Page 30 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Daughter
"Commander Thalor." The greeting is perfectly polite and completely devoid of warmth. "We're conducting a brief tour. Nothing that interferes with training schedules."
"A tour." Thalor's pale eyes flick to Ava again, and his lip curls with distaste. "How progressive of you. Though I have to question the wisdom of exposing our cadets to... unsuitable influences."
The words hit like a physical blow. Ava doesn't understand the full meaning, but she's smart enough to recognize rejection when she hears it. Her small hand tightens in mine, and she presses closer to my legs, some of her earlier brightness dimming.
"There's nothing unsuitable about my guests." Rhyen's voice drops to a dangerous rumble that makes the air around us feel charged with potential violence. "And I'd suggest you remember that when choosing your next words."
The threat is unmistakable, wrapped in the kind of deadly calm that speaks to years of command and combat experience. Thalor's nostrils flare, and for a moment I think he might push the confrontation further. But something in Rhyen's expression—some promise of consequences that goes beyond simple military discipline—makes him step back.
"Of course," he says with acidic courtesy. "My mistake. Enjoy your... tour."
He disappears around the corner with military precision, but the poisonous atmosphere he's left behind clings to us like smoke. Ava hasn't said anything, but I can feel her confusion and hurt radiating through our joined hands.
Rhyen crouches down immediately, bringing himself to her eye level with practiced ease.
"Hey," he says softly, his fingers gentle as he adjusts her crooked flower crown. "Some people are afraid of things they don't understand. That's their problem, not yours."
"He didn't like me." Her voice is small and uncertain, missing the confidence that usually rings through her words.
"Then he's missing out on knowing the bravest, smartest, most magnificent empress in all the realms," Rhyen tells her with complete sincerity. "Which makes him pretty foolish, don't you think?"
A tiny smile tugs at her lips. "Very foolish."
"Exactly. Now, did you want to see the weapons master's workshop? I heard he has a sword that changes colors when you hold it."
Her eyes widen, the earlier hurt already fading in the face of new wonders to explore. "Really? Can I hold it?"
"We'll ask very nicely. Empresses are usually granted special privileges."
As we continue deeper into the college grounds, Ava's chatter gradually returns to its usual bright intensity. But I find myself watching Rhyen with new understanding, catching the subtle way his attention remains divided—part of him focused on entertaining Ava, part scanning for potential threats or sources of discomfort.
He protected her. Not just with words, but with his entire presence, turning his body into a shield between her and someone who would hurt her simply for existing. The casual way he defused the situation and redirected her attention speaks to instincts I recognize—the bone-deep need to keep her safe, to preserve her innocence for as long as possible.
Watching him love my daughter with such effortless devotion is the most dangerous thing I've ever experienced.Because somewhere between his patience with her questions and his fury at anyone who would diminish her, I've stopped trying to convince myself that this is temporary.
The walls I've built around my heart are cracking, and I'm not sure I want to repair them anymore.
14
RHYEN
The house settles around me like a living thing, all familiar creaks and whispered sighs, but sleep remains as elusive as smoke. I've been staring at the ceiling for hours, watching shadows shift across the enchanted stonework as clouds drift past the moons outside my window.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Thalor's face. That cold disgust when he looked at Ava, the calculated cruelty in his voice when he called her an "unsuitable influence." The way her small shoulders hunched, her bright confidence dimming like a snuffed candle.
My hands clench into fists against the bedsheets. The urge to hunt him down, to make him understand exactly what happens to people who threaten what's mine, burns through my veins like liquid fire. But violence won't solve this—won't fix the fact that there are others like him, others who see a four-year-old child and feel nothing but revulsion.
The injustice of it eats at me. She's innocent. Brilliant and brave and so full of light that rooms brighten when she enters them. Her heritage isn't her fault, isn't something she chose or can change. Yet people like Thalor would condemn herfor existing, would poison her world with their hatred simply because she dares to be different.
I roll out of bed with a growl of frustration, bare feet hitting the cool stone floor. The night air carries the scent of nightlilies from the garden below, but it does nothing to ease the restless energy clawing at my chest. Maybe tea will help. Maybe moving through the familiar motions of making something warm will quiet the storm in my head enough to find a few hours of peace.
The kitchen welcomes me with moonlight streaming through tall windows, casting silver patterns across polished countertops. I move quietly, mindful of the sleeping household, but the ritual of lighting the stove and filling the kettle feels like meditation. Something to focus on besides the memory of Ava's hurt expression.
As I wait for the water to heat, movement in the garden catches my eye through the window. A pale figure sits on one of the stone benches near the nightlily beds, motionless as a statue in the ethereal light. My chest tightens when I realize it's Lenny.
She's wearing nothing but a thin nightgown that barely reaches her knees, her long hair loose and catching the breeze like silk. Her feet are bare against the cool stone path, arms wrapped around her drawn-up legs in a pose that speaks to vulnerability and watchfulness in equal measure. From this distance, she looks almost ghostly—too delicate for this world, too fragile to carry the weight I know she bears.
The kettle whistles softly, and I pour the steaming water over meadowmint leaves, the familiar ritual automatic while my attention remains fixed on the woman in my garden. She hasn't moved, hasn't acknowledged the light now glowing in the kitchen window. Her gaze seems focused on something far beyond the hedgerows, something I can't see but suspect lives in memory rather than reality.
