Page 7

7

AURELIE

M orning slips into evening, and as the red sky darkens to crimson, Ada gathers her things. Four days she's stayed, a constant presence between Rolfo and me, a buffer of feminine energy and shared understanding. Now she stands at the door, honey-blonde braid freshly plaited, warm brown eyes filled with something between concern and encouragement.

"You're sure you'll be alright?" She asks for the third time, her small bag clutched in work-roughened hands. "I can stay another night if?—"

"We'll be fine." I force confidence into my voice, though panic flutters beneath my ribs at the thought of her absence. "You need to see Rose. It's not fair to keep you away."

Her face softens at the mention of her daughter. "She understands. Better than most."

"Go home, Ada." I cradle Sephy against my shoulder, still marveling at how her tiny weight fits so perfectly in the crook of my arm. "We've imposed enough."

"It's not an imposition if it's offered freely." Her eyes flick briefly to where Rolfo stands in the kitchen doorway, his broad frame nearly filling it. "And it was."

I nod, unable to argue the point without seeming ungrateful. Four days of meals prepared, wounds tended, fears soothed—all without expectation or demand. It's a debt I don't know how to repay, to either of them.

"I'll come tomorrow," Ada promises, reaching out to brush a wisp of silvery-blonde hair from Sephy's forehead. "With fresh herbs for your tea."

"Thank you." The words feel insufficient, but they're all I have to offer.

With final reassurances exchanged, she slips out into the evening. The door closes behind her with soft finality, leaving me alone with Rolfo and Sephy in a silence that suddenly feels vast.

Rolfo clears his throat, silver eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder. "Are you hungry?"

"A little," I admit, grateful for the practical question.

He nods, gesturing toward the table. "Sit. I'll heat what Ada left."

I obey, sinking into a chair with Sephy still nestled against me. My body has begun to heal, the raw emptiness slowly mending, but exhaustion remains a constant companion. From the kitchen, I hear the clatter of dishes, the soft hiss of the stovetop coming to life. Domestic sounds that seem at odds with the man making them—a demon whose hands I've seen covered in blood, whose shoulders bear the weight of armor and duty.

Sephy stirs against me, making small, discontented noises that might soon become cries. I shift her position, murmuring as I've learned she responds to, and she settles momentarily. The simple interaction steadies me, a reminder that regardless of my surroundings or circumstances, this bond remains solid and real.

Rolfo returns with a bowl of steaming stew—zynthra and dreelk, rich with herbs I can't name. He sets it before me, then hesitates, eyes darting to Sephy.

Before I can say anything, he steps back, retreating to the far side of the table. "If you need anything, I'll be in the workshop."

Before I can respond, he strides from the room, leaving his own meal untouched. The quiet that follows his departure feels heavier than before, laden with unspoken things.

I eat slowly, mechanically, my thoughts circling. With Ada gone, the reality of my situation presses in—I am alone with a demon I barely know, dependent on his goodwill, with a newborn who requires constant care. The vulnerability of it all makes my skin crawl, old instincts screaming for walls, for distance, for any illusion of control.

Yet where else could I go? What alternatives exist for a woman marked as property, a runaway with a half-demon child? The streets nearly killed us both. Returning to Kaelith is unthinkable.

For now, at least, Rolfo's home is the closest thing to safety we have.

Night falls fully as I finish eating. Sephy has grown fussier, her small face scrunching with displeasure despite my attempts to soothe her. I stand, swaying gently, walking the small circuit of kitchen to living room and back again. The motion calms her somewhat, but fatigue weighs my steps, my still-healing body protesting the exertion.

Eventually, I retire to the bedroom, settling Sephy in her makeshift cradle while I prepare for sleep. Without Ada's presence, the room feels larger, emptier. The silence thicker.

Sleep comes fitfully, interrupted by Sephy's needs and my own restless thoughts. Each time I drift toward unconsciousness, some small noise jolts me awake—a creak of the house settling, the whisper of wind through trees, the distant cry of night creatures.

The night is thick with silence. This time, I wake to the sound of a soft whimper—Sephy. My arms reach out instinctively for the cradle, but the bassy hum of a lullaby stops me. Unfamiliar, low, rumbling from a chest deeper than mine. Not Ada's gentle tones.

My heart seizes. I slide from the bed, bare feet silent on the wooden floor as I've learned to move through countless nights of captivity and escape. The humming continues, wordless but melodic, a soothing sound that contrasts sharply with my racing pulse.

