Page 48 of The Demon's Little Girl
The words taste like ash and fury. Because I know Liora, know the quiet strength beneath her gentle exterior. She wouldn't have fled from just any demon trying to assert dominance. She wouldn't have hidden for two years unless something unspeakable had been done to her.
Something that left her pregnant and terrified and convinced she couldn't come home.
"I do." Avenor says softly, and instantly, I'm on my feet, moving toward the door.
"Where is he?"
"In the main hall. But you need to think about this?—"
"I have thought about it." My voice comes out as a growl, every syllable dripping with barely contained violence. "For two fucking years, I've thought about what could have driven her away. What could have made her so afraid that she'd rather face slavers than stay here."
He shakes his head, his eyes gleaming with anger. "Oh, I don't mean for you to think about mercy. But don't be rash." He steps closer, voice deep. "I want you to think this through and make him pay. Not be quick in your anger."
That only bolsters me. The walk to the main hall feels both too long and too short. Each step pounds with the rhythm of my rage, building to a crescendo that threatens to tear me apart from the inside. I've killed before—in business, in defense, in the heat of negotiation gone wrong—but never like this. Never with this cold, methodical fury that demands not just death but suffering.
Xharn stands near the fireplace, examining one of the tapestries with that smug appreciation he brings to everything he considers beneath him. His coal-colored skin gleams in the firelight, those angular horns casting sharp shadows across his features. He looks exactly as he did two years ago, unmarked by guilt or consequence.
Those bright gold eyes—Nalla's eyes—turn toward me as I enter. His smile is all practiced charm and false warmth.
"Rovak. Ready to discuss those contracts? I think you'll find the new terms quite favorable."
I don't respond immediately. Instead, I take in every detail of his appearance, memorizing the face of the creature who violated what was mine. Who hurt Liora so badly that she's still hiding in storage rooms at the mere sound of his voice.
"Do you remember one of my servant girls? Liora?" I say quietly, moving closer with measured steps. "You would have seen her two years ago when she still worked at this estate."
Something flickers across his expression—too quick for most to catch, but I've spent decades reading demon faces across negotiation tables. Satisfaction. The same look he gets when he's brokered a particularly lucrative deal.
"I'm afraid I don't recall anyone particularly noteworthy." His laugh is gravelly, dismissive.
"Your memory seems selective." I'm close enough now to see the faint scarring along his knuckles, evidence of violence that I now understand might not have been consensual. "Perhaps I can help refresh it."
His eyes narrow, calculating. Whatever he sees in my expression makes him take a step back, but it's too late for caution now.
"She was that little human of yours, wasn't she?" he says with false casualness, voice taking on a quality that makes my skin crawl. "Pretty little thing. Very... accommodating."
The word slides off his tongue like poison, carrying implications that make my vision go red around the edges. Because I know Liora, know that any accommodation she might have shown was fear, not desire.
"Accommodating." I repeat the word slowly, tasting the violence it promises. "Interesting choice of words."
Xharn shrugs, seemingly unaware that he's just signed his own death warrant. "I had to sample the merchandise, didn't I? After watching you covet that sweet little toy for so long, I was curious what made her special."
He says it like he's discussing livestock. Like Liora is some object to be tested and discarded rather than the woman who makes my world brighter just by existing in it. The woman who trusted me to keep her safe while I was away conducting business.
"Toy." The word comes out as a whisper, but behind it lurks a roar that could shatter stone. "You called her a toy."
"Well, what else would you call a human?" His smile widens, revealing those predatory canines that once seemed merely imposing. Now they look like the tools of violence they've always been. "Sweet little Liora played her part perfectly. Bit of struggling at first, but they all come around eventually."
That's when I snap.
The rational part of my mind—the part that understands politics and consequences and the careful balance of power—simply ceases to exist. All that remains is fury so pure and absolute that it feels like being touched by the divine.
My hands close around his throat before he can react, thick fingers finding purchase on that coal-dark skin. His eyes go wide with shock and the beginning of fear as I lift him clear off the ground, his considerable weight meaning nothing against the tide of rage flowing through my limbs.
"She wasn't your toy to play with," I snarl, squeezing just enough to cut off his air without crushing his windpipe entirely. Not yet. Death will come, but slowly. With the kind of methodical precision he showed when he hurt what was mine.
He claws at my hands, trying to break my grip, but I've held tuskrams that fought harder. His struggles only serve to fuel the fire burning in my chest, the need to make him understand exactly what he took from me.
From her.
