Page 21 of Demon Daddy's Baby Girl

"These are perfect," she murmurs, holding up a soft cotton sleeper in pale yellow. "How did you know what size to get?"

I shrug, uncomfortable with the question. "Guessed."

The truth is I'd spent nearly an hour at the merchant's stall, comparing sizes against the memory of Sephy's tiny form, ignoring the knowing smiles of the vendor as I deliberated over colors and fabrics.

"Well, your guesses were good." Aurelie's smile reaches her eyes—a rare occurrence that transforms her face. "Should we try this one on her?"

Sephy hasn't gone to sleep yet, her violet eyes tracking our movements. But I don't want to bother her when she's already laying down.

"She seems happy enough as she is," I say, but Aurelie's already gathering the baby up.

"Babies need clothes, Rolfo. Even happy ones." There's a lightness in her voice I haven't heard before. "Besides, don't you want to see how she looks in what you picked out?"

I grunt noncommittally, but find myself moving closer, watching as Aurelie expertly maneuvers tiny limbs into even tinier sleeves. Sephy protests with a whimper that might become a full cry, but Aurelie hums softly, a melody I don't recognize. The sound calms both the baby and something restless inside me.

"There," she says finally, lifting Sephy up for my inspection. "What do you think?"

The yellow fabric makes Sephy's eyes appear even more violet, her wispy silver-blonde curls standing out in stark contrast. She kicks experimentally, testing the new sensation of cloth against her skin, then focuses intently on my face.

"Looks good," I manage, though the words feel inadequate. "Suits her."

Aurelie's smile broadens. "I think she approves too. Look at her—she knows she's pretty."

As if understanding the compliment, Sephy makes a gurgling sound, her tiny mouth curving just slightly upward.

"Smart kid," I mutter, turning away to hide the unexpected surge of something dangerously close to affection. "Shelf won't put itself up."

I busy myself with the wooden planks I've cut to fit between the wall studs—simple shelves for the small collection of infant necessities that seems to grow daily. The rhythmic work of measuring, drilling, and securing the brackets gives my hands purpose while my mind circles around the strange new reality I find myself in.

Behind me, Aurelie continues chattering to Sephy, her voice soft and melodic. "See that grumpy man with the drill? He acts all tough, but he bought you yellow because he thought you'd look pretty in it. And he was right, wasn't he?"

I don't correct her assumption, though the truth is more practical—yellow was neutral, neither too feminine nor masculine, unlikely to stain as badly as white. But something about her version feels right, so I let it stand.

The afternoon passes in comfortable industry. I finish the shelves and move on to securing the window latch—an unnecessary precaution given we're on the second floor, but old habits die hard. Aurelie organizes the baby supplies, arranging them on the new shelves with the precision of someone unaccustomed to having possessions of their own.

As evening approaches, she hangs a tiny crocheted blanket over the edge of the cradle—a gift from Ada, vibrant with colors that remind me of spring. The simple gesture transforms the space, making it feel less like a room I've repurposed and more like a place where a child will grow. My handiwork forms the bones, but her touches bring it to life.

"It feels real now," she says softly, standing back to survey our work. "Like a real nursery."

I follow her gaze around the room—the obsidian wood cradle with its carved stars and birds, the oak dresser filled with tiny clothes, the rocking chair angled to catch the morning light, the shelves now lined with necessities and small comforts. Not extravagant, but solid. Secure.

"It is real," I answer simply.

That night, after a quiet dinner and Sephy's evening feeding, I find Aurelie lingering in the doorway of the nursery, watching her daughter sleep in her new cradle. Her posture speaks of exhaustion—shoulders slightly curved, weight shifted to one hip as if standing upright requires too much effort.

"She's settled," I say quietly, coming to stand beside her. "Seems to like the new arrangements."

"She does." Aurelie's voice contains both relief and something heavier. "I just... I keep thinking I should watch her. Make sure she's breathing."

I understand the fear beneath her words. "First night in a new bed. Natural to worry."

"Every night," she corrects softly. "I worry every night."

The admission hangs between us, raw and honest. I've seen enough in my years as a guardsman to know the weight of constant vigilance—how it wears on the soul, how it steals sleep and peace.

"My room's closer than yours," I point out. "I'll hear if she gets fussy. You need rest, Aurelie."

She turns to face me, her hazel eyes searching mine. "You've done so much already."

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