Page 1 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Daughter (Demon Daddies #8)

The stone floor beneath me has memorized every curve of my body.

Three days—or maybe four, time blurs when there's no sun—since he dragged me down to this chamber beneath his estate.

The enchanted bindings around my wrists pulse with a dull crimson glow, just tight enough to remind me I'm trapped, just loose enough to let me believe escape might be possible.

My master circles me like a predator savoring its kill. The sound of his boots against stone echoes in the cramped space, each footfall deliberate. Calculated.

"You thought you could defy me." His voice carries that same refined accent that once fooled me into thinking demons might possess civility. "Run from your obligations."

The word 'obligations' makes my stomach twist. As if I chose any of this. As if sixteen-year-old me had options when the slavers dragged me from my family's farm.

"I wasn't running." The lie tastes bitter. We both know I was three streets from the harbor when he caught me.

His hand backhands across my cheek, the impact snapping my head to the side. Stars burst behind my eyelids. Blood pools in my mouth, metallic and warm.

"Don't lie to me, Kaelenya."

He uses my full name like a weapon, drawing out each syllable. I hate how small it makes me feel. How it reminds me of who I used to be before—before this. Before him.

My gaze drifts past his shoulders to the rough stone wall behind him.

There, just above where my head rests when I curl up at night, a chunk of stone sits slightly further forward than the rest. Three days ago, after weeks of trying to find some way out of these chains, I started tearing at the walls.

And that chunk had come free. I left it in its place so he wouldn't notice, and I've been biding my time since.

He crouches beside me, close enough that I can smell the amerinth on his breath. His fingers trace the fresh bruises along my ribs, pressing just hard enough to make me gasp.

"You belong to me," he whispers, lips brushing my ear. "Your body, your mind, your pathetic human soul—all mine."

I stare at that loose stone and say nothing. Let him think he's broken me. Let him believe his words mean something.

He straightens, brushing imaginary dust from his perfectly tailored jacket. "I have business to attend to. Contemplate your foolishness."

The heavy door clangs shut behind him. The enchanted lock hums to life, sealing me in darkness so complete I can't see my own hands.

But I know exactly where that stone waits.

I count to one hundred, then start again. Give him time to reach the upper levels of his estate. Time to settle into whatever 'business' keeps him occupied during the long night hours.

The bindings around my wrists have loosened since he first chained me. Not much—just enough. I've been eating less, drinking only when he forces water down my throat. My body has whittled itself down to sharp angles and hollow spaces.

I work my left hand first, twisting my wrist until the bone grinds against the enchanted metal. The pain is immediate and bright, but I've learned to breathe through pain. To let it wash over me without drowning.

The binding catches on my knuckles. I grit my teeth and keep twisting, feeling skin tear against the rough interior. Blood, warm and slick, helps lubricate the metal.

One more twist and my hand slides free.

I bite my lip to keep from crying out in relief. My fingers are numb, tingling as blood rushes back into them. I flex them carefully, working feeling back into each digit.

The right binding proves more stubborn. My dominant hand is slightly larger, and the angle is awkward. But I have time now, and patience born of desperation. I work methodically, ignoring the way the metal bites deeper into my wrist. Ignoring the fresh blood that drips onto the stone floor.

When my right hand finally slips free, I press both palms against the wall and push myself upright. My legs shake—all this time of little food and constant stress have left me weak. But I'm not helpless. Not yet.

I crawl to the wall where my loose stone waits. In the absolute darkness, I navigate by touch alone. My fingertips find the familiar rough edges, the crumbling mortar I've been carefully working loose each night.

The stone is larger than my fist, heavy and solid. I dig my broken nails into the gaps around its edges, prying carefully. Too much force and I might bring down larger chunks, creating noise that could draw attention.

The mortar gives way gradually, raining grit onto my lap. The stone shifts, then tilts, then comes free entirely.

Behind it, my fingers explore a hollow space in the wall. Construction debris from when this chamber was built—bits of broken stone, old mortar, and something else.

My fingers close around a length of metal, thin but solid. A reinforcement rod, maybe, or part of some tool left behind by careless workers. One end has been sheared off clean, leaving sharp edges that bite into my palm.

It's not much of a weapon. But it's mine.

I test its weight, its balance. The metal is cold against my skin, about the length of my forearm. The broken end tapers to a point sharp enough to punch through cloth. Through flesh, if I'm quick enough. Strong enough.

My hands shake as I grip the improvised blade. Not from fear—from anticipation. From the first real hope I've felt in days.

I position myself in the corner beside the door, where the darkness is deepest. Where he won't see me until it's too late.

The metal warms in my grip as I wait, counting heartbeats, measuring time by the rhythm of my own breathing.

When he returns, I'll be ready.

Hours creep by in the suffocating darkness. My body settles into a crouch that keeps me balanced on the balls of my feet, ready to spring. The metal rod grows slick with sweat in my palm, but my grip remains steady.

The stone I pried from the wall sits heavy in my left hand. Its weight grounds me, reminds me this isn't another desperate fantasy. This is real. This is happening.

My heartbeat thunders so loud I'm certain it echoes off the chamber walls.

When I press my ear to the door, I catch faint sounds from the floors above—footsteps, muffled voices, the distant clatter of dishware.

His household continues its nightly routine, oblivious to what's brewing in their basement.

The lock's enchantment hums differently when he approaches. A subtle shift in pitch that I've learned to recognize. My muscles coil tighter as the sound grows stronger, closer.

