touching, eyes locked, the air between us charged with everything we're not saying.
Then Nalla makes a demanding sound, breaking the spell, and Liora pulls her hand away. But the flush in her cheeks and the quick flutter of her pulse at her throat tell me everything I need to know.
She wants me too. Avenor was right about that much.
The question is whether either of us is brave enough to do something about it.
24
LIORA
The afternoon light streams through the kitchen windows as I work at the large wooden table, chopping zynthra for tonight's stew. I've started to help in the kitchen again, though Akira gives me a lot of space and doesn't press with questions. And she keeps Tom away because we both know he'd ask them.
Nalla sits in her high chair nearby, contentedly mashing bits of soft brimbark between her tiny fingers while babbling to herself. She's discovered that dropping pieces on the floor makes satisfying splat sounds, and she grins each time one hits the stone.
"Nalla, those are for eating, not decorating," I murmur, though I can't help smiling at her pleased expression. She responds with a string of nonsense syllables that sound almost like a defense of her artistic choices.
The rhythmic motion of the knife against the cutting board is soothing. Familiar. This kitchen has become a sanctuary of sorts—a place where I can lose myself in simple tasks and pretend that the careful peace I've built here is permanent. That nothing will disturb the fragile happiness I've found again.
I'm reaching for another zynthra when the voice carries down the hallway from the main entrance. Deep, gravelly, with that particular cadence that I recognize instantly despite trying to forget it for two years.
"Rovak, good to see you again. I have those bloodstone samples you requested."
The knife slips from my suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering against the table. Every muscle in my body goes rigid as ice floods my veins. That voice.Hisvoice. The same smooth tone he'd used to flatter me before dragging me into that room. The same gravelly laugh that had followed me into nightmares for months.
Xharn. He's here. In this house.
My vision narrows to a pinprick as panic claws its way up my throat. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, too exposed. Anyone could walk in. He could walk in and see me, see Nalla, and then?—
"Mama?" Nalla's voice sounds far away despite her being right beside me. She must sense my distress because her babbling has stopped, replaced by that worried little sound she makes when something's wrong.
I force my frozen limbs to move, scooping her out of the high chair with trembling hands. She's warm and solid against my chest, real and precious and mine to protect. The thought galvanizes me into action.
