Page 40 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Daughter
LENNY
The evening drags on with excruciating slowness. Dinner passes in stilted conversation—Ava chattering about her day while I push food mechanically around my plate, hyperaware of Rhyen's absence from the table. Lira mentions he took his meal in his study, citing work that needed finishing, but the excuse feels hollow. He's never done that before.
I help Ava with her bedtime routine, braiding her dark curls and tucking her into the soft sheets that still feel like luxury after years of rough inn beds and makeshift shelters. She studies my face with those unnervingly perceptive violet eyes.
"Are you sad, Mama?"
The question pierces straight through my careful composure. I smooth her hair back from her forehead, careful of the small horns hidden beneath the silky strands.
"Just tired, little star. Sleep now."
But she doesn't let go so easily. "Rhyen seemed sad too. Maybe you should talk to him."
She is far too perceptive for a four-year-old. I press a kiss to her temple, breathing in her sweet scent. "Maybe I will."
After she drifts off, I pace the kitchen like a caged animal, replaying every interaction from this morning for the hundredth time. The way Rhyen looked at me across the breakfast table—heat and promise and something deeper that made me believe in possibilities I'd long ago abandoned. Then the abrupt shift when he returned from the training college, all rigid shoulders and careful distance.
The doubts circle like vultures. Did I misread everything? Was the kiss just a moment of weakness he now regrets? Am I deluding myself into thinking someone like him could want something real with someone like me?
By the time the house settles into nighttime quiet, I can't stand the uncertainty another second. Whatever Rhyen's reasons for pulling away, I need to hear them. I need to know if last night meant anything or if I've been spinning fantasies out of wishful thinking.
I cross the house toward his wing. Warm lamplight glows beneath his door as I approach. Nervous, I stand there like a fool, hand raised to knock, paralyzed by the possibility of rejection.
What if he tells me the kiss was a mistake? What if seeing me in daylight reminded him of all the reasons why a decorated war hero shouldn't involve himself with damaged goods? What if?—
The door opens before I can knock, revealing Rhyen's imposing frame filling the doorway. He's changed, leaving him in dark trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal powerful forearms marked with faded battle scars. His silver hair appears disheveled, as if he's been running his hands through it.
"Lenny." My name sounds rough on his lips, like he's been holding it back all day.
"I—" Words tangle in my throat as I search his face for any hint of what he's thinking. The sharp angles of his cheekbonesseem more pronounced in the lamplight, his jaw tight with whatever internal battle he's been fighting. "Can we talk?"
He steps back wordlessly, letting me enter his room. Just like last time, it smells like him—clean soap and something indefinably masculine that makes my pulse quicken despite my anxiety. The lights are low and the curtains wide open, like he was standing at the window. A fire crackles in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the dark wood furniture.
But I barely register the surroundings. All my attention focuses on Rhyen as he closes the door behind me, his movements careful and controlled. He doesn't turn around immediately, and I watch the tension in his broad shoulders, the way his hands flex at his sides.
"Do you regret it?" The words tumble out before I can stop them, raw and desperate. "The kiss. Do you regret kissing me?"
He spins to face me so fast I take an instinctive step back. His eyes are wide, almost shocked, and his mouth opens as if he wants to speak but no words emerge. The silence stretches between us for heartbeats that feel like hours.
Then something shifts in his expression—surprise melting into something fierce and almost pained.
"Regret it?" His voice comes out as a low rasp. "Christ, Lenny. That kiss is the only thing keeping me sane right now."
The raw honesty in his words knocks some of my worst fears loose, but new confusion takes their place. "Then why have you been avoiding me all day? You've barely looked at me since you got back from the training class."
"I've been up here because even I have trouble controlling my rage sometimes, and it has nothing to do with you. I don't always get along with the other instructors at work."
"It wasn't me?" I whisper.
He drags both hands through his hair, the silver strands falling back into his eyes. "No, Lenny. It wasn't you. I don't regret it, but I also don't expect it again."
That makes my heart sink. "Why?"
"Because I want to be better than every other bastard who's ever hurt you."
I step closer, drawn by the anguish in his voice. "What does that mean?"
"It means—" He cuts himself off, jaw working as he struggles with words. "Fuck. It means I've been thinking about you all day. About last night. About how you felt in my arms, how you tasted, how badly I want to kiss you again. And I hate myself for it because you shouldn't feel pressured to—to give me anything just because I've given you shelter."
