Page 17 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Daughter
I slice the bread with mechanical precision, each cut clean and even, while my daughter's laughter mingles with the deep rumble of Rhyen's voice behind me. Ten days, and already I can feel my carefully constructed walls beginning to crumble.
What terrifies me most is how badly I want to let them fall.
8
RHYEN
When I return from the college this afternoon, I find Ava stationed by the garden gate like a tiny sentinel, wooden practice sword clutched in both hands and determination written across her face in bold strokes.
"You're late," she announces, as if we'd made some formal appointment I'd failed to keep.
"My apologies, Lady Ava." I offer her a mock bow that makes her giggle. "How shall I make amends for this grievous offense?"
She considers this with the gravity of a seasoned diplomat. "Sword fighting. And this time I get to be the dragon slayer."
"A fearsome role," I agree solemnly. "I suppose that makes me the dragon?"
"Obviously." She waves her wooden sword with dangerous enthusiasm. "You're big enough to be a proper dragon."
I draw my own practice blade—a wooden thing I'd commissioned years ago for training younger students—and settle into a defensive stance. "Then let the battle commence, brave knight."
What follows could generously be called combat if one squints and ignores all conventional definitions of the word. Avaattacks with the wild abandon of someone utterly convinced of her own invincibility, wooden sword swinging in arcs that follow no particular school of swordsmanship. I parry her strikes with theatrical flair, stumbling backward and crying out in mock anguish when her blade connects with my arm or leg.
"You're not dead yet," she pants after landing what she clearly considers a killing blow to my thigh.
"Dragons are notoriously difficult to kill," I remind her, then stage an elaborate death scene when her next strike grazes my shoulder. "Alas! I am defeated by the mighty Sir Ava!"
She throws her arms up in victory, wooden sword held high like a champion's trophy, and the pure joy on her face makes something warm unfurl in my chest. When was the last time I played like this? When was the last time I let someone else dictate the rules of engagement, let myself lose without caring about strategy or reputation or the careful dance of politics that governs most interactions?
Through the kitchen window, I catch a glimpse of movement. Lenny, watching us with an expression I can't quite read from this distance. She disappears before I can study her face properly, but something tells me she was smiling.
The pattern establishes itself over the following days. Each afternoon, Ava waits for me—sometimes by the gate, sometimes in the garden itself, always armed with her wooden sword and ready for whatever adventure her imagination has conjured. Some days she's a knight errant seeking glory. Other days she's a treasure hunter exploring dangerous ruins, with me playing the role of guardian beast or treacherous rival explorer.
"Today you're a wyvern," she declares a few days later, bouncing on her toes with excitement. "A really mean one who's stolen all the gold from the village."
"How mean?" I ask, genuinely curious about the parameters of my role.
"Mean enough to steal gold, but not mean enough to hurt people," she clarifies with four-year-old logic. "You just like shiny things too much."
I find myself oddly touched by her version of evil—flawed but not malicious, driven by want rather than cruelty. Even in her fantasies, Ava can't quite conceive of true malice.
Our battles become increasingly elaborate as the days pass. She constructs scenarios with the detailed precision of a military strategist, assigning herself different weapons and allies—usually involving Greywind as her faithful steed, though my zarryn shows remarkable patience for a creature supposedly bred for mountain warfare. I play my assigned roles with growing investment, surprising myself with how readily I slip into character as dragon, wyvern, bandit king, or whatever villain her stories require.
But it's the quiet moments between battles that catch me off guard. When Ava declares herself tired of fighting and instead wants to braid flowers into my hair. When she curls up against my side in comfortable silence while I read aloud from whatever book she's selected. When she asks endless questions about flying, about xaphan culture, about whether I think the thalivern really do dance at midnight like the old stories claim.
"Do your wings hurt when it rains?" she asks one afternoon, tracing patterns in the dirt while I sharpen her practice sword with careful strokes.
"Sometimes," I admit. "Old injuries can ache when the weather changes."
"Mama's wrists hurt when it rains too." The observation is offered matter-of-factly, without the weight I know it carries. "She tries to hide it, but I can tell."
I keep my expression neutral, though something cold settles in my chest at this casual mention of Lenny's pain. I've noticed those scars on her wrists—thin white lines that speak ofrestraints worn too long and too tight. The knowledge that they still cause her discomfort makes my jaw tighten.
"Pain has a way of lingering," I say carefully. "Even after the cause is gone."
"Will it ever stop hurting?"
The question is simple, but the complexity beneath it makes me pause. Is she asking about her mother's physical scars, or something deeper? And how do I answer without revealing more than Lenny might want shared?
