Page 19 of Demon Daddy's Baby Girl

ROLFO

Irise before dawn, moving silently through the house like a shadow. Even on my day off, old habits die hard. The first thing I do is check the perimeter—a quick patrol of windows and doors, testing latches, peering through curtains at the empty street outside. The rituals of security are as natural as breathing.

Sephy's cries pull me from my rounds. They're soft at first, then build with determination. Before Aurelie can stir, I'm at the drawer-turned-cradle, lifting the tiny bundle with hands that have broken bones but somehow know exactly how to support her delicate head.

"Easy there, little one," I murmur, my voice so low it's barely audible. "Your mother needs sleep."

Sephy's violet eyes find mine in the dim light, her cries quieting to curious gurgles. For someone so small, she has an intensity about her—like she's memorizing my face, deciding whether I'm worthy of trust.

I carry her to the kitchen, warming milk according to Ada's precise instructions. The small vial of herbs sits nearby—a drop in the milk helps with digestion, Ada insists. I measure it with the concentration of a man defusing a bomb.

Aurelie appears in the doorway just as I settle into my chair with Sephy cradled in one arm, bottle ready in my other hand.

"I could have—" she starts, then hesitates.

"You were sleeping," I say simply. "First time in days. Go back to bed."

She doesn't move, watching as Sephy eagerly accepts the bottle. Her auburn hair falls in messy waves around her face, and there's a crease on her cheek from the pillow. Something in my chest tightens at the sight.

"I can take her," she offers, but I hear the exhaustion behind the words.

"I got her." I nod toward her room. "Few more hours won't hurt. Big day ahead."

Curiosity flickers across her face, but she doesn't ask. Trust comes slowly between us, built in these small moments of consideration. After a moment's hesitation, she retreats to her room, the door clicking softly behind her.

Once Sephy is fed and changed, I place her back in her makeshift crib, watching until her eyes flutter closed. I eye the temporary bedding, knowing she deserves better. Then I get to work.

My tools are laid out on the floor of my study—my former study. The room is small but gets good morning light. Perfect for a nursery. I've been planning this for days, sketching designs when Aurelie is asleep, gathering materials in the early hours before she wakes.

The obsidian wood is my prized possession—rare, with deep black-purple grain that seems to shift in the light. I've had it for years, saving it for something special. Something worthy.

The saw bites into the wood with precise strokes. I lose myself in the rhythm of it—measuring twice, cutting once. The frame takes shape under my hands: a cradle with gently curving sides, strong enough to last generations but delicate enough for a child as small as Sephy.

Sweat beads on my forehead as the morning stretches into afternoon. The sounds of hammering echo through the small house. Each nail is driven with calculated force—enough to secure, not enough to split the precious wood.

I sand each piece meticulously, rubbing the grain with hands calloused from years of hard work. The wood warms under my touch, revealing deeper colors with each pass of the sandpaper. I become so absorbed in my task that I don't hear Aurelie until she speaks from the doorway.

"What are you making?"

I look up, suddenly self-conscious. Sawdust clings to my clothes and hair. The half-assembled cradle sits before me, its purpose unmistakable.

"She needs a proper place to sleep," I say gruffly. "That drawer won't do much longer."

Aurelie steps closer, her fingers hovering over the smooth curve of the headboard. "It's beautiful."

Pride mingles with embarrassment at her praise. I'm not used to creating things of beauty—my hands are better suited to weapons, to fighting, to hunting down those who break our laws.

"The wood," she says, tracing the dark grain. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Obsidian wood. From the northern forests." I run my palm over the surface. "Hard to come by these days."

"And you're using it for Sephy's crib?"

I shrug, uncomfortable with the question's implications. "Been saving it. Seemed right."

She doesn't press further, but her eyes linger on my hands as they return to their work. I feel her watching as I fit each spindle with meticulous care, testing the strength of each joint before moving to the next.

"The market opens soon," she says finally. "For the mattress and blankets. I could go?—"

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