Page 27 of The Demon's Little Girl
I've been back for three days, and I still feel like I'm waiting for the other boot to drop.
Rovak hasn't yelled. Hasn't demanded explanations. Hasn't even asked where I've been beyond that first stilted conversation where I gave him nothing but silence and he accepted it like it was reasonable.
He brings me meals himself sometimes, says maybe ten words total, and leaves again. His dark eyes watch me with something I can't name—not anger, not disappointment. Something softer and more dangerous that makes my chest tight with feelings I thought I'd buried.
I spent two years teaching myself to forget the way he'd look at me during our morning tea sessions, like I was worth listening to. The way his rare smiles would transform his entire face, making him look younger and less like the intimidating trade master everyone else saw. I convinced myself I'd imagined his gentleness, turned it into something romantic in my head because I was lonely and foolish and too naive to understand the difference between kindness and interest.
But now I'm here, and he's being careful with me in a way that makes all those defensive walls I built start to crumble. He doesn't touch me—keeps a respectful distance even when Nalla reaches for him with her grabbing hands and delighted squeals. Like he's afraid I'll bolt again if he moves too fast.
Maybe I would.
The uncertainty is killing me. I keep waiting for him to remember what I am—a runaway servant who disappeared without a word or warning, who cost him time and money and worry. Who came back carrying another demon's child like some kind of cruel joke. Any moment now, he'll realize I don't belong here anymore, that whatever strange consideration he's showing me is misplaced charity.
I haven't been given any duties. No one's told me where I'm supposed to work or what my schedule should be. And I've been avoiding everyone—especially Akira and Tom. I'm existing in some strange limbo where I'm fed and housed but serve no purpose, like a guest who's overstayed her welcome but no one has the heart to throw out.
The waiting is worse than punishment would be.
Avenor knocks on my door after dinner, the same quiet double-tap he's always used. When I call for him to enter, he slips inside with his usual fluid grace, silver hair catching the lamplight as he closes the door behind him.
"How are you settling in?"
It's such a normal question, delivered in his familiar dry tone, that something in my chest loosens slightly. This, at least, hasn't changed. Avenor still moves through the world with that sharp-edged awareness that never misses anything important, but he's never used it to make me feel small.
"Fine." The lie tastes bitter. I'm sitting on the bed with Nalla curled against my side, her small body warm and solid and the only anchor I have to sanity. "Everyone's been... kind."
His navy eyes narrow slightly. "Kind. Right. You sound thrilled about it."
Trust Avenor to cut straight through pleasantries to the uncomfortable truth underneath. He leans against the wall near the window, arms crossed, studying me with the patience of someone who's willing to wait for actual answers instead of polite deflection.
"I'm grateful," I try again, but the words sound hollow even to me.
"Grateful." He tastes the word like it's gone sour. "For what, exactly? Being allowed to exist in your own room without purpose or responsibility? That doesn't sound much like you."
It doesn't sound like me because it isn't me. The old me—the one who belonged here—had a place, a function. I knew where I fit in the careful hierarchy of the household, knew what was expected of me and when. I had breakfast conversations with Rovak that felt like the best part of my day, work that kept my hands busy and my mind focused. I had a life that felt almost normal if I didn't think too hard about the circumstances that brought me here.
Now I'm a stranger wearing my own face, sleeping in a room that feels too much like the past while carrying a future that doesn't belong in either place.
Nalla stirs against me, making one of her soft sleep sounds, and I automatically adjust my position to keep her comfortable. The movement is instinctive now—two years of being the only thing standing between her and a world that doesn't welcome half-demon children has rewired my reflexes around her needs.
"She's beautiful," Avenor says quietly, and there's genuine warmth in his voice. "Looks like you."
"She's better than me." The words come out fiercer than I intended. "She's innocent. Whatever else... she doesn't deserve to pay for any of it."
Something shifts in Avenor's expression, a sharpening that makes me realize I've revealed more than I meant to. He pushes away from the wall, moving closer with the careful precision he uses when he's trying not to spook something wounded.
"Pay for what?"
I shake my head, throat tight. These are dangerous waters, the kind that lead to questions I can't answer without destroying what little peace we've managed to find. "Nothing. I just... I know how people look at her. What they think."
"What they think about what?"
His voice is gentler now, coaxing rather than demanding, and it makes something inside me want to break open and spill everything at his feet. The loneliness. The fear. The shame that follows me like a shadow, whispering that I'm dirty now, ruined, not fit for the life I used to have.
But I can't. Won't. The truth would shatter too many things, and I'm not strong enough to handle the pieces.
"She's half-demon," I say instead, focusing on the easier explanation. "Born to a human servant who ran away and came back with no explanation. It's not exactly complicated math to know the what's being said."
Avenor settles into the chair near the bed, close enough that I can see the understanding in his eyes. Too much understanding. Like he's filling in details I haven't given him and coming to conclusions that make his jaw tighten with suppressed anger.
