Page 10 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Daughter (Demon Daddies #8)

RHYEN

W hen I return from the college this afternoon, I find Ava stationed by the garden gate like a tiny sentinel, wooden practice sword clutched in both hands and determination written across her face in bold strokes.

"You're late," she announces, as if we'd made some formal appointment I'd failed to keep.

"My apologies, Lady Ava." I offer her a mock bow that makes her giggle. "How shall I make amends for this grievous offense?"

She considers this with the gravity of a seasoned diplomat. "Sword fighting. And this time I get to be the dragon slayer."

"A fearsome role," I agree solemnly. "I suppose that makes me the dragon?"

"Obviously." She waves her wooden sword with dangerous enthusiasm. "You're big enough to be a proper dragon."

I draw my own practice blade—a wooden thing I'd commissioned years ago for training younger students—and settle into a defensive stance. "Then let the battle commence, brave knight."

What follows could generously be called combat if one squints and ignores all conventional definitions of the word.

Ava attacks with the wild abandon of someone utterly convinced of her own invincibility, wooden sword swinging in arcs that follow no particular school of swordsmanship.

I parry her strikes with theatrical flair, stumbling backward and crying out in mock anguish when her blade connects with my arm or leg.

"You're not dead yet," she pants after landing what she clearly considers a killing blow to my thigh.

"Dragons are notoriously difficult to kill," I remind her, then stage an elaborate death scene when her next strike grazes my shoulder. "Alas! I am defeated by the mighty Sir Ava!"

She throws her arms up in victory, wooden sword held high like a champion's trophy, and the pure joy on her face makes something warm unfurl in my chest. When was the last time I played like this?

When was the last time I let someone else dictate the rules of engagement, let myself lose without caring about strategy or reputation or the careful dance of politics that governs most interactions?

Through the kitchen window, I catch a glimpse of movement. Lenny, watching us with an expression I can't quite read from this distance. She disappears before I can study her face properly, but something tells me she was smiling.

The pattern establishes itself over the following days.

Each afternoon, Ava waits for me—sometimes by the gate, sometimes in the garden itself, always armed with her wooden sword and ready for whatever adventure her imagination has conjured.

Some days she's a knight errant seeking glory.

Other days she's a treasure hunter exploring dangerous ruins, with me playing the role of guardian beast or treacherous rival explorer.

"Today you're a wyvern," she declares a few days later, bouncing on her toes with excitement. "A really mean one who's stolen all the gold from the village."

"How mean?" I ask, genuinely curious about the parameters of my role.

"Mean enough to steal gold, but not mean enough to hurt people," she clarifies with four-year-old logic. "You just like shiny things too much."

I find myself oddly touched by her version of evil—flawed but not malicious, driven by want rather than cruelty. Even in her fantasies, Ava can't quite conceive of true malice.

Our battles become increasingly elaborate as the days pass.

She constructs scenarios with the detailed precision of a military strategist, assigning herself different weapons and allies—usually involving Greywind as her faithful steed, though my zarryn shows remarkable patience for a creature supposedly bred for mountain warfare.

I play my assigned roles with growing investment, surprising myself with how readily I slip into character as dragon, wyvern, bandit king, or whatever villain her stories require.

But it's the quiet moments between battles that catch me off guard.

When Ava declares herself tired of fighting and instead wants to braid flowers into my hair.

When she curls up against my side in comfortable silence while I read aloud from whatever book she's selected.

When she asks endless questions about flying, about xaphan culture, about whether I think the thalivern really do dance at midnight like the old stories claim.

"Do your wings hurt when it rains?" she asks one afternoon, tracing patterns in the dirt while I sharpen her practice sword with careful strokes.

"Sometimes," I admit. "Old injuries can ache when the weather changes."

"Mama's wrists hurt when it rains too." The observation is offered matter-of-factly, without the weight I know it carries. "She tries to hide it, but I can tell."

I keep my expression neutral, though something cold settles in my chest at this casual mention of Lenny's pain. I've noticed those scars on her wrists—thin white lines that speak of restraints worn too long and too tight. The knowledge that they still cause her discomfort makes my jaw tighten.

"Pain has a way of lingering," I say carefully. "Even after the cause is gone."

