Page 18 of The Demon's Little Girl
A knock on the study door interrupts the spiral.
"Enter."
Avenor steps inside, his usually cocky demeanor subdued in that particular way that means he's been watching me too closely again. His navy blue eyes take in my appearance with the assessment of someone trained to read threats and weaknesses—noting, no doubt, the tension in my shoulders and the way my jaw keeps clenching despite my efforts to appear calm.
"The merchants from Lorthak are here for the morning meeting," he reports, but his tone suggests that's not why he's really here.
"Fine. Show them to the office. I'll be along shortly."
He doesn't move toward the door. Instead, he shifts his weight in that subtle way that means he's considering saying something he knows I won't want to hear.
"Spit it out."
"You look like shit," he says bluntly, because Avenor has never believed in diplomatic phrasing when direct honesty will suffice. "When's the last time you slept through the night?"
"My sleep patterns aren't your concern."
"They are when they affect your judgment during business negotiations." His pointed ears twitch slightly—a tell that means he's annoyed but trying to control it. "The Vorthek traders commented on your... distraction during last week's meeting."
Heat flares behind my breastbone. Bad enough that I can't stop thinking about her; worse that it's become obvious enough for others to notice. My reputation depends on being unshakeable, coldly competent in ways that make other demons think twice before attempting to cheat or manipulate me.
"I'm handling my business just fine."
"Are you?" He takes a step closer, lowering his voice despite the fact that we're alone. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're driving yourself crazy chasing shadows."
The accusation hits too close to the truth for comfort. I've been tracking whisper networks and trade rumors with obsessive thoroughness, following every thread that might conceivably lead back to her. Merchants who deal in passage for humans seeking new opportunities. Ship captains known for asking few questions about their passengers. Trade routes that intersect with northern settlements where humans sometimes gather.
All of it has yielded exactly nothing.
"She didn't just vanish," I say, the words coming out harsher than intended. "People don't disappear without leaving traces."
"Some do." Avenor's expression gentles slightly, which somehow makes this conversation worse. "Especially when they don't want to be found."
The suggestion that Liora might be actively avoiding discovery—that her absence might be intentional rather than circumstantial—sends fresh anger coursing through my veins. Not at her, but at the situation, at my own inability to understand what went wrong between one day and the next.
"She wouldn't just leave," I insist, though even as I say it, doubt gnaws at the certainty I'm trying to project. "Not without reason. Not without..."
Without what? Without saying goodbye to the demon who owned her? Without explanation to someone who never gave her cause to think her feelings mattered beyond basic courtesy?
The truth is, I don't know what Liora was thinking when she left. Don't know if something happened that frightened her, or if she simply grew tired of a life where her choices weren't entirely her own. The not knowing is the worst part—worse than herabsence, worse than the empty spaces where her presence used to bring warmth.
"Maybe she did have reason," Avenor suggests quietly. "Maybe something happened that you don't know about."
"Like what?"
He shrugs, but there's something careful in the gesture that makes my spine straighten. Avenor knows something, or suspects something, that he's not sharing. The realization hits like cold water.
"What aren't you telling me?"
"Nothing concrete." But his ears twitch again, and he won't quite meet my gaze. "Just... the day before she left, I found her in the east wing. She looked upset. Shaken."
"Why didn't you mention this before?"
"Because she asked me not to." The admission comes reluctantly, pulled from him by months of watching me tear myself apart. "Said she was fine, that it was nothing important. I believed her."
The east wing houses guest quarters and storage rooms, areas Liora would clean but no one should have been. If something happened there—if someone hurt her or threatened her in ways that made staying impossible...
My hands curl into fists before I can stop them, claws extending slightly as fury builds behind my ribs. The idea that someone might have harmed her while she was under my protection, in my own estate, makes violence seem not just acceptable but necessary.
