Page 10 of Monster Daddies
That craving to care for someone. To have someone to protect. Someone who depends on you for that kind of support, affection and attention.
Is this why she’s our fated? Because at a deep level we match in a way I didn’t even know was possible?
I hate it.
Before I know it, I feel the call of the sun and have to rush to move back up to the roof and take my position on the turret.
The entire time we sit there, I can’t stop thinking about what I found, and what it means.
Jodrick keeps pestering me to tell him what’s bothering me, but I can’t open up and share until the sun sets and the moon slowly starts its rise.
"She calls that man on the phone Daddy."
Jodrick blinked. "Yes, I'd noticed this."
"Yet he's not her father."
He nods. "I know this, too, but what does it mean?"
As we both listen to our damn fated mate move around in the kitchen, fixing herself a decent meal, as per her Daddy's orders, I explain to Jodrick what I found yesterday.
He stands there, staring at me.
I don’t want to admit it, but I’m beginning to understand her.
Bit by bit, through fragments of her whispered confessions and quiet rituals, she’s revealing herself. Not just to the man on the phone—but to this house. To us.
That terrifies me more than I care to admit.
Because if she keeps doing it—keeps showing us softness, trust,hope—Jodrick won’t be the only one who falls for her.
I’m not ready for that.
Later that night, I find myself on the third-floor landing, just outside the old nursery she has started restoring. I don't know what pulls me there—habit, curiosity, some cruel trick of fate—but I hover, cloaked in the shadows, watching her through the cracked door.
She’s on her knees, surrounded by a zoo of plush animals she's carefully cleaned and lined up like a council of tiny bossy bears.
A soft lullaby hums from her lips as she sorts through a box of wooden blocks, her fingers moving with a gentle reverence, as if each item holds a forgotten story.
"Some of these are over a hundred years old," she murmurs, mostly to herself. "I wonder if the children who played here were happy."
There is no one else in the room.
She isn’t speaking for show.
She’s talking to her new... friends?
And I find it much sweeter than I thought I would.
"I hope they were," she adds. "And I hope you were well cared for and loved."
My chest tightens at the fondness in her voice and the sweet quality to her tone.
She stands a moment later, brushing dust from her knees, and walks to the window. She stared out at the moonlit garden below, arms wrapped around herself. From where I stand, she looks so small. Fragile. But something about her posture makes her seem unbreakable, too.
She turns back to the audience of stuffed animals, a sweet smile on her face.
"Have I told you what I'm planning to do?" she asks them. "I'm going to open up the manor," she says, firmly. "Make it a bed and breakfast." She smiles, and it’s all softness, light and sweetness.