I follow it to the living room, where I stop at the doorway, breath catching in my throat.

Rolfo sits in a chair, bare-chested, his large hands cupping Sephy against his shoulder as he rocks slowly. One massive palm supports her tiny head, the other spans nearly her entire back. His silver eyes are half-closed, face unguarded in the dim light, lips moving slightly with the continuing melody.

The sight is too much. My knees weaken. I grip the doorframe to stay standing.

In the soft glow of a single lamp, the scars across his ribs stand out in pale relief against his skin—old wounds, long healed but never faded. Battle marks, perhaps, or something else entirely. They map a history I know nothing about, speaking of pain endured and survived.

Sephy looks impossibly small against him, a delicate bundle of newborn vulnerability resting against barely contained power. Yet his hold is gentle, his movements careful—reverent, almost. There's a tenderness in his posture that contradicts everything I've learned to expect from demons of his status and strength.

Tears come before I can stop them, hot and sudden, surprising me with their intensity. I press my knuckles against my mouth to silence any sound, but a small gasp escapes anyway. I've never seen a man hold a child like that—like Sephy is something precious rather than a possession, something to be cherished rather than controlled.

My whole life has been filled with roughness, commands, possession. Never gentleness. Never warmth. Kaelith's hands were tools of pain and domination, never comfort. Even the rare instances when he was pleased with me, his touch had been proprietary, not tender.

But Rolfo—this demon guardsman with scars etched across his body like a map of violence—cradles my daughter as if she might break, as if she matters.

At my involuntary sound, Rolfo looks up, his silver eyes finding mine in the shadowed doorway. His expression softens, not with pity but with something I can't name. He doesn't speak. Just nods toward the couch next to him, a simple invitation without expectation.

I move forward, every step like walking through fog, unreal and weightless. My legs still ache from childbirth, my body still tender and unfamiliar, but I cross the distance between us as if drawn by an invisible thread. The floorboards creak slightly beneath my weight, marking my progress through the stillness.

The couch cushion dips as I sink onto it, careful to keep space between us. We sit in silence, the only sound Sephy's soft, even breathing. Her tiny chest rises and falls with each inhalation, her silvery-blonde curls catching the lamplight. Against Rolfo's dark skin, she looks impossibly pale, impossibly fragile.

After several minutes, Rolfo carefully transfers her to lie on the couch next to me, his hands lingering a moment before pulling away. The motion is practiced, fluid—as though he's done this countless times before, though I know that can't be true. His fingers brush against my arm in the process, the briefest contact, yet it sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with fear.

He glances at me, and our eyes meet—so much unsaid in that moment. Questions I don't know how to ask. Answers I'm not sure I want to hear. Why did you take us in? What do you want from us? How long until this sanctuary dissolves?

I don't look away. He doesn't either.

His silver eyes reflect the lamplight, revealing depths I hadn't noticed before—flecks of darker gray near the pupil, a band of lighter silver at the outer edge. They're not cold eyes, despite their metallic color. They hold warmth, and exhaustion, and something that might be loneliness.

"She was crying," he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "Didn't want to wake you."

"Thank you." The words come easier this time, less burdened by the weight of debt.

He shrugs, a slight lift of one broad shoulder. "Sleep is precious with a newborn. Ada told me."

"She would know," I say, thinking of her stories of her own daughter. How many nights had Ada walked floors like these, cradling her daughter while running from demons who would use them both?

Eventually, I lean my head against the high back of the chair, the tension in my shoulders slowly unwinding. The day's exhaustion crashes over me in waves, pulling me toward sleep despite my best efforts to resist. Rolfo mirrors my position, his own head tilting back, throat exposed in a display of vulnerability I never expected to see from a demon.

"You can sleep," he murmurs. "I'll keep watch."

Such simple words, yet they twist something deep inside my chest. I've spent months looking over my shoulder, starting at shadows, sleeping in fits and bursts with one eye always open. The promise of someone else standing guard is almost too much to bear.

I don't press for answers this time. The room is still but full—full of unspoken histories, of tentative trust, of the steady rhythm of our breathing gradually synchronizing in the quiet.

When I wake again, it's to sunlight on my face, painting the inside of my eyelids red-gold. Sephy sleeps beside me, tucked safely between my body and the back of the couch. Rolfo is gone from the chair, leaving only the lingering impression of his presence behind.