Page 24 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Daughter
Slowly, as the evening wears on, some of the tension melts from Lenny's posture. Her hands stop shaking. She meets my eyes more often, holds the contact longer. The wariness doesn't disappear entirely—I doubt it ever will, given what she's survived—but it recedes enough for me to catch glimpses of the woman underneath.
She's funny, I realize. Dry wit surfaces in unexpected moments, usually at her own expense. When she talks about Ava, her whole face transforms with love so fierce it takes my breath away. And when she forgets to guard herself, lets the walls drop just a fraction, she's stunning in a way that has nothing to do with physical beauty and everything to do with the strength it takes to keep caring in a world that's given her every reason to stop.
"I should let you get some rest," I say eventually, though the last thing I want is for this evening to end.
She nods, rising with me, but something prevents her from immediately moving toward the door. "Rhyen?"
"Yeah?"
"It was nice talking with you." I swear she nearly smiles and internally, I'm begging for it. "I haven't had a conversation like this in... well, in five years."
"Neither have I," I admit, and realize it's true. Even if it was all just about Ava—a safe topic for us both—I got to see sides of Lenny I don't normally.
When was the last time I sat with someone and just talked? Really talked, not the careful verbal sparring that passes for conversation among the nobility or the professional discussions I have with colleagues. This felt real in a way I'd forgotten was possible.
"Well." She tucks a strand of ash-brown hair behind her ear, a gesture that draws attention to the delicate curve of her neck. "Maybe we could... do this again sometime?"
"I'd like that," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than intended.
She smiles then—just a small upturn of her lips, barely there and gone almost instantly. But for that brief moment, her whole face changes. The wariness disappears, replaced by something warm and genuine and completely unguarded.
The sight hits me like a physical blow.
I've seen her worried, frightened, exhausted. I've seen her fierce with protective fury and gentle with maternal love. Even the rare glimpses of a smile I thought I'd seen before are nothing compared to this soft one I just got. But I've never seen her simply happy, and the transformation is devastating.
"Good night, Rhyen."
"Good night."
I leave before I do something stupid, like ask if I can see her smile again. But as I walk back through the quiet corridors toward my own chambers, that brief expression follows me. It's carved into my memory with the kind of clarity that suggests it's going to haunt me for a very long time.
The realization settles over me slowly, like dawn breaking over mountains I didn't know were there.
This isn't just about Ava anymore. Somewhere along the way, while I was falling in love with her daughter, I started falling for her mother too.
And that smile—fleeting as it was—just sealed my fate completely.
11
LENNY
Iwake to pale light filtering through the curtains, that soft gray hour before true dawn breaks. My hand reaches automatically to the space beside me, finding only cool sheets. Empty, as expected.
Ava's been an early riser since she could walk—something about the quiet hours before the world fully wakes that calls to her. In our years of running, it was a blessing and a curse. A blessing because we could slip away from inns and camps while others still slept. A curse because a four-year-old has no concept of stealth when she's excited about something.
I pull my woolen shawl around my shoulders and pad barefoot through the suite. The sitting room holds only the lingering scent of last night's tea and the memory of Rhyen's voice saying he loves her. The words still send something warm and complicated spiraling through my chest.
The corridors stretch before me, empty and hushed. My feet know the way without conscious thought—toward the gardens, toward the training grounds, toward wherever Rhyen might be found in these early hours. It's become routine over the weekswe've been here. Ava disappears at first light, and I follow to collect her for breakfast.
Except I'm not really collecting her anymore, am I? I'm watching. Always watching them together, this man and my daughter who've somehow found each other across impossible odds.
The garden doors stand open, letting in the crisp morning air. I step onto the stone path, pulling my shawl tighter against the chill. The world holds that hushed quality of early dawn—dew clinging to everything, colors muted to watercolor softness, the sky painted in gentle pastels.
Then I hear it. Laughter. Pure, joyful, completely uninhibited laughter that could only belong to Ava.
I follow the sound around a bend in the path and stop, my breath catching somewhere between my ribs and my throat.
They're in the wide clearing where Rhyen usually practices alone—him and Ava, both wielding wooden practice swords that are comically mismatched in size. Rhyen's blade is proper length, worn smooth from years of use. Ava's is child-sized, carved specially for her small hands, painted bright blue because she insisted that blue swords are obviously better than brown ones.
