Page 15 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Daughter
The fierce possessiveness that hits me at that thought nearly stops me in my tracks. I want to keep her here, want to convince her to stay not just for Ava's sake but for her own. Want to prove that this place—my home, my protection, my regard—can be trusted with both her safety and her heart.
"Mama!" Ava calls out, finally releasing my hand to run to her mother's side. "Rhyen's home and he wants to help but I told him about the surprise so he can't look!"
Lenny turns at her daughter's voice, and for just a moment, before she notices me standing in the doorway, her face is completely open. Relaxed in a way I've never seen, lit up with genuine pleasure at whatever she's creating, beautiful in her unguarded concentration.
Then she sees me, and the careful mask slides back into place.
But not quickly enough. I caught that glimpse of who she is beneath the armor, and the memory of it burns bright and certain in my chest.
It hits me hard—fast, certain, and bypassing every rational consideration about duty and responsibility and the complications of taking in refugees with dangerous pasts.
I should probably examine that. Question it. Remind myself that they are not my new family.
Instead, it feels like coming home.
7
LENNY
Ten days. Ten days, and I'm starting to lose myself in the rhythm of this place.
I scrub the copper pot with more force than necessary, the bristles of the brush grating against metal in a sound that sets my teeth on edge. Water sloshes over the rim, splashing across my apron and the spotless kitchen counter that I've already cleaned twice this morning.
Through the window above the basin, I can see Ava in the garden with Rhyen. She's perched on his shoulders now, her small hands tangled in his silver-white hair as she points excitedly at something in the flowering hedges. He turns his head to follow her direction, patient as stone, and when she leans forward to whisper something in his ear, his deep laugh carries across the courtyard.
My hands still on the pot.
She's never done that with anyone else. Never been comfortable enough to touch a stranger's hair, to whisper secrets, to assume she'll be caught if she falls. For four years, it's been just us—Ava and me against a world that wanted to hurt her. And now she's sitting on broad shoulders like she belongsthere, like this massive xaphan warrior is her personal climbing tree instead of a man who could snap her in half without thinking about it.
The brush resumes its aggressive path around the pot's interior. Ten days, and my daughter has claimed this place like it was always hers. She knows which stairs creak, which doors stick, where Lira keeps the good cookies. She greets Tovren every morning with a hug around his gruff old knees. She trails after Merrin like a devoted shadow, helping fold linens and dust furniture with the concentrated seriousness of someone performing vitally important work.
And Rhyen...
I force myself to keep scrubbing as I watch him lift Ava down from his shoulders. She immediately grabs his hand, tugging him toward something that's caught her attention near the stone benches. He follows without question, his massive frame folding gracefully as she leads him to crouch beside a patch of white-blooming vines.
The ease of it makes my chest tight. The way he moves around her—careful but not fragile, protective but not controlling. Yesterday I found him reading to her in the library, Ava curled against his side like she's been doing it her whole life while his deep voice brought fairy tale heroes to vivid life. When she fell asleep halfway through the story, he simply held still until I came to collect her, one large hand resting gently on her dark curls.
No one has ever been gentle with the things I love.
"You're going to scrub the copper right off that pot if you keep that up."
Lira's voice makes me jump. I hadn't heard her enter the kitchen, too lost in the scene playing out beyond the window. The half earth nymph stands beside me now, her warm brown eyes following my gaze to the garden where Rhyen isnow examining something Ava has found among the vines—probably a bug or interesting rock that requires serious adult consultation.
"It needed a proper cleaning," I say, returning to my scrubbing with deliberate focus. "The grease wasn't coming off with regular washing."
"Mmm." Lira doesn't sound convinced. "That pot's been in this kitchen for longer than I have. I think it can handle whatever you're throwing at it."
She moves to the bread ovens, checking the loaves that have been rising since early morning. Even though I'm the primary cook, Lira always helps me. I suspect Rhyen was never even in need for someone else in his kitchen, but Lira insists she couldn't keep doing it all on her own.
Her movements are unhurried, comfortable in this space she's tended for years. Everything about her radiates the kind of settled contentment I remember seeing in other people's mothers—women who belonged somewhere, who had homes instead of just places to hide.
"He's good with children," Lira says quietly, her back still turned. "Always has been. When his nephew visits—sweet boy, about seven now—Rhyen drops everything to spend time with him. Teaches him to fly, lets him 'help' with estate business, plays whatever ridiculous games the child invents."
I don't respond. Can't respond. Because acknowledging it—admitting that I see how naturally Rhyen fits into the role of protector, how easily Ava has claimed him as hers—feels like stepping off a cliff I'll never be able to climb back up.
"Never seen him take to a child quite like this, though," Lira continues, pulling one of the loaves from its pan to test its doneness. "Course, little Ava's got a way about her. Could charm the scales off a dragon, that one."
The brush freezes mid-scrub. "Dragons aren't charming creatures."
