Page 14 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Daughter
The answer hits me as I watch a particularly clumsy student nearly collide with his formation partner: the moment I walked through my front doors last week to find Ava sitting cross-legged on my sitting room floor, drawing creatures in the dust motes that danced through the afternoon sunlight streaming from my windows. She'd looked up at me with that brilliant smile and announced, "I've been waiting for you!" as if my arrival was the most important event of her day.
No one has ever waited for me before. Not like that, with genuine excitement and joy rather than duty or expectation.
The students complete their exercise, and I offer corrections and encouragement with the appropriate focus, but underneath the professional calm, anticipation hums through my veins. Today marks exactly one week since Lenny and Ava arrived, and I find myself wondering what new discovery Ava has made, whatquestions she's pestering the staff with, whether she's convinced anyone else to let her help with tasks far beyond her four-year-old capabilities.
Whether her mother has smiled. Really smiled, not the careful, guarded expression she wears like armor whenever I'm looking.
That thought brings me up short. Because while Ava has claimed my attention with the forceful charm that only children possess, it's her mother who haunts my quiet moments. Lenny moves through my house like a ghost, all watchful grace and barely contained readiness to run. She speaks when spoken to, contributes to conversations when directly invited, but there's always that distance in her amber eyes, that careful calculation of exits and threats.
I want to see her without that wariness. Want to know what she looks like when she's not braced for danger, when she's not protecting herself from imagined blows. The few times I've glimpsed her unguarded—usually when she's watching Ava play—there's a softness to her features that makes my chest tight with something I don't entirely recognize.
The afternoon drags by with weapons assessment and strategic planning sessions, but finally the sun begins its descent toward the western mountains, and I can justify heading home. The flight from the college to my estate usually takes twenty minutes if I push myself, but today I make it in fifteen, my wings cutting through the cooling air with an urgency that would probably amuse Garent if he saw it.
I land in the front courtyard rather than the back gardens, eager to see what state of controlled chaos my household has descended into during my absence. The front doors are propped open to let the afternoon breeze flow through the halls, and I can hear voices drifting from somewhere deeper in the house—Lira'swarm alto mixed with Ava's higher tones and what sounds like Merrin's nervous giggle.
But before I can investigate these sounds, a small rocket launches itself at my legs with enough force to nearly topple me backward.
"Rhyen! You're home!"
Ava's arms lock around my thighs with the desperate grip of someone who's been waiting an eternity rather than eight hours. Her face tilts up toward mine, those impossible eyes bright with pure joy, and the fierce protectiveness that's been growing stronger each day slams through me again.
I'm not even sure how this happened. I never really cared about having kids, a family, but from the second I found her standing in that market, from when I scooped her up in my arms to protect her, she's burrowed deep into my heart. This child, with her fearless curiosity and unguarded affection, owns me. She belongs here, where she can run through gardens and pester stablehands and fill empty halls with laughter that echoes off stone walls like music.
"I've been waiting and waiting," she continues, finally releasing my legs but staying close enough to bounce on her toes with excitement. "Lira let me help make bread and I only dropped flour on the floor twice, and Tovren showed me how to brush zarryn manes, and Mama let me help her organize the spice cabinet because she says everything was all mixed up."
The casual way she mentions her mother organizing my spice cabinet—as if Lenny is settling in, making herself useful, creating order in spaces she's decided to claim—sends warmth spreading through my chest. Small steps toward belonging, toward seeing this place as something more than temporary shelter.
"That sounds like a very productive day," I say seriously, crouching down so we're at eye level. "Did the zarryn behave themselves during their grooming lesson?"
Ava's expression turns solemn. "Greywind tried to eat my hair ribbon, but Tovren said that means she likes me. And Stormchaser let me pet her nose even though she usually doesn't like people touching her face."
Both of those zarryn are notoriously temperamental, barely tolerating even Tovren's ministrations. The fact that they're accepting attention from a small child speaks to something special in Ava's nature—an innate gentleness that even the most skittish creatures recognize as safe.
"Where is everyone now?" I ask, straightening but keeping one hand on her shoulder. Physical contact comes so naturally with her, as if she's always belonged in reach of my protection.
"Mama's in the kitchen with Lira. They're making something that smells really good but they won't tell me what it is." Ava's expression turns conspiratorial. "I think it might be for dinner, but it's different from what we usually have. Mama keeps tasting it and making this face like she's trying to remember something."
Cooking. Lenny is cooking something from memory, something that requires careful attention and multiple tastings. Not the simple, efficient meals she's been preparing—good food, but clearly designed for speed and practicality. This sounds like something with emotional weight, perhaps a dish from before her world became about running and hiding.
"Should we go see if they need any assistance?" I suggest, though what I really want is to see Lenny in my kitchen, hands busy with creation instead of defense, that distant look replaced by the focused concentration Ava described.
Because I care about her, too. I want her to feel at home here. Nothing more.
"Yes! But you have to promise not to peek at what they're making. Mama said it's supposed to be a surprise."
A surprise. For whom? The whole household? Or something more specific, more personal? The possibility that Lenny might be creating something special for me, something to mark this week of adjustment and tentative belonging, makes my pulse quicken in ways that have nothing to do with flight or combat.
Ava takes my hand—small fingers threading through mine with complete trust—and tugs me toward the kitchen. Her chatter continues as we walk, a running commentary on the day's events that includes detailed descriptions of the pictures she drew, the games she invented in the garden, and her various interactions with every member of my staff.
But underneath her bright narrative, I find myself thinking about the woman waiting in my kitchen. Lenny, who moves like water and watches like a hawk, who tells stories to her daughter about castles and safety while never believing in either for herself. Who's spent a week in my home without ever truly relaxing, never quite trusting that the protection I've offered is real.
I want to change that. Want to see those amber eyes go soft with something other than maternal affection. Want to know what it would feel like to have her look at me the way Ava does—with complete faith that I'll keep her safe, that I'm someone worth trusting with the precious things she holds close to her heart.
The kitchen comes into view, warm and golden in the afternoon light, and I can see two figures moving around the large table in what looks like comfortable collaboration. Lenny stands at the stove, stirring something in a copper pot while Lira hovers nearby with ingredients and suggestions. Steam rises from whatever they're preparing, carrying scents that make mymouth water and trigger unexpected memories of my childhood, though I can't place exactly what they're making.
But it's not the food that holds my attention.
It's Lenny herself, completely absorbed in her task, tasting and adjusting and adding pinches of spices with the kind of intuitive knowledge that comes from years of practice. Her ash-brown hair is pulled back in a simple braid, but several strands have escaped to frame her face. She's wearing one of the simple dresses Lira provided—deep green cotton that brings out the gold flecks in her eyes—and for the first time since she arrived, she looks... settled. Like she belongs in my kitchen, contributing to my household, creating something beautiful and nourishing for people she's beginning to care about.
