Page 2 of Demon Daddy's Baby Girl

"Sorry—I didn't mean—" My words slur together, and the suspicious glares around me multiply.

I need out. I need air. The walls of brightly colored fabrics and bodies seem to close in on me, and the scents of food I cannot afford turn my empty stomach. With one hand protectively over my belly, I push through the crowd, aiming for a narrow alley that might lead away from this chaos.

"You there! Human!"

My heart stutters. I don't look back to see who called—can't risk it. My feet move faster, carrying me away from the marketplace and into the blessed shadows of a side street. The sounds of commerce fade slightly, replaced by the distant rumble of carriage wheels on cobblestones.

"We're almost safe," I whisper to my child, pressing my palm against a sharp kick. "Just a little longer."

But my body betrays me. My knees buckle, and I stumble against the rough stone wall. Dark spots dance across my vision. I've pushed too hard, too long. My hand searches for something to hold, finding only air as I slide down the wall.

"Can't... stop here." My voice breaks on a sob. "Need to... keep going."

My head lists to one side, too heavy to hold upright. Through blurry vision, I survey the narrow passage. No windows overlook this particular stretch, no doors open onto it. Just stone walls and packed dirt beneath me. Not the worst place to die, perhaps, but a terrible place to bring life into the world.

Because that's what's happening, isn't it? The wetness I feel between my legs—my water has broken.

"No," I whisper, panic rising like bile in my throat. "Not here. Not now. Please."

I try to push myself up, but my arms tremble and give way beneath me. My body has nothing left to give. Eight months of pregnancy, three months of running, and who knows how many days of starvation have taken their toll.

"I'm so sorry, little one." Tears track down my filthy cheeks as I curl protectively around my belly. "I tried. I tried so hard to get us away."

Another cramp rips through me, stronger than before. I bite back a scream, knowing it would only draw unwanted attention. My fingers dig into the dirt beneath me.

"Please." I'm not sure who I'm begging—the Seven, the universe, my own failing body. "Please don't let him find us."

Because if Kaelith finds me, I know what awaits. He'll take our child—our daughter, I'm somehow certain—and discard me like the broken possession he's always considered me to be. Or worse, keep me alive just to make me suffer for daring to flee.

The sky above shifts, the eternal crimson deepening as night approaches. The shadows lengthen, and with them, my fear grows. I won't survive another night on these streets—not like this, not in labor.

My eyelids grow impossibly heavy. The pain recedes into a dull throb as my consciousness begins to slip. In the distance, I hear footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. Coming closer.

Fear spikes through me, jolting me momentarily from the fog of exhaustion. I should hide. Should crawl deeper into the shadows. Should do something—anything—to protect my child.

But my body won't respond. My limbs lie useless, my mind slowly surrendering to the darkness that promises, if nothing else, a temporary escape from pain.

The footsteps grow louder. My eyes flutter closed.

"Kaelith," I whisper, the name both a curse and a prayer. "Don't let it be you."

The darkness claims me before I can see who approaches.

2

ROLFO

Ipatrol the quieter side streets of the main city square with practiced efficiency, silver eyes scanning every corner and shadow. My boots scuff against the uneven cobblestones as I adjust the weight of my uniform—black leather armor emblazoned with the guard's insignia, heavier in the day's oppressive heat. The red sky casts everything in a perpetual crimson twilight, even at midday.

The market district thins out here, where the respectable shops give way to cramped apartments and questionable establishments. Most citizens know better than to cause trouble on my route. I've cultivated that reputation carefully.

My hand rests casually on the hilt of my sword as I round the corner past a shuttered apothecary. Nothing unusual catches my attention—just the typical street scene of a few merchants packing their unsold wares, a drunk sleeping it off in a doorway, a couple of lunox fighting over scraps.

Until I see her.

At first glance, she's just another bundle of rags in the shadow of an alley tucked between two buildings. Probably another drunk or addict. Maybe a corpse—wouldn't be the first I've found this month. But something about the shape makes me pause mid-stride.

"Demons below," I mutter, moving closer.

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