Page 8 of The Demon's Little Girl
"Enjoy your tea," he replies, already fading back into the shadows with that unnerving demon ability to simply disappear when they choose.
I take a steadying breath and knock on the study door, the sound crisp in the corridor's quiet.
"Enter."
Rovak's voice carries the slight roughness that creeps in when he's been working for hours without a break. I push the door open and step inside, immediately enveloped by the familiar scents of parchment, ink, and the faint metallic tang that seems to cling to everything in demon households.
My eyes immediately fall to Rovak.
Even seated, he commands attention—shoulders broad enough to fill the chair's substantial frame, dark hair escaping from its leather tie to frame the sharp angles of his face. His horns catch the lamplight, polished obsidian that speaks to pride in his appearance despite the late hour. He's removed his formal jacket, working in shirtsleeves that reveal the powerful line of his forearms as he writes.
When he looks up at my entrance, those black eyes focused entirely on me, something warm and dangerous unfurls in my chest.
"Liora." My name sounds different when he says it, like something valuable rather than just a designation. "You should be sleeping."
"So should you." I move toward the desk, hyperaware of the way his gaze tracks my movement. "Thought you might want some tea. You've been working since you returned from the city."
Interest flickers across his features, replaced quickly by the careful neutrality he maintains in our interactions. But not before I catch that moment of pleased surprise, as if my attention to his schedule matters more than simple servant efficiency would warrant.
"That's thoughtful of you." He sets down his pen, giving me his full attention in a way that makes my skin feel suddenly tight. "What kind?"
"Meadowmint. Good for late nights." I set the tray on the empty corner of his desk, careful not to disturb any of his papers. "I made enough for two, if you'd like company."
The words hang between us for a heartbeat, neither quite professional nor entirely personal. We exist in this strange space together, where the normal boundaries of master and servant have blurred into something more complex but never clearly defined.
"I'd like that," he says finally, and the simple admission sends warmth spiraling through me. "These contracts are starting to blur together."
I pour for both of us, adding honey to his cup the way he prefers while leaving mine plain. The ritual gives me something to do with my hands, a way to avoid the intensity of his regard while I settle into the chair across from his desk.
"Difficult negotiations?" I ask, cradling my cup and letting the steam warm my face.
Rovak leans back, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he takes his first sip. "Tedious more than difficult. Spent three hours listening to Merchant Vorthak explain why he deserved better terms despite failing to meet half his delivery commitments last season."
"Ah." I hide my smile behind my cup. "One of those conversations where you had to pretend his reasoning made sense."
"Exactly." His mouth quirks upward, the closest thing to a smile I've seen from him all day. "He kept insisting that market conditions had changed unexpectedly, as if anyone with half a brain couldn't have predicted the supply shortages months ago."
"What did you tell him?"
"That market conditions change for everyone, but only some people plan accordingly." He takes another drink, visibly relaxing as the tea's warmth spreads through him. "By the end, he was practically begging to keep the original terms."
I laugh, unable to contain my amusement at the mental image of the pompous merchant I've met twice being taken down by Rovak's implacable logic. "I bet that was satisfying."
"More than it probably should be." He studies me over the rim of his cup, something almost fond in his expression. "You have a vindictive streak."
"Only when people deserve it." I meet his gaze steadily, enjoying this rare moment of easy conversation. "Some humans underestimate demons, but just as many demons underestimate humans. Neither group learns until reality corrects their assumptions."
"Spoken like someone who's done her share of assumption correcting."
The comment carries weight beyond casual observation. He knows my history, the circumstances that brought me to his household. Knows I didn't arrive as a willing servant but as someone with limited choices and fewer options.
But he's never treated me like damaged goods or a victim to be pitied. From the beginning, he's interacted with me as if my thoughts and opinions have value, as if I'm more than just another warm body to perform household tasks.
It's one of the things that drew my attention in the first place—the careful respect he shows everyone in his employ, regardless of their species or station. The way he listens when people speak to him, considers their input before making decisions that affect their lives.
The way he looks at me sometimes, like right now, as if what I think actually matters to him.
"Tell me about the spice contracts," I say, leaning forward slightly. "Are we looking at supply issues this winter?"
