Page 16 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Daughter
"No," Lira agrees readily. "They're dangerous. Powerful. Capable of terrible destruction." She sets the loaf on a cooling rack and turns to face me, flour dusting her dark hands. "But that doesn't mean they can't be gentle with the right person. Doesn't mean they can't choose to protect instead of destroy."
The pot slips from my hands, clattering into the basin with enough noise to make us both wince. I grab for it quickly, heat flooding my cheeks at my clumsiness, but Lira just smiles like my nerves are something perfectly normal instead of a sign that I'm losing the careful control I've spent four years perfecting.
"I should start preparing lunch," I mumble, lifting the pot from the soapy water. "Ava gets hungry early, and?—"
"Lenny."
Something in Lira's voice makes me look at her properly. Her expression is gentle but serious, the way she might look at a wounded animal she's trying to coax out of hiding.
"He's not going to hurt her. Or you." Her words are soft but certain. "I've worked for Rhyen Sarenthil for eight years. Seen him through hard times and good ones, watched him with children and warriors and nobles who tried his patience something fierce. Never once—not once—have I seen him raise a hand to someone off the battlefield. It's just not in him."
I want to believe her. The longing for it hits me so hard I have to grip the edge of the counter to keep myself steady. I want to believe that this place is safe, that this man who reads bedtime stories and lets small hands tangle in his hair can be trusted with the most precious thing in my world.
But wanting something doesn't make it true.
"People change," I say finally. "When they're angry, or frustrated, or when someone does something they don't expect..."
"Some people do." Lira steps closer, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "But not him. And honey, I think deep down you know that. Think maybe that's what's scaring you most of all."
Before I can respond to that—before I can figure out how to deflect that uncomfortable accuracy—footsteps echo from the hallway. Heavy boots that I've learned to recognize even before their owner appears in the kitchen doorway.
Rhyen enters with Ava riding piggy-back style, her arms wrapped around his neck and her legs dangling on either side of his broad torso. Dirt stains her pale blue dress and there are leaves caught in her dark curls, but her face glows with the particular joy that comes from having been thoroughly entertained by someone who takes her interests seriously.
"Mama!" she calls out, bouncing slightly on Rhyen's back. "We found a family of thalivern in the vines! Their wings are purple and gold and Rhyen says they only come out when the weather's warm like this!"
"That's wonderful, little star." The endearment slips out automatically, the way it always does when I see her face light up with discovery. "Did you remember to look with your eyes instead of your hands?"
"Yes! Rhyen told me they're very delicate and we should just watch them dance instead of trying to catch them." She leans forward to whisper conspiratorially. "But he said maybe tomorrow we can look for their chrysalis shells because those are safe to touch and collect."
My gaze snaps to Rhyen, who's watching this exchange with an expression I can't quite read. There's something warm in those celestial blue eyes, something that makes my pulse quicken in ways I'm not ready to examine.
"If you'd like to," he says simply. "Chrysalis shells make good additions to nature collections."
Nature collections. As if Ava will be here long enough to start collecting things, to build the kind of treasures that children accumulate when they have permanent bedrooms and shelves to display their finds on. As if this is the beginning of something instead of a temporary reprieve from running.
The casual assumption in his words makes my throat tight.
"Can I help with lunch?" Ava asks, finally wiggling down from Rhyen's shoulders to land with a soft thump on the kitchen stones. "I promise I won't spill anything important."
"Of course," I manage. "You can help me slice the bread once it's finished cooling."
"And I can show Rhyen my drawings from this morning! I made one of the thalivern and one of Greywind and one of..." She launches into an enthusiastic description of her artistic endeavors, chattering to Rhyen as if they've known each other for years instead of days.
He listens with the same focused attention he'd give a military briefing, asking questions about her color choices and technique that make her beam with pride. When she mentions that she tried to draw his wings but couldn't get the shading right, he actually crouches down to her level.
"Wing shading is tricky," he says seriously. "Even seasoned artists struggle with it. Would you like me to show you some techniques after lunch?"
"Yes! Can you pose for me? Like a real art model?"
"If you think that would help."
I turn back to the bread with more force than necessary, my hands shaking as I transfer the cooling loaves to cutting boards. This is how it happens. This is how people get pulled into lives that aren't theirs, how children form attachments to men who will eventually leave or change or decide that the responsibility of caring for someone else's damaged family is more burden than blessing.
This is how hearts get broken—slowly, gently, with butterfly wings and art lessons and patient answers to endless questions.
Behind me, I can hear Ava describing her planned drawing in detail while Rhyen offers suggestions with the kind of seriousness that treats her four-year-old concerns as genuinely important. Lira bustles around us, setting the table and humming under her breath, and for a moment the kitchen feels like something from the fairy tales I tell Ava at bedtime. Warm and safe and filled with people who care about each other.
Too good to be real. Too perfect to last.
