Page 43 of Demon Daddy's Baby Girl

"Not my servant," he corrects. "I want you to heal."

My heart twists at the way he always puts me first.

"Still," I persist, needing him to understand. "I want to. Not because I feel obligated, but because I want to for you. With you."

His silver eyes darken with emotion. "You can do whatever you want, Aurelie. I'll always make sure you have that option."

We walk in companionable silence after that, the path narrowing until we have to move single file. As it widens again, our hands brush accidentally—his knuckles against my palm, a whisper of contact that sends electricity up my arm.

Our hands brush again, and this time I know it's deliberate on his part. He doesn't grab, doesn't assume, just offers the possibility. The choice remains mine. It's always like that with him, and I love that.

I think it's why I've started to fall for him. Because that's exactly what is happening. Even if I shouldn't—though I can't think of a reason why not anymore.

I look at his profile as we walk—the strong line of his jaw, the scar across his eyebrow, the unexpected gentleness in his mercury eyes as he checks on Sephy. This demon who found me dying in an alley. Who cut my daughter's cord. Who built her a nursery and rocked her through colicky nights.

This demon who looks at me like I'm something precious instead of something to be used.

Our fingers brush a third time, and I make my decision. I thread my fingers through his, feeling the calluses on his palms, the strength in his grip as he enfolds my hand in his.

We walk like that, hand in hand, hearts speaking what words cannot. No grand declarations needed. No promises made. Just the quiet acknowledgment that this—whatever it is growing between us—matters.

19

ROLFO

Imove through the house like a shadow, quieter than most men my size have any right to be. It's a skill that's served me well in my work, but tonight it's about something simpler—checking on the smallest resident of my home.

The floorboards know me well enough not to creak as I approach the doorway to the nursery. The pale glow of the moonstone night lamp casts soft illumination across the handcrafted crib I'd spent weeks perfecting. I lean against the doorframe, just watching the gentle rise and fall of Sephy's tiny chest.

Even after weeks, it still strikes me as odd—this fierce protective instinct I have for a child who shares no blood with me. Her silver-blonde curls catch the light as she shifts slightly, one tiny fist raised above her head in peaceful surrender to sleep.

I check the wards I've placed around the room—invisible lines of protection that would alert me to any threat long before it reached her. They hum with quiet power, undisturbed.

"Sleep well, little one," I whisper, so softly it's barely a breath.

Something pulls me back to check once more, though nothing's changed in the minute since I last looked. Old habits from too many nights standing guard, perhaps. Or something deeper I'm not ready to name.

"She's still sleeping, I promise."

The voice behind me sends a jolt through my spine that I haven't felt since my early days on patrol. I turn to find Aurelie leaning against the doorframe, her hair loose around her shoulders, catching the faint light from the windows. She's wearing one of my old shirts that I'd given her—it hangs to her thighs, making her look even smaller than she is.

"Force of habit," I reply, my voice rougher than intended in the quiet of the night.

Aurelie's eyes, those hazel depths with flecks of gold that seem to catch even the faintest light, meet mine. There's something different in them tonight—a clarity, a decision made.

"She's been sleeping through the night now." A simple observation that feels charged with something unspoken. "Almost like she knows we need the rest."

I can't help my small smile. "Smart kid."

The silence between us stretches, not uncomfortable but expectant. Aurelie pushes away from the doorframe and crosses to me, her bare feet silent against the floor. I should step back, create distance, remember all the reasons this is complicated.

I don't move an inch.

"Rolfo." Just my name on her lips, but it carries the weight of weeks of tension, of things unsaid.

"You should get some sleep," I offer weakly, even as every instinct tells me to reach for her.

Her smile then—gods, that smile will be the death of me. Soft, sleepy, but with an edge of determination that I've come to recognize when she's made up her mind about something.

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