Page 24 of Demon Daddy's Baby Girl

The water is cool and sweet, washing away the grit in my throat. I drain the glass in three long swallows while Aurelie settles beside me on the couch. Not at the opposite end, maintaining the careful distance she's kept since arriving, but close enough that our shoulders touch. The contact is light—barely there—but in the quiet of early morning, it feels significant.

Neither of us speaks. The silence isn't uncomfortable, but weighted with something I can't name. Or perhaps don't want to.

I lean my head back, eyes closing briefly against the intrusion of morning sun through the windows. My body wants sleep, but my mind remains alert, hyperaware of Aurelie's proximity, of the subtle scent of meadowmint that clings to her hair, of the steady rhythm of her breathing.

"I don't want you to think I expect you to do all of this," she says finally, her voice breaking the silence. "You shouldn't have stayed up all night with her on your own."

I open my eyes, staring at the ceiling. "You needed the rest."

"And you don't?" A hint of challenge enters her tone.

I turn my head slightly to look at her. The morning light catches the auburn in her hair, bringing out copper highlights I hadn't noticed before. "I'm used to it."

"Going without sleep?"

"Standing guard."

Something shifts in her expression—understanding, perhaps. Or recognition. She knows what it is to remain vigilant, to prioritize another's safety above your own comfort. She's been doing it for months.

"Still," she says, quieter now, "you're not alone in this anymore."

The words hang between us, carrying more weight than their simple meaning suggests. I'm not sure how to respond, so I don't. Instead, I close my eyes again, feeling the solid warmth of her shoulder against mine, the surprising comfort of her presence.

The house settles around us, creaking softly with the warming day. Sephy's breathing remains deep and even from her crib. For the first time since bringing Aurelie and Sephy home, the atmosphere feels different—less like a temporary arrangement and more like... something else. Something I'm not ready to name.

Trust, maybe. The fragile beginning of it, at least.

Or perhaps something more.

Whatever it is, it settles between us like a third presence in the room—unspoken but undeniable. And for this moment, with exhaustion pulling at my limbs and Aurelie's shoulder warm against mine, I allow myself not to question it.

11

AURELIE

The patter of rain against glass fills the nursery with its calming rhythm as I fold the impossibly small blankets Rolfo provided for Sephy. Each soft square of fabric gets careful attention under my fingers—corners matched perfectly, edges pressed flat. These simple tasks ground me when my mind threatens to spiral with worry.

Despite everything that Rolfo has done, some days old fears and worries come creeping in. Years of learning to never trust anyone, to never let my guard down comes creeping back in, and right now, I'm having one of those days where I feel far too on edge.

Sephy sleeps peacefully in her cradle, her silver-blonde curls catching what little light filters through the rain-streaked window. Her tiny chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm that I still find myself counting sometimes, just to make sure. Four days old and already she's become my entire world.

I tuck a finished blanket into the stack on the small oak dresser, smoothing my hand over the pile. The fabric is softer than anything I've ever owned. Most of my belongings during my time with Kaelith were practical, utilitarian—nothing meant for comfort or joy.

The floorboard creaks behind me, and I spin around, heart leaping into my throat—an instinct I can't seem to shake. But it's only Rolfo, leaning his broad frame against the door jamb, arms crossed over his chest. Unlike the other times someone has watched me from a doorway, there's no hunger in his mercury-slitted eyes, just quiet thoughtfulness.

"How long have you been standing there?" I whisper, careful not to wake Sephy.

He doesn't answer immediately, just holds my gaze with that steady silver stare. Where most would look away when caught staring, Rolfo doesn't. Instead, he pushes off from the doorframe and crosses the room in two long strides. Up close, the scent of rain clings to him—he must have been outside earlier.

"Long enough to see you've folded those same blankets three times now." His voice is low, rumbling, but gentle in a way that still surprises me coming from someone his size.

I glance down at my hands, only now realizing they're trembling slightly from exhaustion.

"Have I?" I try to laugh it off, but it comes out thin and unconvincing. "I just want everything to be perfect for her."

Rolfo's rough fingers close gently around my wrist, stopping my hands from reaching for another blanket. His touch is careful, barely there, as if he knows how easily I startle.

"Come on," he says, guiding me toward the door with the lightest pressure. "You need a break."

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