Page 22 of Demon Daddy's Baby Girl

"Not asking for gratitude." I keep my voice low, conscious of the sleeping infant. "Practical matter. You're still healing. Need sleep to heal properly."

Her eyes roam my face, and for a moment, the air seems to prickle between us. I feel an ache to reach out and push her stray strand back, to touch her, but I hold back. Instead I wait until she ducks her head and turns, softly whispering goodnight before she disappears down the hall.

And I stand for far too long watching her daughter sleep. To soothe my own worry because I'm getting far too attached to a baby that isn't mine.

Even if I might want her to be.

10

ROLFO

Iwake to the sound of Sephy's cries slicing through the predawn darkness. My body moves before my mind fully registers what's happening—feet hitting the floor, hand already reaching for the door. The transition from sleep to full alertness takes less than a heartbeat, an old guardian reflex I've never been able to shake.

Her wails grow more insistent as I cross the hallway in three long strides. The nursery door is already open, and I find Aurelie inside, her face drawn with worry as she clutches Sephy to her chest. The baby's cries have a different quality tonight—sharper, more distressed.

"She won't settle," Aurelie says, voice taut with fatigue and concern. Dark shadows hang beneath her eyes. "I've tried everything."

I move closer, observing the flush on Sephy's normally pale cheeks, the way her tiny fists ball up in frustration. "How long has she been like this?"

"Almost an hour." Aurelie rocks back and forth, her movements growing desperate. "I fed her, changed her, rocked her... nothing helps."

I extend my hands wordlessly. Aurelie hesitates, just for a moment, before passing Sephy to me. The weight of her—so light yet somehow so substantial—settles against my forearm. Her skin feels too warm through the thin fabric of her sleeper.

"She's running a fever," I mutter, placing my palm against her forehead. Not dangerously high, but enough to make her uncomfortable. Enough to worry.

I cradle her against my chest, feeling her tiny heart hammering against mine. The cries quiet momentarily as she registers the change in who's holding her, but then resume with renewed vigor.

"Let's try something else," I say, heading toward the main room. "Ada left some mint balm. Might help."

We move through the darkened house, Sephy's cries echoing off the walls. I keep my voice low, a constant stream of nonsense meant to soothe.

"Easy there, little warrior. You're giving your mother gray hairs before her time. That's not very considerate of you, is it?" I murmur against the top of her head. "The fiercest fighters know when to rest."

The mint balm does nothing. The rocking only seems to agitate her more. Even my humming—rough and off-key as it is—fails to produce the usual calming effect. Aurelie watches from the doorway, her fingers twisting anxiously in the hem of her nightdress.

"Maybe we should send for Ada," she suggests, voice tight with worry.

I shake my head. "I don't think there's much she can do." I glance down at Sephy's flushed face. "But if her fever climbs more we will."

But there's something in her cries that cuts through my usual pragmatism. Something that makes me want to fix it, to ease whatever discomfort has her so distressed.

An old memory surfaces—something I'd seen years ago, during a mission in the eastern territories. A warrior father with his sick child, skin to skin, the most basic kind of comfort.

Without overthinking it, I pull my shirt over my head in one fluid motion and adjust Sephy against my bare chest. Her skin is feverish against mine, but her cries hitch slightly at the contact.

Aurelie's eyes widen. "What are you?—"

"Body heat," I explain, positioning Sephy so her head rests against my collarbone. "And heartbeat. Reminds them they're safe."

I begin to pace slow circles around the room, bouncing slightly with each step. Sephy's cries gradually soften to whimpers, her tiny body molding against mine.

"My sister told me that," I elaborate, though Aurelie hasn't asked. "She would've been a great mother."

If her baby hadn't died during the birth.

Aurelie sinks onto the couch, drawing her knees up to her chest. "I didn't know you had a sister," she says softly.

"Don't." The word comes out rougher than intended. "Not anymore."

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