Page 1 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Daughter
LENNY
The stone floor beneath me has memorized every curve of my body. Three days—or maybe four, time blurs when there's no sun—since he dragged me down to this chamber beneath his estate. The enchanted bindings around my wrists pulse with a dull crimson glow, just tight enough to remind me I'm trapped, just loose enough to let me believe escape might be possible.
My master circles me like a predator savoring its kill. The sound of his boots against stone echoes in the cramped space, each footfall deliberate. Calculated.
"You thought you could defy me." His voice carries that same refined accent that once fooled me into thinking demons might possess civility. "Run from your obligations."
The word 'obligations' makes my stomach twist. As if I chose any of this. As if sixteen-year-old me had options when the slavers dragged me from my family's farm.
"I wasn't running." The lie tastes bitter. We both know I was three streets from the harbor when he caught me.
His hand backhands across my cheek, the impact snapping my head to the side. Stars burst behind my eyelids. Blood pools in my mouth, metallic and warm.
"Don't lie to me, Kaelenya."
He uses my full name like a weapon, drawing out each syllable. I hate how small it makes me feel. How it reminds me of who I used to be before—before this. Before him.
My gaze drifts past his shoulders to the rough stone wall behind him. There, just above where my head rests when I curl up at night, a chunk of stone sits slightly further forward than the rest. Three days ago, after weeks of trying to find some way out of these chains, I started tearing at the walls. And that chunk had come free. I left it in its place so he wouldn't notice, and I've been biding my time since.
He crouches beside me, close enough that I can smell the amerinth on his breath. His fingers trace the fresh bruises along my ribs, pressing just hard enough to make me gasp.
"You belong to me," he whispers, lips brushing my ear. "Your body, your mind, your pathetic human soul—all mine."
I stare at that loose stone and say nothing. Let him think he's broken me. Let him believe his words mean something.
He straightens, brushing imaginary dust from his perfectly tailored jacket. "I have business to attend to. Contemplate your foolishness."
The heavy door clangs shut behind him. The enchanted lock hums to life, sealing me in darkness so complete I can't see my own hands.
But I know exactly where that stone waits.
I count to one hundred, then start again. Give him time to reach the upper levels of his estate. Time to settle into whatever 'business' keeps him occupied during the long night hours.
The bindings around my wrists have loosened since he first chained me. Not much—just enough. I've been eating less, drinking only when he forces water down my throat. My body has whittled itself down to sharp angles and hollow spaces.
I work my left hand first, twisting my wrist until the bone grinds against the enchanted metal. The pain is immediate and bright, but I've learned to breathe through pain. To let it wash over me without drowning.
The binding catches on my knuckles. I grit my teeth and keep twisting, feeling skin tear against the rough interior. Blood, warm and slick, helps lubricate the metal.
One more twist and my hand slides free.
I bite my lip to keep from crying out in relief. My fingers are numb, tingling as blood rushes back into them. I flex them carefully, working feeling back into each digit.
The right binding proves more stubborn. My dominant hand is slightly larger, and the angle is awkward. But I have time now, and patience born of desperation. I work methodically, ignoring the way the metal bites deeper into my wrist. Ignoring the fresh blood that drips onto the stone floor.
When my right hand finally slips free, I press both palms against the wall and push myself upright. My legs shake—all this time of little food and constant stress have left me weak. But I'm not helpless. Not yet.
I crawl to the wall where my loose stone waits. In the absolute darkness, I navigate by touch alone. My fingertips find the familiar rough edges, the crumbling mortar I've been carefully working loose each night.
The stone is larger than my fist, heavy and solid. I dig my broken nails into the gaps around its edges, prying carefully. Too much force and I might bring down larger chunks, creating noise that could draw attention.
The mortar gives way gradually, raining grit onto my lap. The stone shifts, then tilts, then comes free entirely.
Behind it, my fingers explore a hollow space in the wall. Construction debris from when this chamber was built—bits of broken stone, old mortar, and something else.
My fingers close around a length of metal, thin but solid. A reinforcement rod, maybe, or part of some tool left behind by careless workers. One end has been sheared off clean, leaving sharp edges that bite into my palm.
It's not much of a weapon. But it's mine.
