Page 3 of The Demon's Little Girl
"Perfect, as always."
The praise shouldn't make my stomach flutter the way it does. He's complimenting the food, not me. I'm just the messenger. But something about the way his eyes linger on my face makes it feel more personal than it should.
"I should let you eat in peace?—"
"Sit."
The word is quiet but unmistakably a command. My eyes widen slightly as I look back at him, caught off-guard by the unexpected instruction.
"Sir?"
"You know I hate when you call me that." But I do it so I have the reminder. "Sit with me." He gestures to the chair across from his desk, the one usually reserved for business associates and visiting merchants. "You haven't eaten yet, have you?"
I hesitate, glancing toward the door. This isn't part of our usual routine. I bring his food, we exchange pleasantries, and I leave him to work in solitude. Sharing a meal feels... intimate in a way that makes my pulse race.
"I was planning to eat in the kitchens?—"
"Liora." There's something almost gentle in the way he says my name, like he's coaxing a skittish animal. "Sit. Please."
The 'please' undoes me completely. I move to the offered chair, settling onto the cushioned seat with as much grace as I can manage. The distance across his desk suddenly feels both too far and not nearly far enough.
Rovak tears a piece of bread in half and slides it across the polished wood toward me, along with the pot of honey Tom had reminded me about. The gesture is so casual, so natural, that it takes me a moment to fully register what's happening.
"I can't—" I start to protest.
"You can." He's already spreading honey on his own piece of bread, those large hands surprisingly deft with the small knife. "When's the last time you sat down for a proper meal instead of grabbing whatever's convenient between tasks?"
The question catches me off-guard because I can't actually remember. There's always something that needs doing, someone who needs help, a reason to eat quickly while standing in the kitchen before moving on to the next responsibility.
"That's what I thought." He takes a bite of the honey-sweetened bread, watching me with those unreadable dark eyes. "Eat."
I pick up the bread, still warm from Akira's ovens, and break off a small piece. The honey is golden and thick, probably from the hives Tom tends on the far side of the estate. It tastes like sunshine and summer flowers, rich and comforting on my tongue.
"Better?" Rovak asks, and there's something almost amused in his expression.
"Much." I take another bite, allowing myself to actually taste it this time instead of wolfing it down between chores. "Thank you."
"So." He leans back in his chair, cradling his mug of kafek between both hands. "What's on your agenda for today?"
The question surprises me. Masters don't typically ask about their servants' daily plans, beyond ensuring the work gets done. But here's Rovak, looking genuinely interested in my answer.
He's always been different in ways I shouldn't think about.
"Well, Akira wants help preparing for the market trip tomorrow. We're running low on several spices, and she has a list of specific merchants she wants to visit." I count off tasks on my fingers. "The guest rooms need airing out—not that we're expecting anyone, but she insists on keeping them ready. And Tom mentioned the garden tools need sharpening before the autumn planting."
"Busy day, then."
"Always." I smile despite myself. "But I like staying busy. Gives me less time to think."
The moment the words leave my mouth, I realize how they sound. Less time to think about what? About the comfortable life I've built here? About the master who treats me with more kindness than I know what to do with?
About the way my heart skips when he smiles at me like he's doing right now?
"And what terrible thoughts are you trying to avoid?" There's a teasing note in his voice that makes my cheeks warm.
"Oh, you know. The usual servant concerns. Whether the laundry will dry properly, if the roof needs repairs before the autumn rains start." I take another bite of bread to give myself time to think. "Deeply philosophical stuff."
Rovak actually chuckles—a low, rumbling sound that I feel as much as hear. The rare display of genuine amusement transforms his entire face, softening the harsh angles and making him look younger, more approachable.
