Page 10 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Daughter
Something flickers across Rhyen's features—pain, maybe, or recognition. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and for a moment the careful courtesy in his expression gives way to something rawer. When he speaks again, his voice carries an edge of steel wrapped in velvet.
"All I ask is that you cook, Lenny. That's it." He smiles down at Ava. "Besides, I think that most of us find your presence a fair exchange."
The conviction in his words should be reassuring. Instead, it terrifies me. People who claim to want nothing are the most dangerous of all, because their real motivations stay hidden until it's too late to escape them.
But Ava chooses that moment to wake up properly, blinking those impossible violet-gold eyes and looking around the room with wonder. She takes in the soft furnishings, the gentle light filtering through the enchanted windows, the way everyone in the room is watching her with expressions of warmth rather than fear or disgust.
"Mama," she whispers, pointing at the window seat. "There's.. it's a big chair."
"I see them, sweetheart."
"Can I sit on it?"
The question breaks something inside my chest. My four-year-old daughter is asking permission to sit on furniture like she expects to be told no, like comfort is something that has to be earned. Because that's what I've taught her, isn't it? That we don't belong anywhere, that we have to make ourselves small and grateful for whatever scraps of safety we can find.
"Of course you can," Rhyen answers before I can find my voice. His tone is gentle but firm, the kind of certainty that children crave. "Those cushions are there for sitting on. That's their job."
Ava grins at him, that brilliant smile that transforms her entire face, and I see the exact moment Rhyen falls completely under her spell. His stoic expression softens, and something almost vulnerable flickers in his eyes as he carefully sets her down.
"Would you like to see the view from the window?" he asks, crouching down to her level. "There are nightlilies in the garden that bloom in the evening. They glow like tiny stars."
"Real stars?" Ava asks, padding over to the window seat with the kind of fearless curiosity that's going to get her into trouble someday.
"Magic stars," Rhyen says solemnly, as if this is a perfectly reasonable distinction. "Better than real ones because you can see them up close."
Lira makes a soft sound that might be a contented sigh. "She'll love the garden paths. They're perfect for little feet, and we've got thalivern that come to visit the nightlilies after dark. She might see their wings glowing."
I watch this exchange with growing unease. They're talking about Ava like she's going to be here long enough to develop routines, to have favorite spots, to wait for evening creatures to emerge from their hiding places. Like she's going to stay.
Like we're going to stay.
"The little one will need proper clothes for exploring," Lira says, giving my travel-worn outfit a significant look. "And you'll both want something warm for the evenings. The mountain air gets crisp once the sun goes down."
"We have clothes," I say quickly. Our meager possessions are still tucked into the canvas bag I've carried for the last four years—three changes of clothing for each of us, a few books for Ava, and the small collection of items too precious or practical to leave behind.
"I'm sure you do," Lira says diplomatically. "But wouldn't it be nice to have choices? Different dresses for different occasions, maybe a warm cloak for winter walks, proper boots for the rocky paths?"
Choices. When did I stop believing that word applied to my life?
Rhyen straightens from where he's been watching Ava explore her new domain, and suddenly I'm very aware of his size again. Six and a half feet of controlled power, broad shoulders that could easily overpower my smaller frame, hands that could snap my wrists if he chose. The bronze of his skin seems to shimmer slightly in the magical light, and I catch myself wondering if that's normal for xaphan or if it's something specific to him.
"The market in New Solas has excellent tailors," he says casually, as if outfitting strangers is something he does regularly. "And there's a children's shop that specializes in sturdy play clothes. Ava will need things she can get dirty."
"I can't pay for new clothes." The admission tastes like ash in my mouth, but it's better than letting him think I'm stupid enough to accept expensive gifts without understanding what they'll cost me later.
Rhyen's expression doesn't change, but something in his stillness tells me I've hit a nerve. When he speaks, his voice carries that same steel-wrapped-in-silk quality that makes my pulse quicken.
"Did I ask you to pay for them?"
"No, but?—"
"Then don't." The words are quiet but absolute. "Money means nothing to me. I take care of my staff."
The casual way he says it—like my comfort actually matters to him, like Ava's safety is something he's genuinely invested in—makes my chest tight with emotions I can't afford to feel. This is how they get you. Not with threats or demands, but with kindness so overwhelming you stop questioning whether it's real.
"Mama, look!" Ava presses her face against the window glass, pointing at something in the garden below. "There's a fountain!"
I move to the window despite myself, drawn by her excitement. The view takes my breath away. The gardens spread out below us in carefully cultivated wilderness—not the rigid formality of noble estates, but something that looks like nature improved upon itself. Winding stone paths disappear between flowering shrubs and ornamental trees, leading to hidden alcoves where benches wait in dappled shade. The fountain Ava spotted sits in the center of it all, its water catching the late afternoon light and throwing tiny rainbows across the surrounding flower beds.
