Page 12 of The Demon's Little Girl
The tears come in waves—silent, bitter things that leak from my closed eyes without permission. Each sob that builds in my chest gets swallowed down, transformed into the kind of dry heave that leaves me gasping and shaking but produces nothing. My body wants to purge itself, to expel the violation through anymeans possible, but there's nothing left inside me except hollow ache.
I should get up. Should straighten my clothes and return to my duties like nothing happened. Should smile and nod and pretend that the world hasn't fundamentally shifted on its axis in the space between one heartbeat and the next.
But I can't move. Can't imagine standing on legs that feel broken even though I know they're not. Can't picture walking through corridors where he might appear around any corner with that triumphant smile and the knowledge that I belong to him now in ways I never wanted to belong to anyone.
The sound of approaching footsteps sends panic shooting through my system like lightning. I scramble upright, fingers fumbling to straighten my disheveled clothing and smooth down hair that feels wrong against my scalp. My reflection in that same decorative vase shows a girl I barely recognize—hollow-eyed and pale, with something fundamental missing from her expression.
But the footsteps are lighter than Xharn's, quicker and more purposeful in a way that speaks to efficiency rather than predatory leisure. When the door opens, it's Avenor who steps through, his silver hair catching the light as his navy eyes scan the room with the automatic precision of someone trained to notice details others might miss.
Those sharp eyes find me immediately, taking in my defensive posture against the bookshelf and whatever my face is currently revealing despite my best efforts to school it into neutrality.
"There you are." Relief colors his voice before concern takes over, head tilting slightly as he studies my appearance. "I've been looking everywhere for you."
I clear my throat, trying to find my voice among the wreckage of the last hour. "I was cleaning."
"Akira said she hadn't seen you in a while. Started worrying when you missed the afternoon tea preparation." He takes a step closer, and I have to fight not to flinch away from the movement. "You never miss tea prep."
He's right. I never do. It's one of the small routines that keeps me grounded, the careful attention to temperature and timing that makes each cup perfect for Rovak when he returns from whatever business has kept him away.
But the thought of preparing tea with hands that still shake, of moving through the kitchen where other staff might notice something wrong in my face or posture, makes fresh nausea roll through my stomach.
"I lost track of time."
Avenor's pointed ears twitch slightly—a tell I've learned means he's not buying whatever explanation he's being offered. But instead of pressing for details, he simply nods and extends one hand in my direction.
"Come on. Let's get you back to your room."
The kindness in the gesture nearly undoes me completely. I want to collapse into it, to tell him everything and let someone else carry the weight of what just happened. But Xharn's words echo in my mind with poisonous clarity—spoiled goods, ruined, honor demands it.
I can't risk it. Can't risk losing the only safe harbor I've ever known by admitting what I've become.
"I'm fine." The lie tastes like ash on my tongue. "Just tired."
"Liora." My name carries gentle authority, the kind of tone he uses when he's made a decision and won't be argued out of it. "You're pale as a sheet and shaking like a leaf. Whatever's wrong, you don't have to carry it alone."
The tears threaten again at his quiet concern, but I blink them back ruthlessly. Crying will only invite questions I can't answer, sympathy I don't deserve anymore.
"Nothing's wrong."
He studies my face for a long moment, and I see the exact instant he decides not to push. It's there in the slight softening around his eyes, the way his shoulders settle into acceptance rather than interrogation.
"Alright." He doesn't believe me, but he's choosing to respect my boundaries anyway. "But you're coming back to your room regardless. Doctor's orders."
"You're not a doctor."
"Close enough." The hint of his usual dry humor creeps into his voice, though it's gentler than normal. "I've patched up enough idiots to qualify."
He waits patiently while I gather what remains of my composure, then falls into step beside me as we leave the sitting room. The corridor feels endless, each step requiring conscious effort as my legs remember how to function despite feeling disconnected from the rest of me.
Avenor doesn't try to fill the silence with conversation, doesn't ask probing questions or offer platitudes about whatever he thinks might be bothering me. He just walks beside me like a steady presence, ready to catch me if I stumble but not crowding me with unwanted support.
When we reach my small room, he follows me inside and settles into the single chair with casual familiarity. We've done this before—not often, but enough times that it feels natural rather than intrusive. Usually after particularly difficult days when the weight of servitude presses heavier than normal, or when nightmares about my life before Rovak's estate make sleep impossible.
But this is different. This is contamination and shame and the knowledge that everything I thought I knew about my place in the world just crumbled into dust.
I perch on the edge of my narrow bed, hands folded in my lap to hide their trembling, and try to figure out how to exist in this new reality where I'm no longer the person I was this morning.
"Want to talk about it?" The question comes without judgment, an offer rather than a demand.
