Page 14 of Demon Daddy's Nanny

The kitchen feels different at night. During the day it bustles with activity - servants rushing about, pots clanging, ovens blazing. Now it's still, peaceful. Like it belongs to me alone.

I light a small oil lamp, keeping the flame low. The familiar scent of yeast and sugar lingers in the air. My fingers trail along the smooth countertop as I make my way to the pantry. Inside, rows of glass jars glint in the lamplight. There - the honey cakes I baked this morning.

A floorboard creaks somewhere in the darkness and I freeze, heart jumping. But it's just the old house settling. I've been here long enough to know its sounds, yet something about the night makes everything feel... different. More alive somehow.

I grab a cake and settle onto the window seat, drawing my knees up to my chest. Outside, the moons of Aerasak paint New Solas in shades of silver and blue. The city sprawls beneath theestate like a blanket of stars, golden spires reaching toward the sky. During the day it's almost too bright to look at, all that gleaming metal and magic. But now, in the quiet hours, it feels almost peaceful.

The honey cake melts on my tongue, sweet and familiar. I close my eyes, savoring it. These moments alone are rare - no duties, no expectations, no need to prove my worth. Just me and the night and the simple pleasure of something I created with my own hands.

A cool breeze whispers through the kitchen, making the lamp flame dance. Shadows shift across the walls like living things. But I'm not afraid of the dark anymore. Sometimes I think I understand it better than the light.

The honey cake's sweetness still lingers on my tongue as I make my way back through the quiet halls. A faint golden glow catches my eye - light spilling from beneath the training hall doors. Strange for this hour.

My feet move before I can stop them. The massive wooden doors stand ajar, and I peek through the gap. My breath catches.

Ridwan moves through combat forms with lethal grace, muscles rippling beneath bronze skin that gleams with sweat. His massive wings arc behind him, golden feathers catching the lamplight as he executes a perfect spinning strike. The training sword whistles through the air.

I should leave. I shouldn't watch him like this, shouldn't notice how his dark hair falls in his eyes or the way his jaw clenches with each precise movement. But I'm rooted to the spot, mesmerized by the raw power in every strike, the control in each careful step.

It’s not like I haven't noticed before how handsome he is. I’ve just tried so hard to squash that thought - though it feels near impossible right now.

A scar traces down his left cheek, stark against his skin. His expression is intense, focused - the same look he gets when reviewing reports or speaking with his generals. Always the commander, even alone in the dead of night.

He spins again, wings flaring for balance, and I catch a glimpse of more scars across his broad chest and shoulders. Each one tells a story of battles fought, victories won. Of a warrior who traded his sword for a desk but never truly left the fight behind.

The wooden practice sword slams into a training dummy with enough force to crack it. Ridwan's chest heaves as he steps back, golden eyes narrowed at his target. So much carefully contained strength. So much control.

My hand trembles against the door frame. I need to go, now, before he notices me. Before I have to explain why I'm standing here staring at him like some love-struck fool. But my feet won't move, trapped by the sight of him, by the way the lamplight plays across his skin, by the dangerous grace of his movements.

My fingers dig into the wooden doorframe as I watch him, heat rising to my cheeks. Sweat glistens on his shoulders, highlighting the defined planes of muscle that shift with each precise movement. His wings sweep out in a deadly arc as he spins, the golden feathers catching lamplight like liquid metal.

The sharp line of his jaw, the intensity in those amber eyes, the way his dark waves fall across his forehead - I've always known he was attractive. But this... this is different. This isn't the controlled, distant commander who sits behind his desk. This is pure power unleashed.

Another strike lands with bone-crushing force. His chest rises and falls with controlled breaths, each one highlighting the sculpted muscle beneath bronze skin. Scars map stories across his torso - some thin and precise, others jagged and brutal.Each one speaks of battles fought, of a warrior who earned his position through blood and steel rather than politics.

My mouth goes dry as he executes a complex series of forms, wings spreading wide for balance. The raw strength in his movements steals my breath. But it's the focus in his eyes, the absolute control in each strike that makes my heart race. Even alone, even in the dead of night, he maintains that iron discipline.

I try to force myself to leave, but I can’t, not when I’m so focused on memorizing the way shadows play across his face or how his muscles flex with each powerful movement. But I can't look away. Can't stop wondering what it would feel like to have all that controlled strength focused on me.

Heat floods my face at the thought. This is madness. He's my employer, Annalise's father. I have no business standing here in my nightclothes, staring at him like some moonstruck girl. But still I linger, trapped by the deadly grace of his movements, by the warrior's heart that beats beneath the commander's carefully maintained facade.

My heart nearly stops when I shift and Ridwan's movements freeze mid-strike. His wings fold against his back, the golden feathers rustling in the silence. He turns, and those piercing amber eyes lock onto mine through the gap in the doorway.

I step back, pulse thundering. Of course he sensed me - xaphan perception far outmatches human senses. Heat crawls up my neck at being caught staring like some foolish girl. A part of me wonders how long he’s known I was here.

"Couldn't sleep?" His voice is different than I've ever heard it - lower, gentler, without the sharp edge of command that usually colors his words. It makes my stomach flip in ways I desperately try to ignore.

Sweat still gleams on his bronze skin, highlighting the network of scars that map his torso. His dark hair falls in dampwaves across his forehead, softening the usual severity of his features. The practice sword dangles loose in his grip, and his wings shift slightly, catching the lamplight.

I should apologize for intruding. Should explain myself or at least say something. But my tongue feels tied in knots under that golden gaze. He's looking at me with an expression I can't quite read - something between curiosity and... something else that makes my pulse quicken.

The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken things. He takes a step closer, and I have to fight the urge to retreat. Not from fear - never that. But from the way my body reacts to his proximity, to the raw power still emanating from him in waves.

His eyes haven't left mine, and I feel stripped bare beneath that intense focus. Like he can see right through my flimsy nightdress to all the inappropriate thoughts I've been having about him. The heat in my cheeks deepens.

"No, I couldn’t." The words come out softer than intended. "I was getting something from the kitchen."

"At this hour?" His wings shift, feathers catching the light as he moves closer. The practice sword finds its rack with barely a sound.

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