Page 23 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Daughter
Even if sometimes I wish to get to know her better.
"I'd like that," I say, and mean it more than I probably should.
She nods once, sharp and decisive, then moves to the small table by the window where someone from the kitchen staff has left a tea service. Her hands shake slightly as she pours—just enough for me to notice, though she tries to hide it.
I settle into the chair across from her, hyperaware of how the space seems to shrink around us. Without Ava's bright chatter to fill the silence, the air feels charged, expectant. Lenny's scent reaches me across the small distance—something clean and subtle, like rain-washed stone with an underlying warmth that's purely her.
She hands me a cup, careful not to let our fingers brush, then cradles her own tea like it's an anchor. The silence stretches between us, but it's not uncomfortable exactly. More like walking along the edge of something significant, both of us afraid to disturb the delicate balance.
"Thank you," she says suddenly, the words barely above a whisper.
I raise an eyebrow. "For the tea? You're the one who made it."
"No." Her amber eyes meet mine briefly before darting away. "For today. For what you did in the market. For..." She gestures helplessly, as if trying to encompass something too large for words. "For how you are with her. With Ava."
The rawness in her voice catches me unprepared. This isn't polite gratitude or social obligation. This is something deeper, more personal—the kind of thanks that comes from someone who's watched their most precious thing be treated with the care it deserves.
"You don't need to thank me for that," I say, setting my cup down. "She's easy to care about."
"Not for most people." Lenny's laugh holds no humor. "Most people look at her and see something that shouldn't exist. An abomination, like that bastard in the market said."
Anger flares hot in my chest at the memory. "That bastard is an ignorant fool who wouldn't recognize something precious if it carved its name into his forehead."
The corner of her mouth twitches—almost a smile, but not quite. "You really mean that, don't you? You don't see her as... as what she is."
"I see her exactly as what she is," I counter, leaning forward slightly. "A brave, intelligent, wonderful child who lights up every room she enters. A little girl who asks for nothing more than the chance to be herself, and who gives back joy in quantities that should be impossible for someone so small."
Lenny stares at me like I've said something revolutionary. "She asks me sometimes why people don't like her. She's four years old, and she already knows the world thinks she's wrong somehow." Her voice cracks slightly. "And I never know what to tell her because part of me believes it too. Part of me looks at what she is and remember my past, what part of heris?—"
"No." The word comes out harder than I intended, carrying enough force that she flinches. I force myself to gentle my tone. "Don't ever think that. Don't ever let her think that. She is not wrong for existing. She is not too much of anything or not enough of something else. She is perfect exactly as she is."
Tears gather in Lenny's eyes, threatening to spill over. "How can you be so certain? How can you look at her and not see the danger she represents? The problems she'll face? The way people will treat her?"
"Because those aren't her problems to solve," I say fiercely. "Those are their problems. Their prejudice, their fear,their inability to see past surface differences to the person underneath. And if the world has a problem with her existence, then the world can answer to me."
The silence that follows feels heavy with unspoken things. Lenny wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand, a gesture so vulnerable it makes my chest ache.
"She adores you," she says finally. "I've never seen her trust anyone the way she trusts you. Even me, sometimes I think she holds back a little, like she's afraid if she's too much trouble I might..." She shakes her head. "But with you, she just is. Completely herself."
"She should be," I murmur. "She should never have to be anything else."
"And you..." Lenny looks up at me, something wondering in her expression. "You just let her. You encourage it. When she climbs on your shoulders or insists on 'helping' you with sword practice or falls asleep against your arm while you're reading... you never act like she's an inconvenience."
"Because she isn't." The response comes automatically, but as soon as I say it, I realize how true it is. "She's never an inconvenience. She's... she's light, Lenny. Pure light in a form small enough to fit in someone's arms. How could anyone see that as anything but a gift?"
Something shifts in Lenny's expression—a softening around the edges, like ice beginning to thaw. "You love her."
It's not a question, but I answer it anyway. "Yeah. I do."
The admission settles between us like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples in all directions. I hadn't meant to say it so plainly, but now that it's out there, I can't take it back. Don't want to take it back.
Ava has carved out a space in my heart I didn't know existed. Somewhere along the way, her happiness became essentialto mine. Her safety became my priority. Her trust became something I'd kill to protect.
"She loves you too," Lenny says quietly. "More than I think even she realizes. You're the first person besides me who's ever made her feel safe."
The weight of that responsibility should terrify me. Instead, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
We talk until our tea grows cold, trading stories about Ava's small triumphs and endearing quirks. Lenny tells me about the first time Ava tried to braid her own hair, ending up so tangled they had to cut out half the knots. I share how she managed to convince me that thaliverns are actually tiny dragons who've just forgotten how to breathe fire, and how seriously she takes the responsibility of helping them remember.
