Page 21 of The Demon's Little Girl
"Tom cares about you. We all do." Avenor settles into the chair across from my desk—Liora's chair—and I have to fight the urge to snarl at him for the presumption. "When's the last time you slept more than a few hours?"
Sleep. As if I could simply close my eyes and find peace when every dream brings her back to me, vivid and warm and whole, only to tear her away again when morning comes. As if rest ispossible when guilt gnaws at my bones like acid, reminding me that I should have been here when she needed protection most.
"I sleep enough."
"Walking the corridors at three in the morning doesn't count as sleep." His pointed ears twitch—a tell I've learned to read over the years. Avenor's annoyed, which means he's about to say something I definitely don't want to hear. "Especially when you spend half that time standing outside her old quarters like you're waiting for something."
Heat flares behind my sternum, the kind of burning rage that usually precedes violence. But this is Avenor, and despite the fury building in my chest, I can't bring myself to lash out at one of the few people who've stayed by my side through this particular nightmare.
"Don't." The word comes out as more growl than speech. "Just don't."
"Someone needs to say it." He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, that direct stare never wavering. "She's not coming back, Rovak. Whatever happened to her?—"
"You think I don't know that?" The question explodes out of me with enough force to rattle the windows. Papers scatter from my desk as I surge to my feet, chair scraping against stone hard enough to leave gouges. "You think I haven't accepted that she's gone? That some part of me isn't still hoping she'll walk through that door and explain where she's been but Iknowthat won't happen?"
Avenor doesn't flinch, doesn't reach for his blade, doesn't show any of the survival instincts that kept him alive through years of palace intrigue and border skirmishes. He just sits there, weathering my rage like a seawall endures storms, waiting for the fury to exhaust itself.
"I know you know," he says quietly when my breathing steadies. "That's what makes this worse. You've accepted she'snot coming back, but you can't accept that you're still alive. You're existing, not living. There's a difference."
The truth in his words hits harder than any physical blow. I am existing—moving through days like a man underwater, going through motions that used to have meaning, fulfilling obligations that feel increasingly pointless. The trade empire I built still runs, still generates profit, still commands respect throughout the eastern ports. But none of it matters without her here to share it with.
"Stop hovering," I mutter, sinking back into my chair with less grace than I'd like. The fight drains out of me as quickly as it came, leaving behind the familiar weight of exhaustion. "I don't need a nursemaid."
"No, you need a friend. And friends don't let friends waste away because they're too proud to admit they're hurting."
Hurting. Such a small word for the cavity that's taken residence in my chest, the constant ache that colors every breath. Hurting suggests something temporary, something that heals with time and care. This feels more like amputation—the phantom pain of a limb that will never grow back.
I miss everything about her. The way she hummed while organizing my correspondence, completely unconscious of the melody. How she'd curl into a chair with a book and completely lose track of time, emerging from whatever story held her captive with rumpled hair and ink stains on her fingers. The careful way she'd pour tea, as if the ritual itself held some sacred meaning.
Our morning ritual where she'd bring me breakfast and she was always the first one that I saw.
Most of all, I miss the sound of her voice calling my name. Not 'master' or 'my lord'—just Rovak, spoken with warmth that made my name sound like something worth being called.
"She could be anywhere by now," I say, more to myself than to Avenor. "If she's even..." I can't finish the thought. Won't give voice to the possibility that haunts my darkest hours.
"If she were dead, you'd know." His certainty surprises me, and when I look up, something shifts in his expression. "She'd be easier to find."
I nod. "You're right."
He sighs. "I know that you two had a connection, but you have to let her go."
Connection. He makes it sound like there was something between us beyond master and servant, employer and employee. As if the careful friendship we built over morning meals and evening conversations meant something more than convenience. As if the way her presence settled something restless in my chest wasn't just imagination.
Maybe it wasn't imagination. Maybe she felt it too, whatever invisible thread seemed to tie us together during those quiet moments when the rest of the world fell away. Maybe that's why she left—because she sensed the dangerous territory we were approaching and decided escape was safer than staying to see where it led.
The thought brings a fresh wave of guilt. If my feelings drove her away, if she fled because she felt pressured or unsafe...
"You're doing it again." Avenor's voice cuts through the spiral of self-recrimination. "Blaming yourself for things beyond your control."
"Everything in this house is under my control. That's the point of having power."
"Not everything. Not people's choices. Not the forces that drive them to do things that don't make sense to the rest of us." He stands, straightening to his full height, and for a moment looks every inch the trained guard he used to be. "She made achoice to leave. Maybe it was the right choice for her, even if it was terrible for you."
Right choice. As if there could be anything right about the gaping wound her absence carved into my life. As if the sleepless nights and endless searching and constant ache of missing her could somehow be justified by her need for freedom.
But even as anger rises in my throat, I know he's not entirely wrong. I never wanted her to stay out of obligation or fear. Never wanted her to feel trapped by my feelings or my position or the power I held over her circumstances. If she needed to leave to find peace—even if it cost me mine—then maybe that's a price worth paying.
It doesn't make the paying any easier.
