Page 2 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Daughter
I test its weight, its balance. The metal is cold against my skin, about the length of my forearm. The broken end tapers to a point sharp enough to punch through cloth. Through flesh, if I'm quick enough. Strong enough.
My hands shake as I grip the improvised blade. Not from fear—from anticipation. From the first real hope I've felt in days.
I position myself in the corner beside the door, where the darkness is deepest. Where he won't see me until it's too late.
The metal warms in my grip as I wait, counting heartbeats, measuring time by the rhythm of my own breathing.
When he returns, I'll be ready.
Hours creep by in the suffocating darkness. My body settles into a crouch that keeps me balanced on the balls of my feet, ready to spring. The metal rod grows slick with sweat in my palm, but my grip remains steady.
The stone I pried from the wall sits heavy in my left hand. Its weight grounds me, reminds me this isn't another desperate fantasy. This is real. This is happening.
My heartbeat thunders so loud I'm certain it echoes off the chamber walls. When I press my ear to the door, I catch faint sounds from the floors above—footsteps, muffled voices, the distant clatter of dishware. His household continues its nightly routine, oblivious to what's brewing in their basement.
The lock's enchantment hums differently when he approaches. A subtle shift in pitch that I've learned to recognize. My muscles coil tighter as the sound grows stronger, closer.
Heavy footsteps descend the stone stairs beyond the door. His boots strike each step with the same arrogant confidencehe carries everywhere. Like the world exists solely for his convenience.
The enchanted lock disengages with a soft chime. Light from his oil lamp spills under the door, a golden line that seems blinding after hours of perfect darkness.
"Kaelenya." His voice carries that same detached amusement. "I trust you've had time to consider your position."
The heavy door swings inward on well-oiled hinges. He steps inside, lamp held high, scanning the chamber for my huddled form.
I'm not where he expects to find me.
His head turns toward the corner where I usually cower, and in that moment of confusion, I strike.
The stone connects with the back of his skull with a wet crunch that vibrates through my arm. He staggers forward, the lamp tumbling from his grasp. Oil splashes across the floor, and flames lick hungrily at the spilled fuel.
"What—" He spins toward me, but his movements are sluggish, uncoordinated. Dark blood streams down his neck, soaking into his expensive collar. It's not enough to take him down. Just enough to buy me time.
I don't give him time to recover. The metal rod punches through the soft flesh of his throat, sliding between vertebrae with surprising ease. His eyes widen—not with pain, but with genuine shock. As if the possibility of a mere human harming him had never occurred to him.
Blood bubbles from his lips as he tries to speak. His hands claw at the metal protruding from his neck, but his fingers slip on the slick surface.
He drops to his knees, then forward onto his face. The impact drives the rod deeper, and fresh blood pools beneath him, black in the flickering lamplight.
I stand over his body, chest heaving. My hands shake violently now, adrenaline flooding my system in waves that leave me dizzy.
He's dead. Actually dead.
The flames spread across the oil spill, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. Soon they'll reach something flammable, send smoke curling up to alert the household above.
I need to move.
His body blocks the doorway, and I have to step over him to escape. My bare foot lands in the expanding pool of his blood, warm and sticky between my toes. The metallic smell fills the chamber, mixing with smoke from the growing fire.
I grab his lamp—somehow still intact despite the fall—and flee up the narrow stairs. My legs tremble with each step, weak from days of captivity, but fear drives me forward.
The corridor above is mercifully empty. Servants' voices echo from the kitchen wing, but they sound relaxed, unhurried. No one has noticed their master's absence yet.
I creep through hallways I've walked countless times, but always under guard, always in chains. The estate layout is burned into my memory—every turn, every doorway, every potential escape route I've catalogued during five years of imprisonment.
The main entrance is too exposed. Guards station themselves there during evening hours, and I'd never make it past them barefoot and blood-soaked. But the servants' entrance in the rear courtyard sees less traffic after dark.
I press myself against walls, dart between shadows, pause to listen at every corner. Blood from my torn wrists leaves a trail on the pale stone, but there's nothing I can do about that now. Sticky footprints are following me as I go, and I just have to hope I can make it.
