Page 8 of Monster Daddies
A place where someone can come to breathe again. Like I did.
The idea blossoms slowly but confidently. It isn’t just about opening doors and offering rooms. It’s about sharing this sacred little world.
Tea by a warm fire.
Warm breakfast in the sunroom.
Fresh sheets and stories, and soft landings for weary souls.
A bed and breakfast.
A home with open arms.
"Yes," I whisper, the word catching on a small laugh as my heart flutters. "That's it."
The manor doesn’t need to be some fancy museum or locked away as some forgotten heirloom. It needs tolive.
And so do I.
I have the space. I have the time. I have the desire. And for the first time in years, I have a path I actually want to walk.
I tilt my face to the light pouring through the conservatory windows and smile.
"I think we've got work to do," I murmur to the house, to myself, to whoever—or whatever—is listening.
And I swear the floor beneath me thrums in quiet approval.
Stonebound Manor agrees.
Chapter Four
Viraat
I don’t want to watch her.
That’s the part that irritates me the most. Idon’twant to. And yet... I do.
Like some glutton for punishment, I find myself perched in the high shadows of the east wing, night after night, watching the little human move through the halls like she belongs there.
Likewearen’t bound beneath the bones of the place.
Avalon Apples.
Even her name sounds like something pulled from a dream or a cursed fairytale. She doesn’t walk with the arrogance of the bloodline we were at first forced, and then vowed to protect.
She’s soft-footed, kind-spoken, and maddeningly... pleasant.
No demands. No barking orders to the staff that move through Stonebound. Just a quiet reverence for the manor and the ghosts it carries.
She doesn’t even flinch at the cold breath of old magic in the stairwells. She smiles at it.
But what unnerves me most isn't her uncanny calmness or her habit of humming softly to herself while exploring forgottenwings of the house. It’s her voice when she speaks to thatman. The one she calls... Daddy.
I know from Ichabod that her father's name is Carter. The man had not been described with any warmth, and from what little I recall of Ichabod's tone when he'd spoken of his niece's childhood, there had been damage left in that wake. So imagine my confusion when Avalon whispers into her phone late at night, curled up in the library with her ridiculous cat and her tea, speaking softly to a man she calls Daddy. With affection.
Devotion.
It isn’t familial. I know what a father sounds like. I used to have one. Centuries ago. This is something else.
