Page 31 of Demon Daddy's Baby Girl

"Too quickly," I agree, glancing at Sephy's bassinet. "I keep wondering what kind of world I've brought her into."

"The only one we have," Ada replies pragmatically. "And we make it better by surviving in it. By finding moments like this."

We talk then—not of men or demons or the traumas that drove us to this porch. Instead, we speak of tiny joys: the way Sephy's fingers curl around mine when she feeds, how Rose insists on naming every plant in Ada's small garden, the taste of fresh bread from the market stall that Ada swears makes the best goddess hearts in the city.

It's a slow-building intimacy, this conversation. A sisterhood forming not through blood, but through survival. Through the shared language of women who have seen darkness and still choose to notice beauty.

The shadows lengthen across the porch, and Ada stands reluctantly. "I should go. Rose will be waiting, and Rolfo mentioned he'd be back from his patrol soon."

I walk her to the front door, Sephy nestled against my shoulder, half-afraid this tenuous connection will vanish once she leaves.

At the threshold, Ada turns and does something unexpected—she pulls me into a hug. I stiffen, the physical contact so foreign it feels almost like an assault. But then, as her arms remain gentle and steady around me, I exhale and lean in, allowing myself this moment of human connection.

"You can trust him," Ada says quietly as she pulls away. "Rolfo. He doesn't say much, but he means everything he does."

I nod, not trusting my voice.

"Same time tomorrow?" she asks, already stepping into the dying light of day.

"Please," I manage.

I stand in the doorway long after she's gone, looking down at Sephy in my arms, my heart tangled in a hundred threads I don't know how to undo. Trust. Such a small word for such an impossible thing.

14

AURELIE

Ijolt from deep sleep to full alert at the first wail. My body responds before my mind catches up—maternal instinct overriding exhaustion. The high-pitched cry pierces the quiet night, slicing through the darkness like a knife.

"I'm coming, Sephy," I mumble, throwing the covers off and stumbling toward the nursery, my feet clumsy with sleep.

But when I reach the doorway, I freeze. Rolfo's broad silhouette is already bent over the cradle, his movements gentle despite his size. He lifts Sephy with a care that contradicts everything I've ever known about demon men.

It's not the first time I've found him in here tending to her, but each time, it melts something in my chest. Each time I watch them together, it lowers my walls a little further.

"There we go, little one," he murmurs, voice low and soothing. "I know, I know. It's terrible being hungry, isn't it?"

I press myself against the doorframe, watching as he cradles my daughter against his chest. She looks impossibly tiny in his arms, her silvery-blonde curls catching the faint glow from the hearth. Her cries soften to hiccuping whimpers as Rolfo moves across the room with practiced ease.

"Let's get you something to eat," he continues, speaking to her as though she understands every word. "Your mama needs rest. Growing a person is hard work, you know."

My hand drifts to my still-tender abdomen at his words. He doesn't know I'm here, watching this midnight ritual unfold. There's something intimate and vulnerable about seeing this massive, scarred demon guardsman tending to my infant with such tenderness.

Rolfo retrieves a bottle from beside the hearth, where he must have been warming it. He tests a drop against his wrist, nods once in satisfaction, then settles into the rocking chair. The chair I've sat in countless times these past weeks, struggling to find my footing as a mother.

"There you go," he whispers as Sephy latches onto the bottle. "That's the way."

The creak of the rocking chair fills the silence as Sephy drinks greedily. Rolfo hums something tuneless and low, a rumble more than a melody. My daughter's tiny hand reaches up, finding his finger and wrapping around it with that surprising strength newborns possess.

The ache that blooms in my chest has nothing to do with milk. It spreads through me, hot and painful and sweet all at once. I press my fingers to my lips to hold in whatever sound wants to escape.

I shouldn't want this. Shouldn't let myself imagine what it would be like if this were real—if we were truly a family rather than a convenient arrangement born of desperation. But in the soft glow of the hearth light, with Sephy's tiny hand wrapped around his massive finger, the fantasy is too seductive to resist.

Later, I sit at the kitchen table, turning the empty bottle in my hands. The glass is still warm, a reminder of everything I cannot have. Across the room, Rolfo crouches beside the cradle I've moved to the main room for the night. His massive frame seems to fold in on itself as he leans close to whisper something to my sleeping daughter.

"What are you telling her?" I ask, surprising myself with the question.

He glances up, those mercury eyes catching the light. "Ancient demon lullabies. Very scary stuff." The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Nothing that would frighten a brave little warrior like her, though."

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