Page 29 of Demon Daddy's Baby Girl

I cross to her, suddenly aware of the contrast—Sephy in my arms, Dezoth's intimidating presence behind me, and Aurelie looking both fragile and fierce in the doorway.

"Dezoth came to check on things," I explain, transferring Sephy to her with an almost reluctant gentleness.

Aurelie takes her daughter, eyes never leaving Dezoth. I recognize the look—the calculation of threat, the assessment of danger. It's how prey animals watch predators, determining if flight is necessary.

Dezoth inclines his head in greeting. "Miss Morvain."

Her eyes widen slightly at the use of her surname.

"Ada has told me about you and your daughter. I want to assure you that wealljust want to help you."

Dezoth turns to me then, and something passes between us—a look that says more than words could manage. I recognize it from battlefields and alleyway skirmishes, from the moments when your life depends on another's loyalty. There's no speech. No lecture. Just that look—a silent agreement between old soldiers.

If this is my path now, he will stand by me. As simple and complicated as that.

"I should return to my duties," he says, already moving toward the door. "My sister mentioned bringing Rose by tomorrow. She's been asking about the baby."

After he's gone, Aurelie looks at me, questions filling her eyes.

"Demons looking out for demons," I say with a half-smile. "Family means more than blood around here."

13

AURELIE

My nipples feel like they're on fire, the pain radiating across my chest in angry waves. Every tiny movement Sephy makes at my breast sends fresh agony through me. The midday sun filters through the gauzy curtains of my bedroom—Rolfo's guest room, I remind myself—casting everything in a soft, hazy light that feels at odds with the sharp reality of my discomfort.

"Breathe through it," Ada murmurs, kneeling beside the bed. Her honey-blonde braid hangs over one shoulder as she carefully adjusts the damp compress against my inflamed skin.

I wince, biting back tears that threaten to spill. "I didn't know it would hurt this much," I whisper, trying not to disturb Sephy who has finally, mercifully fallen asleep after her feeding. "No one ever told me."

Ada's warm brown eyes meet mine, understanding reflected in their depths. "No one tells women many things about motherhood." Her fingers are cool and gentle as they work. "It's like a secret society you only get to join once you're already trapped inside."

I manage a weak laugh that turns into a grimace. "Some welcome party."

"The pain won't last forever," Ada says, reaching into a small satchel she brought. "Though I know that's little comfort when you're in the middle of it."

The weeks since Sephy's birth have been a blur of contradictions—overwhelming joy and crushing exhaustion, fierce love and raw, physical pain. The latter has been a humbling surprise. I'd endured Kaelith's abuse for years, thought myself familiar with all varieties of suffering, but this is different—a pain tied to nurturing life rather than surviving cruelty.

"I brought something that should help." Ada pulls out a small clay pot sealed with beeswax. Her movements are efficient but never rushed, carrying the quiet dignity I've come to associate with her. "An herbal salve I make myself. Marshleaf and goldroot with queen's honey."

When she removes the compress, the air hitting my skin makes me hiss between clenched teeth.

"I'm sorry," she says, her face creasing with empathy. "This will feel cool at first, then warm."

I nod, gripping the edge of the blanket as she carefully applies the salve. It smells earthy and sweet, with something minty cutting through. The immediate cooling sensation is blissful, and I exhale slowly.

"Where did you learn to make this?" I ask, desperate for conversation to distract from my discomfort.

Ada's lips curve slightly. "My mother taught me some, but mostly I learned while running." Her fingers move with practiced precision. "When medicine is too expensive or too dangerous to buy openly, you learn to find it in the woods, in the weeds that grow between cobblestones."

I study her face, the quiet strength there. Though we've known each other only weeks, I feel a kinship with this woman who is also running, also protecting a child.

"Thank you," I whisper, reaching out to squeeze her hand with mine. "For everything. For helping bring Sephy into the world. For teaching me... when I have no idea what I'm doing."

Ada returns the pressure of my fingers. "We're all just figuring it out as we go." She tucks a strand of my auburn hair behind my ear with a gentleness that makes my throat tighten. "Besides, you're doing beautifully."

"It doesn't feel beautiful," I confess, glancing down at my sleeping daughter, her tiny face peaceful against my breast. "It feels terrifying. Every day I wake up afraid—that he'll find us, that I'll fail her somehow."

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