Page 23 of Demon Daddy's Baby Girl

Sephy stirs against me, threatening to start crying again, and I resume my slow, steady pacing. Left foot, right foot, slight bounce, turn. A rhythm as old as parenthood.

"Sleep," I tell Aurelie, noticing her eyelids drooping despite her concern. "I've got her."

"I should stay up too," she protests, but her body betrays her with a heavy yawn.

"Pointless for both of us to wear tracks in the floor."

She curls up on the couch instead, pulling the throw blanket over herself, eyes still fixed on Sephy and me. "Wake me if her fever gets worse."

"Will do," I promise, continuing my steady circuit around the room.

Sephy alternates between fitful sleep and fussing throughout the night. She sleeps for twenty minutes, then wakes crying for thirty. I don't sit, don't stop moving. The constant motion seems to soothe her, and I've endured far worse discomforts than a night on my feet.

I hum sometimes—old battle songs stripped of their lyrics, slowed down to lullabies. I tell her stories of stars and distant cities, my voice pitched low, more vibration than sound. I promise her things I have no business promising—that she'll never know fear or hunger, that she'll grow up strong and free, that no one will ever use her or discard her.

My legs grow numb, then painful, then numb again. I ignore it. The weight of her against my chest becomes an anchor, the only thing that matters. Her fever ebbs and flows like the tide, her breath hot against my skin.

In the darkest part of the night, when even the nocturnal creatures have gone quiet, she looks up at me with those violet eyes—bright with fever but somehow lucid. Like she's memorizing my face, deciding something important.

"You're a stubborn one," I whisper to her. "Good. You'll need that."

Hours pass, measured only by the changing shadows on the wall. I lose track of time, focused only on the steady rhythm of movement. Left foot, right foot, slight bounce, turn. When Sephy's breathing finally deepens and her body relaxes fully against mine, I don't dare stop.

Dawn creeps in through the windows, painting the room in pale gold light. I'm still standing, knees locked to keep myself upright, when Aurelie stirs on the couch. She blinks awake, disoriented for a moment before her eyes find us.

"You're still up," she says, voice husky with sleep. "You've been standing all night?"

I shrug the shoulder not supporting Sephy's head. "She's sleeping now."

Aurelie rises, crossing to us with tentative steps. She places her palm gently against Sephy's forehead, then releases a shaky breath. "Her fever's broken."

The relief in her eyes mirrors something in my chest that I'm not ready to examine too closely. I continue swaying gently, the motion now as natural as breathing.

"You should have woken me," Aurelie chides softly. "Let me take turns."

"Wasn't necessary." My voice comes out rougher than intended, scraped raw from hours of low murmuring. "She knows your scent, your heartbeat. She would've woken fully if I'd handed her off."

Aurelie's gaze shifts from Sephy to my face, lingering there with an expression I can't quite decipher. "Thank you," she whispers.

I nod once, uncomfortable with her gratitude. Thanks isn't needed for doing what's necessary. For doing what's right.

Aurelie steps toward me, her movements fluid with that new mother's grace, eyes fixed on Sephy.

"She looks deep enough in sleep now," she whispers, arms extending. "And she'll need to feed soon anyway."

I hesitate—not from reluctance to surrender the baby, but from the strange fear that the moment I let go, Sephy's fever might return. Ridiculous. I know better than to believe in such superstitions.

As I transfer Sephy to her mother's waiting arms, our hands brush—her fingers cool against my overheated skin. The contact, brief as it is, sends an unexpected jolt through my system. I attribute it to exhaustion, nothing more.

"Careful," I murmur, though Aurelie needs no instruction on handling her own child. "She's finally settled."

Aurelie cradles Sephy with practiced ease, her movements gentle but confident. "You did well with her," she says, her voice barely audible. "She trusts you."

I watch as she crosses to the crib I built, the dark purple-black wood gleaming softly in the morning light. She lays Sephy down with infinite care, tucking the blanket around her tiny form, her hand lingering a moment longer than necessary on the baby's chest—feeling the rise and fall, reassuring herself.

The night catches up with me all at once. My legs, locked in position for hours, suddenly refuse to hold my weight. I make it to the couch before my knees buckle, dropping onto the cushions with none of my usual control. Every muscle aches with the peculiar hollow pain of extended vigilance.

Aurelie turns at the sound of my collapse, concern flashing across her features. Without a word, she disappears into the kitchen, returning moments later with a glass of water. She extends it toward me, and I take it, our fingers not quite touching this time.

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