Page 13 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Daughter
I hover in the threshold, every instinct screaming at me to grab Ava and run, to not let myself be lulled by this domestic tableau. My hand is still wrapped around the knife in my sleeve, knuckles white with tension, though neither of them seems to notice my aggressive stance.
"How long has she been awake?" My voice comes out rougher than intended, raw with the panic that's still coursing through my system.
"Not long. Perhaps a quarter-hour." Rhyen's tone remains calm and measured. "She came downstairs looking for water, but when she saw me here, she decided to keep me company instead. We've been discussing sea creatures and the proper technique for drawing fur."
Ava looks up from her latest creation, completely oblivious to the tension radiating from my body. "Mama! Look what I made!"
She's happy. Genuinely, radiantly happy in a way I haven't seen since... I can't remember when. Her little face is bright with excitement, her eyes sparkling as she shows off her artwork. There's no fear in her expression, no wariness, none of the careful watchfulness that's become her default around strangers.
She feels safe here.
That realization hits me like a physical blow, stealing what little breath I've managed to recover. My daughter, who's spent her entire life learning to be invisible, who's been taught to mistrust kindness and run from comfort, feels safe enough to wander downstairs alone and strike up a conversation with a man who could crush her without effort.
And he's sitting there letting her chatter away about sea creatures and art, responding to her questions like they're the most important things he'll hear all day. Like making a four-year-old feel valued is worth getting up before dawn and brewing tea in his own kitchen.
"Would you like to join us?" Rhyen asks, gesturing to the empty chairs around the table. "Ava was just telling me about a story you told her once, something about a princess who could talk to stars."
My chest tightens. That's one of the stories I made up during the long, frightening nights when she couldn't sleep, when the sounds of pursuit seemed to echo from every shadow. Tales of brave princesses and magical kingdoms where little girls with horns were welcomed instead of hunted.
"I don't remember all the words," Ava says, scribbling furiously. "But Mama does. She knows lots of stories."
"That sounds like a very special gift," Rhyen says, but he's looking at me when he says it, not at Ava. There's something in his expression that makes my throat tight—admiration, maybe, or respect for the way I've tried to fill my daughter's world with wonder despite our circumstances.
I take a tentative step into the kitchen, still gripping my hidden knife but no longer certain I'll need it. The warmth from the fireplace washes over my bare legs, and I'm suddenly aware that I'm standing in this man's kitchen wearing nothing but a nightgown and a hastily thrown-on cloak.
He doesn't seem to notice. Or if he does, he's too much of a gentleman to let it show.
"Sit with us, Mama," Ava says without looking up. "I'm making pictures for everyone. Tovren gets a zarryn, Rhyen gets a blue zarryn, Lira gets flowers, and you get a castle because you like castles in stories."
A castle. Because in all the tales I've told her, the castle is where safety lives. Where the princess finds her happy ending, where the monsters can't reach, where little girls with unusual eyes and tiny horns are treasured instead of feared.
But I've never told my daughter the truth.
There's no such thing as being safe.
6
RHYEN
Seven days.
Seven days since I brought them home, and already the estate feels transformed in ways I never expected. I lean back in my desk chair at the training college, supposedly reviewing tomorrow's combat sequences, but my mind keeps drifting to the sound of small feet running through my halls and the bright peal of laughter that echoes from my gardens.
Ava.
Even thinking her name brings something warm and fierce rising in my chest. In just one week, she's managed to wrap herself around every inhabitant of my estate like morning glory vines claiming a stone wall. Yesterday I came home to find her perched on Garent's massive shoulders, peppering him with questions about his wing maintenance routine while he pretended to be annoyed by her curiosity. The day before, Lira was teaching her to knead bread, flour dusting her dark curls as she stood on a wooden stool to reach the counter properly.
But it's Tovren's transformation that truly astounds me. The old stablemaster, who's spent the better part of two decades perfecting his reputation as the estate's resident grouch, nowsaves the sweetest brambleberry treats for a certain four-year-old who appears at his stable doors every morning with dirt on her nightgown and questions about zarryn anatomy.
"Commander Sarenthil?"
I glance up to find Instructor Kyven standing in my office doorway, his expression somewhere between amused and concerned. "The third-year students are waiting for your assessment of their formation work."
Right. The formation work I was supposed to be reviewing fifteen minutes ago while my thoughts wandered to violet-gold eyes and the way small arms wrap around my neck like I'm something precious worth holding onto.
"Of course." I set down the papers I haven't actually read and follow Kyven back to the training grounds, but even as I watch the students execute their aerial maneuvers, part of me is calculating how quickly I can finish here and return home.
Home. When did I start thinking of the estate as something to return to rather than simply where I sleep?
