Page 30 of Demon Daddy's Baby Girl

"Fear means you care," Ada says simply. "But you don't have to do this alone. That's what I'm here to remind you."

The salve begins warming now, spreading relief through my abused skin. Ada helps me shift Sephy to her makeshift cradle, then shows me how to apply soft cloths between my skin and my clothing.

"The first weeks are the hardest," she assures me, her hands steady and sure. "Your body is healing from birth, learning to feed her, all while you're not sleeping."

"Did it hurt like this for you? With Rose?" I ask.

A shadow passes across Ada's face. "Yes. But differently. I was..." She pauses, searching for words. "I was on the run the whole time."

The unspoken understanding passes between us—the knowledge of what it means to be owned, to have your body claimed by another. I reach for her hand again, a silent acknowledgment.

"You're free now," I say softly. "We both are."

Ada's smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "We're getting there."

Once Ada finishes with the salve, I feel almost human again. The relief spreads through my chest like a cool breath, and I find myself able to straighten my shoulders without wincing for the first time in days.

"Thank you," I say, gingerly adjusting my loose shirt. "I was beginning to think I'd never find comfort again."

Ada tucks the small pot of salve into my hands. "Keep this. Apply it after each feeding." She glances toward the window where sunlight streams in vibrant red hues—the eternal crimson sky of Ikoth casting its glow across the room. "The air today is less humid than usual. Would you like to sit outside for a while? Fresh air helps heal both body and spirit."

The suggestion startles me. Since arriving at Rolfo's home, I've barely left this room, much less ventured outdoors. Fear prickles at the base of my spine—Kaelith's spies could be anywhere.

Ada seems to read my hesitation. "The back porch. It's private, fenced in. Rose and I sit there often when we visit."

The idea of walls on three sides and a fence offers enough security that I find myself nodding. "Sephy's finally asleep. I suppose a few minutes couldn't hurt."

"I'll make tea," Ada says, already moving toward the door. "Do you need help?"

I shake my head, my pride still intact despite everything else I've lost. "I can manage." My chest is sore but I get around fine.

By the time I make it to the back porch—Sephy peacefully sleeping down the hall where I left both doors open so I can hear her—Ada has already arranged cushions on the wide bench that overlooks the small yard. Steam rises from an earthenware pot, and the scent of meadowmint fills the air.

"Here," she says, offering a worn quilt. "The breeze can be deceptive."

I settle myself cross-legged on the bench, tucking the blanket around my legs. The quilt smells of woodsmoke and something else—something distinctly Rolfo. I try not to dwell on the comforting nature of that scent.

Ada pours tea into two chipped cups. "It's not fancy, but it's hot."

"Fancy is overrated," I say, accepting the cup. The warmth seeps into my palms. "I'd rather have honest than ornate."

We sit in companionable silence for a moment, watching the strange, purplish vines that crawl up the fence post sway in the breeze. A thalivern flutters past, its four iridescent wings catching the crimson sunlight.

"Did you hear that little snuffling sound Sephy made in her sleep last night?" I find myself asking, surprised by my own desire to speak of something so small, so normal. "It was like a tiny dreaming kilmar."

Ada's face softens. "Rose used to make a similar sound. Like she was having important conversations in her dreams."

"What does she dream about now?" I ask.

"Flowers, mostly. And stories." Ada's smile is gentle, maternal in a way that makes my chest ache with recognition. "She collects them—both the flowers and the stories."

"I'd like to meet her sometime." The words slip out before I can stop them, revealing a hope I hadn't admitted even to myself—that we might stay, that this fragile safety might hold.

"She'd like that too. She's been asking about 'the baby and the lady' I keep going to see." Ada sips her tea, eyes crinkling. "She's good with secrets. She knows not to mention you outside our conversations."

I nod, grateful. "Smart girl."

"Survival makes children grow up quickly," Ada says, a thread of old sorrow weaving through her words.

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