Page 19 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Daughter
"Flying." I fold my wings carefully, making myself less imposing. "Just a short flight, if you're interested."
"Mama, say yes!" Ava bounces excitedly. "It's the most amazing thing ever! Like being a bird, but better!"
Lenny's hands twist in her skirts. "I... I don't know..."
"It's perfectly safe," I assure her. "And we don't have to go high."
She looks between Ava and me, something fierce and wanting warring in her expression. Finally, so quietly I almost miss it, she whispers, "Okay."
My heart does something complicated in my chest as I step closer. "I'll need to hold you securely. Is that all right?"
Her nod is barely perceptible, but it's there. When I lift her—one arm beneath her knees, the other around her back—she goes rigid for a moment before gradually relaxing into my hold. She's lighter than I expected, all sharp angles and wary tension beneath soft curves.
"Ready?" I ask, and feel her quick nod against my shoulder.
We rise slowly, carefully, my wings working in steady, measured beats. Lenny's hands clutch my shirt at first, knuckles white with tension, but as we reach the height of the garden walls, she begins to relax. Her grip loosens. Her breathing evens out.
"Oh," she whispers, and the wonder in her voice makes warmth bloom behind my ribs.
We soar over the estate in lazy circles, the world spread out beneath us in shades of green and gold. Lenny doesn't speak, but I feel the moment she stops being afraid and starts experiencing awe. Her body softens completely in my arms, and when a particularly strong updraft carries us higher, she actually gasps with delight.
"It's beautiful," she says finally. "Everything looks so... peaceful from up here."
"Different perspective," I agree. "Sometimes you need distance to see things clearly."
She turns her head to look at me then, and we're close enough that I can count the gold flecks in her amber eyes. For a heartbeat, the air between us feels charged with something more complex than simple flight physics.
Then she's looking away, color rising in her cheeks. "We should go back. Ava will worry."
But when we land, when I set her carefully on her feet and step back to give her space, she doesn't immediately retreat to the house. Instead, she meets my eyes directly.
"Thank you," she says simply. "It was… It's all better than I expected."
Before I can respond, Ava crashes into her legs with typical four-year-old enthusiasm, demanding a detailed account of the flight experience. But as Lenny describes soaring over the gardens, I catch her glancing at me with something new in her expression.
Trust, maybe. Or at least the beginning of it.
That night, as I review training reports in my study, I catch myself staring out the window toward the guest wing where Lenny and Ava have settled for the evening. Warm golden light spills from their windows, and I can hear the soft murmur of bedtime stories being told.
A month ago, this house felt too large, too quiet, too much like the shell of a life rather than life itself. Now it hums with purpose. Ava's laughter echoes through the halls. Lenny's quiet footsteps mark the rhythm of daily routines. Even my staff seems more animated, as if the presence of a child has reminded them that homes are meant to shelter joy as well as provide mere shelter.
I should be concerned about how attached I'm becoming. Should be analyzing my growing investment in their wellbeing, questioning whether my protectiveness is appropriate for what was supposed to be a temporary arrangement.
Instead, I find myself planning tomorrow's adventures, wondering what new games Ava might invent, hoping Lenny will join us again. Hoping she'll smile. Hoping she'll laugh.
Hoping she'll stay.
The realization should terrify me. This fierce want, this growing need to make them both happy, safe, loved—it's dangerous territory for a man who's spent decades believing that those he cares about are safest when kept at arm's length.
But when I think of Ava's face during our mock battles, of Lenny's wonder during our flight, of the way this house has come alive around them... I can't bring myself to step away.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
9
LENNY