Heavy footsteps descend the stone stairs beyond the door. His boots strike each step with the same arrogant confidence he carries everywhere. Like the world exists solely for his convenience.

The enchanted lock disengages with a soft chime. Light from his oil lamp spills under the door, a golden line that seems blinding after hours of perfect darkness.

"Kaelenya." His voice carries that same detached amusement. "I trust you've had time to consider your position."

The heavy door swings inward on well-oiled hinges. He steps inside, lamp held high, scanning the chamber for my huddled form.

I'm not where he expects to find me.

His head turns toward the corner where I usually cower, and in that moment of confusion, I strike.

The stone connects with the back of his skull with a wet crunch that vibrates through my arm. He staggers forward, the lamp tumbling from his grasp. Oil splashes across the floor, and flames lick hungrily at the spilled fuel.

"What—" He spins toward me, but his movements are sluggish, uncoordinated. Dark blood streams down his neck, soaking into his expensive collar. It's not enough to take him down. Just enough to buy me time.

I don't give him time to recover. The metal rod punches through the soft flesh of his throat, sliding between vertebrae with surprising ease. His eyes widen—not with pain, but with genuine shock. As if the possibility of a mere human harming him had never occurred to him.

Blood bubbles from his lips as he tries to speak. His hands claw at the metal protruding from his neck, but his fingers slip on the slick surface.

He drops to his knees, then forward onto his face. The impact drives the rod deeper, and fresh blood pools beneath him, black in the flickering lamplight.

I stand over his body, chest heaving. My hands shake violently now, adrenaline flooding my system in waves that leave me dizzy.

He's dead. Actually dead.

The flames spread across the oil spill, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. Soon they'll reach something flammable, send smoke curling up to alert the household above.

I need to move.

His body blocks the doorway, and I have to step over him to escape. My bare foot lands in the expanding pool of his blood, warm and sticky between my toes. The metallic smell fills the chamber, mixing with smoke from the growing fire.

I grab his lamp—somehow still intact despite the fall—and flee up the narrow stairs. My legs tremble with each step, weak from days of captivity, but fear drives me forward.

The corridor above is mercifully empty. Servants' voices echo from the kitchen wing, but they sound relaxed, unhurried. No one has noticed their master's absence yet.

I creep through hallways I've walked countless times, but always under guard, always in chains. The estate layout is burned into my memory—every turn, every doorway, every potential escape route I've catalogued during five years of imprisonment.

The main entrance is too exposed. Guards station themselves there during evening hours, and I'd never make it past them barefoot and blood-soaked. But the servants' entrance in the rear courtyard sees less traffic after dark.

I press myself against walls, dart between shadows, pause to listen at every corner. Blood from my torn wrists leaves a trail on the pale stone, but there's nothing I can do about that now. Sticky footprints are following me as I go, and I just have to hope I can make it.

The courtyard door stands slightly ajar when I reach it. Cool night air wafts through the gap, carrying scents I'd forgotten existed—growing things, earth, freedom.

I slip outside and immediately feel exposed under the star-filled sky. The estate grounds stretch in all directions, manicured gardens and ornamental trees that provide little cover. But beyond the main gate lies the road to town, and beyond that?—

A shout erupts from the building behind me. Then another. Someone has found him.

I run.

Gravel tears at my bare feet as I sprint down the winding drive. Behind me, lights flare to life throughout the estate. Voices rise in alarm, confusion rapidly shifting to anger as they discover their master's fate.

The main road stretches ahead, empty in both directions. I choose north without thinking—away from the harbor where he caught me, away from the heart of demon territory. My lungs burn and my legs wobble, but I force myself to keep moving.

A mile from his estate, I stumble across a trading caravan that met an unfortunate end. Bandits, most likely, given how the bodies were scattered and their goods ransacked. Among the corpse-littered campsite, I find what I need.

A traveling cloak lies tangled around its former owner's shoulders. The wool is stained with blood and road dust, but it's thick and dark enough to hide my torn clothing. I struggle to pull it free from the stiffening body, trying not to look at the man's face.

The cloak hangs loose on my diminished frame, but it covers me from neck to ankles. I pull the hood low over my face and return to the road, just another traveler seeking passage in the deep hours of night. Soon, I lose myself in the throngs of bodies in the center of the city.

A smuggler's barge waits at the next river crossing, taking on cargo by lamplight. The captain asks no questions when I offer him the few coins I pickpocketed in the crowd—payment for passage to wherever his route leads.

"Don't care where you're running from, girl," he says, eyeing my bloodstained hands. "Long as your coin is real."

I say nothing. Words feel dangerous now, as if speaking might shatter this fragile bubble of freedom I've carved for myself.

The barge carries me north for weeks, following waterways that wind through territories I've never seen. We stop at trading posts and river towns where I slip ashore to purchase supplies with the last of my stolen coin. Food, clean clothing, soft shoes for my healing feet.

But I never stop watching the faces around me. Never stop expecting to see familiar features, to hear someone call my name. To discover that his household has tracked me down.

Because I've done the unthinkable. I've killed a demon.

And demons, I know, never forget their debts.

The barge captain finally announces our last stop—a trading settlement north of Soimur, where golden-winged xaphan patrol the skies and demon ships dare not venture.

Even traders like this one, it is rare for them to go both to the demon cities and the xaphan ones.

It's farther than I'd ever dreamed of traveling, farther than I'd imagined the world extended.

But it's not far enough. It will never be far enough.

As I disembark with my few possessions tied in a bundle, scanning the crowd for threats that might not exist, I know this running has only just begun.