Page 8

8

ROLFO

I pace back and forth in the kitchen, one eye on the stew that bubbles quietly over the hearth. Steam rises in lazy spirals, carrying the scent of herbs throughout my modest home. My spoon scrapes the bottom of the pot with each careful stir. The routine is calming, but my attention keeps drifting toward the closed bedroom door.

My ears, sharper than any human's, pick up the soft coos and whispers exchanged between mother and child. It's been two weeks since Ada first helped bring Sephy into this world, right here under my roof. Even though she's not staying here anymore, she has been stopping by each morning, checking on both mother and child, teaching Aurelie things I wouldn't know the first thing about.

This morning's visit seemed to go well. Ada left with that small, knowing smile that makes me feel like she can see right through me. Aurelie took Sephy back to bed afterward, and they've been there for hours.

Not that I'm counting.

I wipe down the countertop for the third time, moving the cloth in precise circles. The surface was clean an hour ago, but the motion gives my hands something to do. Next are the dishes—each one dried with careful attention, stacked with military precision. My home hasn't been this tidy since... Well, ever.

It's not nervousness driving me. It's focus. The same kind I use when tracking a mark or securing a perimeter. Only this time, the objective is keeping them safe, comfortable. Making this place something close to a home.

The click of the bedroom door latch snaps my attention up. Aurelie emerges, her steps silent across the wooden floor. Her robe is tied tightly at her waist, her auburn hair loose around her shoulders and a little messy from sleep she hasn't shaken. Sephy is nestled against her chest, tiny mouth working at her breast.

I freeze, dish towel suspended mid-air.

It's not discomfort that stops me. It's something closer to awe. The sight before me isn't one of fragility but of fierce resilience. This woman who escaped a monster, who survived against impossible odds, who's fighting for her child's future. There's a quiet power in how she stands there, still recovering yet utterly unbroken.

"The stew is almost ready," I say, my voice coming out lower, rougher than intended.

Aurelie nods, hesitating at the edge of the kitchen. "It smells good."

I motion to the chair at the small table. "Sit. You shouldn't be standing so long."

She moves carefully, adjusting Sephy as she sits. I notice her wince slightly—Ada mentioned the lingering soreness would take time to fade.

Without asking, I grab an extra pillow from the bench by the window, offering it to her. "For your arm. It helps with... the weight."

Aurelie stares at the pillow, then at me, a question in those hazel eyes. After a moment, she accepts it, tucking it under her arm where Sephy rests.

"Thank you," she says, not with words but with the slight relaxation of her shoulders, the momentary flicker of something softer in her expression.

I retreat to the workbench in the corner of the room, picking up a broken stool I've been meaning to fix. The rhythmic scrape of tools against wood fills the silence. It's comfortable enough—me working, her feeding Sephy, both of us existing in the same space without the need to fill it with empty words.

Sephy suddenly unlatches, her tiny face scrunching up in discontent. A high-pitched wail builds, and Aurelie shifts, looking momentarily overwhelmed.

Without thinking, I set down my tools and move to the hearth, where I already have water warming. I soak a clean cloth, testing the temperature against my wrist before bringing it over.

"Here," I offer, holding it out. "Ada says it helps to clean her face between feedings."

Aurelie looks up at me, brow furrowed, more confused than afraid. "You were listening to her instructions?"

I shrug, suddenly self-conscious under her scrutiny. "Hard not to in a house this size."

She takes the cloth, gently wiping Sephy's face. The baby's cries soften to hiccuping whimpers.

"You're... not what I expected," Aurelie says carefully, eyes fixed on Sephy rather than me.

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know." She adjusts her robe, covering herself as Sephy settles. "Not someone who heats water for baby cloths and remembers Ada's instructions."

I give her a soft smile, something I rarely do. The corners of my mouth feel stiff with disuse, but it comes easier than expected. There's something about her honest assessment that disarms me. I'm not used to being seen as anything but the fearsome Steelclaw, the guardian who tracks down rogues and makes examples of them.

"Expectations rarely match reality," I say, turning back to stir the stew. "Food's ready."

I ladle the thick mixture into bowls, making sure hers has more vegetables and meat than mine. She'll need the strength. Sephy finishes feeding, and without asking, I extend my arms.

"I can lay her down while you eat."

Aurelie hesitates, but only for a moment. I've held her enough now, but Aurelie still doesn't give her up easily, even to Ada. Not that I blame her. Trust doesn't come easily to either of us.

"Your food will get cold," I add, keeping my voice neutral. Not pressing, just offering.

Forcing herself to relax a little, she carefully transfers the tiny bundle into my arms. I cradle Sephy with practiced ease—no longer feeling quite so fearsome over the small one.

Sephy settles against my chest, her tiny fist curling around my finger. Her eyes—violet with silver flecks, unmistakably marked by her demon heritage—flutter closed. She trusts me instinctively, in a way her mother can't yet.

I carry her to the makeshift crib Ada fashioned from a drawer, setting her down with care. She's so small that my hands look monstrous next to her, but they move with unexpected gentleness.

We eat in silence, but it's not uncomfortable. The stew is hearty—dreelk leaves and zynthra root with spiced broth. Nothing fancy, but filling. Aurelie eats slowly at first, then with increasing hunger, as if her body is finally remembering what it needs.

"This is good," she says between bites, surprise coloring her voice.

I grunt in acknowledgment. "Hard to mess up stew."

"You'd be surprised. Master Kaelith had six cooks, and none could—" She stops abruptly, her spoon frozen halfway to her mouth.

The air between us thickens. It's the first time she's mentioned him by name. I keep eating, letting the moment pass without comment. Some demons like to be called "Master"—especially the nobles. Makes them feel powerful. Important.

Makes me sick.

After we finish, she stands carefully, glancing toward the door. "Is it... would it be all right if I sat outside? Just for a little while?"

The question pulls at something in my chest. The fact that she has to ask permission to feel the afternoon sun on her face.

"It's your home now too," I say simply. "You don't need my permission."

Her eyes meet mine, searching. Finding what, I'm not sure. But after a moment, she nods and gathers Sephy from the crib, securing her in the wrap Ada showed her how to tie—fabric crisscrossing her body to hold the baby close to her heart.

I watch through the window as she settles on a chair on the porch. The evening sun bathes her in golden-red light, catching in her auburn hair. She tilts her face upward, eyes closing as the warmth touches her skin. Something about the sight draws me outside.

I grab a woolen blanket from the chest beside the door—nights get cool quickly here—and step onto the porch. Without a word, I drape it over her legs, careful not to disturb Sephy.

Aurelie startles slightly, then relaxes. "Thank you."

I settle a few feet away, giving her space. From my pocket, I pull out a small block of wood and my carving knife. The blade gleams as it slices through the pale surface, curls of wood falling to the porch floor.

"What are you making?" she asks after several minutes of silence.

I turn the half-formed shape in my hands. "Not sure yet. Sometimes the wood decides."

She nods as if this makes perfect sense, then closes her eyes again. The rhythmic sound of my knife against wood fills the quiet. In the distance, a black pitter bird calls to its mate.

I notice it gradually—the way her shoulders lower, her breathing deepens. The permanent tension she's carried since I found her in that alley begins to ease. For the first time in what must be months, her guard lowers, if only slightly.

I keep carving, pretending not to notice. But I catalog each sign of her relaxation, storing it away like something precious.