Page 35 of Demon Daddy's Baby Girl

Her reaction is anything but gentle.

Aurelie bolts upright with a piercing scream, her body flailing wildly. Her eyes are open but seeing something else entirely, something horrific from the terror on her face.

"Blood," she gasps, rubbing frantically at her hands. "Hands—my hands—they're covered?—"

I catch her wrists, keeping my grip firm but gentle. "Aurelie. It's Rolfo. You're safe. You're in my home."

Her eyes dart frantically, not seeing me yet, still trapped in whatever nightmare has its claws in her.

"Look at me," I say, lowering my voice to the soft rumble that seems to calm Sephy. "Find my eyes. I'm right here."

Her breathing hitches, then slowly steadies as recognition dawns. "Rolfo?"

The relief in her voice when she says my name tugs at something deep in my chest.

"Yes. You were dreaming." I release her wrists, giving her space. "You're safe."

She looks down at her hands, still rubbing them together. "I can feel it. The blood. I can't get it off."

Whatever haunts her dreams, it's as real to her as I am. I don't hesitate. I stand, lifting her into my arms in one smooth motion. I try not to notice how perfect she feels in my arms. She weighs nothing, this fierce survivor, this wounded warrior.

"What are you—?" she starts.

"Trust me," I murmur, carrying her down the hall to the washroom.

I set her gently on the edge of the bath and turn the copper taps, filling the tub with warm water. Steam rises between us as I kneel before her, taking her trembling hands in mine.

"The mind believes what it feels," I explain softly, dipping a soft cloth into the water. "So we give it something else to feel."

I wash each of her hands methodically, the cloth moving in slow circles over her palms, between her fingers, across her wrists. All the while, I murmur in the old tongue, ancient words my mother once used to chase away my childhood fears—words about safety, about peace, about the passing of shadows.

Slowly, the rigidity eases from her spine. Her hands stop trembling. Her breathing deepens.

"Better?" I ask, still holding her hands in the warm water.

She nods, not meeting my eyes. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I?—"

"Never apologize for surviving," I cut her off gently. "Whatever you did to escape him, whatever you had to do—it kept you alive. It kept Sephy safe."

Her head drops forward until her forehead rests against my shoulder. I freeze, uncertain, then cautiously bring up a hand to rest between her shoulder blades. She's trembling again, but differently now—silent sobs that shake her entire frame.

I hold her, saying nothing, offering the only comfort I know how to give—presence. Steadiness. A port in the storm.

Later—I don't know how much later—we end up on the nursery floor beside Sephy's cradle. Aurelie's head rests on my chest, her breathing finally even. My arm curves protectively around her shoulders. I stare at the ceiling, listening to the twin rhythms of their heartbeats, these two humans who have somehow breached every defense I've built over decades.

Sleep comes slowly, creeping in at the edges of consciousness. But for the first time in years, I don't fight it. For tonight at least, everything that matters in the world is within the circle of my arms, safe and sound.

16

ROLFO

Ican't sleep. My mind keeps replaying those bounty hunters in the market. Every time I close my eyes, I see their cloaked figures circling closer to this house—to Aurelie and Sephy. The thought has me jerking up every few minutes, casting protections and prowling the house to make sure they are safe.

Dawn breaks, painting my bedroom ceiling with soft golden light. I've made a decision during these restless hours. I roll out of bed, muscles stiff from tension rather than sleep. My bare feet make no sound on the floorboards as I check the nursery first.

Sephy sleeps peacefully, her tiny hands curled into fists above her head. Silver-blonde curls frame her face like a halo. Something in my chest softens at the sight of her. How quickly I've grown attached to this little one. I reach down, my large hand hovering over her small form before I gently adjust her blanket.

The scent of meadowmint tea reaches me before I enter the kitchen. Aurelie stands at the counter, her back to me, auburn hair flowing loose down her back. She's wearing one of my old shirts again, the fabric hanging nearly to her knees. Something primal stirs in me at the sight—her wearing my clothes, in my kitchen, moving through the space as if she belongs here.

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