Page 18 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Daughter
"Sometimes it gets better," I tell her finally. "Especially when you're safe and cared for."
Ava nods as if this makes perfect sense, then brightens. "Mama's been smiling more since we came here. Real smiles. Much brighter than before."
The observation floors me with its accuracy. I have noticed the difference—the way Lenny's expressions have gradually thawed, how her shoulders don't stay perpetually locked with tension anymore. But I hadn't realized a four-year-old was cataloguing the same changes.
It's during our third week together that Lenny starts lingering. At first, she appears in doorways or at windows, watching our games with that careful distance she maintains. But gradually, she ventures closer. A step onto the garden path. A seat on the stone bench near our makeshift dueling ground. Close enough to hear our banter, to see Ava's triumphant grins after each victory.
"Mama, come fight too!" Ava calls one afternoon after defeating me in what she's dubbed the Battle of the Golden Roses.
Lenny freezes like a startled deer. "Oh, I don't think?—"
"Please? You can be a knight too, and we can fight the dragon together!"
"I don't know how to use a sword, little star."
"That's okay! Rhyen can teach you. He teaches people sword fighting as his job, Mama." She says it like Lenny is being ridiculous.
The suggestion hangs in the air between us. Lenny's eyes find mine, and for a moment I see something vulnerable in their amber depths. Want, maybe. Or fear of wanting.
"Only if you'd like to," I say quietly. "No pressure."
She studies my face for a long moment, as if searching for some hidden trap. Then, slowly, she nods.
What follows is perhaps the most careful sword lesson I've ever given. I show Lenny basic grips and stances, keeping my hands to myself and my voice low and encouraging. She's naturally graceful despite her claims of ignorance, her movements economical and precise. When she successfully parries one of my gentle testing strikes, the smile that crosses her face is radiant.
"Now you can both fight me," Ava declares with obvious delight. "This will be the best battle ever!"
And it is, in its way. Ava charges with her usual wild enthusiasm while Lenny stays back, testing the weight of her wooden blade and occasionally darting forward to land careful touches on my arms or torso. The three of us move around each other with surprising coordination, and when Ava declares victory after I stage another theatrical death, Lenny is actually laughing.
The sound stops me cold. It's the first time I've heard her laugh—really laugh, not the polite chuckles she sometimes offers when Ava says something amusing. This is pure joy, unguarded and bright, and it transforms her entire face.
"Again!" Ava demands, but Lenny shakes her head.
"I should start dinner," she says, though she's still smiling. "Warriors need proper meals after such fierce battles."
"Can we fight again tomorrow?" Ava asks hopefully.
Lenny's gaze flicks to me. "If Rhyen doesn't mind..."
"I'd be honored to face such skilled opponents again," I say formally, and am rewarded with another of those rare smiles.
As the days blur together, I find myself looking forward to these afternoons with an intensity that should concern me. The training college feels increasingly like an obligation to endure rather than meaningful work. My thoughts drift during strategic meetings and combat drills, wandering to dark curls and amber eyes, to wooden swords and flower crowns, to the sound of Lenny's laugh echoing through my garden.
It's during our flying lessons that I realize how thoroughly I'm lost.
Ava had been begging to fly since her second day here, and after much careful consideration and several conversations with Lenny about safety measures, I'd finally agreed to short flights around the garden. Now it's become another afternoon ritual—Ava wrapped securely in my arms as we soar over the estate grounds, her delighted shrieks of joy mixing with the rush of wind through my wings.
"Higher!" she always demands. "I want to touch the clouds!"
"Next time," I always promise, though we both know I'll say the same thing tomorrow.
But today, as we circle back toward the garden where Lenny waits, I catch sight of her face tilted up toward us. Even from this height, I can see her expression—soft and unguarded, watching her daughter's joy with a mixture of love and something that might be longing.
She wants this too. Wants to feel weightless, wants to soar above the world that's given her so much pain. I can see it in the way she tracks our movements, the unconscious step forward she takes as we prepare to land.
"Would you like to try?" I ask quietly after setting Ava safely on her feet.
Lenny goes very still. "Try what?"
