Page 9 of The Demon's Little Girl
His eyebrows rise a fraction, surprise flickering across his features. Most people wouldn't follow up on business details that don't directly affect them, but I've always been curious about the broader patterns of his trade empire. Partly because understanding his work helps me anticipate his needs, but mostly because I genuinely find it interesting.
"Not anymore." He shifts in his chair, the movement bringing him fractionally closer. "Vorthak was trying to renegotiate pricing based on predicted shortages, but I'd already secured alternate suppliers weeks ago. His desperation just confirmed I made the right choice."
"Always one step ahead." I can't quite keep the admiration out of my voice. "That kind of planning must take incredible attention to detail."
"Experience more than cleverness." But pleasure colors his tone at the compliment. "You learn to read the signs when failure means losing everything you've worked to build."
The conversation flows easily after that, natural give-and-take that feels more like friendship than the careful politeness we usually maintain. He tells me about the ridiculous demands the merchant made, the increasingly creative excuses for his failures, the moment when Rovak finally stopped pretending to consider any compromise.
I find myself laughing more than I have in weeks, delighted by his dry observations and unexpected flashes of humor. He has a gift for mimicry when he chooses to use it, capturing the merchant's pompous mannerisms with subtle accuracy that makes his ultimate defeat all the more amusing.
"You're wicked when you want to be," I accuse after his particularly devastating impression of Vorthak's final, desperate plea for consideration.
"Only when dealing with people who mistake patience for weakness." His eyes glitter with dark amusement in the lamplight. "I prefer fair dealing when possible, but some individuals require firmer instruction."
The words carry an edge that reminds me exactly how dangerous Rovak can be when crossed. I've seen glimpses of the ruthless trader who built his fortune through careful calculation and iron determination. But somehow, that knowledge doesn't frighten me the way it probably should.
If anything, knowing that he chooses to be gentle with me, that his consideration isn't born from weakness but from conscious decision, makes the warmth in my chest burn brighter.
His gaze sharpens as he notices something, attention focusing with the intensity that makes my breath catch. Without warning, he leans forward across the desk, reaching toward my face with one large hand.
"You have..." His fingers brush against my cheek, barely more than a whisper of contact as he removes what must be a speck of dust or lint from my skin.
The touch lasts perhaps two seconds. Light enough that I might have imagined it if not for the way my entire body seems to spark at the contact, electricity racing along nerve endings that have no business responding so intensely to such an innocent gesture.
His hand hovers for a heartbeat longer than necessary, thumb ghosting across the spot where whatever it was had been. His skin is warm, slightly rough from years of physical work despite his current position. The scent of him surrounds me—something clean and masculine with hints of the spices he trades.
Then he pulls back, settling into his chair as if nothing happened, but the air between us still crackles with awareness that has nothing to do with the oil lamps' glow.
This is what drives me to distraction about him. These moments of careful distance punctuated by touches that feel like promises he never intends to keep. The way his eyes follow me sometimes when he thinks I'm not paying attention, heat in their depths that disappears the moment our gazes meet directly.
He wants me. I'm certain of it, have been for months now. But he maintains these careful boundaries, never crossing lines that might complicate the professional relationship we're supposed to have.
And I wish, desperately, that he would stop pretending the tension between us is entirely one-sided. That he would acknowledge what builds every time we're alone together, this tension that makes my skin feel too tight and my pulse race.
Instead, he reaches for his tea again, fingers steady despite the charged moment we just shared.
As if touching me means nothing to him at all.
4
LIORA
The morning sun filters through the tall windows as I work my way through the corridor with practiced efficiency, dust cloth moving in smooth strokes across each surface. Rovak left an hour ago for his quarterly meeting with the eastern trade council, which means I have the better part of the day to complete the deep cleaning that's harder to manage when the household runs at full capacity.
I prefer these quieter moments, when I can work without constantly measuring my movements against the presence of others. The rhythm of cleaning soothes something in me—the methodical attention to detail, the visible transformation from cluttered to organized, dusty to pristine.
The tall case clock in the main hall needs careful attention around its ornate moldings, and I stretch to reach the higher carved details, working the cloth into each groove and curve. Most of the staff avoids this particular piece since it requires a ladder, but I've always been nimble enough to manage if I'm careful about my footing on the narrow base.
Footsteps echo from the far end of the corridor, heavy and deliberate in a way that makes my shoulders tenseautomatically. I know that gait—measured, commanding, with an underlying swagger that speaks to someone who enjoys the effect his presence has on others.
Xharn.
My hands still on the cloth as I track the sound, hoping desperately that he'll turn down one of the side passages before reaching this section. But the footsteps continue steadily in my direction, and when I risk a glance over my shoulder, I see his imposing figure approaching with that predatory grace that makes my skin crawl.
He's dressed impeccably as always, dark fabrics that emphasize his massive frame and the sharp angles of his horns. Everything about his appearance screams wealth and power, from the heavy rings adorning his fingers to the way he carries himself like someone accustomed to having his desires met without question.
I turn back to my work, keeping my movements steady despite the way my pulse has quickened. Maybe if I appear busy enough, professional enough, he'll simply pass by with a nod or ignore me entirely.