"Will it ever stop hurting?"

The question is simple, but the complexity beneath it makes me pause. Is she asking about her mother's physical scars, or something deeper? And how do I answer without revealing more than Lenny might want shared?

"Sometimes it gets better," I tell her finally. "Especially when you're safe and cared for."

Ava nods as if this makes perfect sense, then brightens. "Mama's been smiling more since we came here. Real smiles. Much brighter than before."

The observation floors me with its accuracy. I have noticed the difference—the way Lenny's expressions have gradually thawed, how her shoulders don't stay perpetually locked with tension anymore. But I hadn't realized a four-year-old was cataloguing the same changes.

It's during our third week together that Lenny starts lingering.

At first, she appears in doorways or at windows, watching our games with that careful distance she maintains.

But gradually, she ventures closer. A step onto the garden path.

A seat on the stone bench near our makeshift dueling ground.

Close enough to hear our banter, to see Ava's triumphant grins after each victory.

"Mama, come fight too!" Ava calls one afternoon after defeating me in what she's dubbed the Battle of the Golden Roses.

Lenny freezes like a startled deer. "Oh, I don't think?—"

"Please? You can be a knight too, and we can fight the dragon together!"

"I don't know how to use a sword, little star."

"That's okay! Rhyen can teach you. He teaches people sword fighting as his job, Mama." She says it like Lenny is being ridiculous.

The suggestion hangs in the air between us. Lenny's eyes find mine, and for a moment I see something vulnerable in their amber depths. Want, maybe. Or fear of wanting.

"Only if you'd like to," I say quietly. "No pressure."

She studies my face for a long moment, as if searching for some hidden trap. Then, slowly, she nods.

What follows is perhaps the most careful sword lesson I've ever given.

I show Lenny basic grips and stances, keeping my hands to myself and my voice low and encouraging.

She's naturally graceful despite her claims of ignorance, her movements economical and precise.

When she successfully parries one of my gentle testing strikes, the smile that crosses her face is radiant.

"Now you can both fight me," Ava declares with obvious delight. "This will be the best battle ever!"

And it is, in its way. Ava charges with her usual wild enthusiasm while Lenny stays back, testing the weight of her wooden blade and occasionally darting forward to land careful touches on my arms or torso.

The three of us move around each other with surprising coordination, and when Ava declares victory after I stage another theatrical death, Lenny is actually laughing.

The sound stops me cold. It's the first time I've heard her laugh—really laugh, not the polite chuckles she sometimes offers when Ava says something amusing. This is pure joy, unguarded and bright, and it transforms her entire face.

"Again!" Ava demands, but Lenny shakes her head.

"I should start dinner," she says, though she's still smiling. "Warriors need proper meals after such fierce battles."

"Can we fight again tomorrow?" Ava asks hopefully.

Lenny's gaze flicks to me. "If Rhyen doesn't mind..."

"I'd be honored to face such skilled opponents again," I say formally, and am rewarded with another of those rare smiles.

As the days blur together, I find myself looking forward to these afternoons with an intensity that should concern me.

The training college feels increasingly like an obligation to endure rather than meaningful work.

My thoughts drift during strategic meetings and combat drills, wandering to dark curls and amber eyes, to wooden swords and flower crowns, to the sound of Lenny's laugh echoing through my garden.

It's during our flying lessons that I realize how thoroughly I'm lost.

Ava had been begging to fly since her second day here, and after much careful consideration and several conversations with Lenny about safety measures, I'd finally agreed to short flights around the garden.

Now it's become another afternoon ritual—Ava wrapped securely in my arms as we soar over the estate grounds, her delighted shrieks of joy mixing with the rush of wind through my wings.

"Higher!" she always demands. "I want to touch the clouds!"

"Next time," I always promise, though we both know I'll say the same thing tomorrow.

But today, as we circle back toward the garden where Lenny waits, I catch sight of her face tilted up toward us. Even from this height, I can see her expression—soft and unguarded, watching her daughter's joy with a mixture of love and something that might be longing.

She wants this too. Wants to feel weightless, wants to soar above the world that's given her so much pain. I can see it in the way she tracks our movements, the unconscious step forward she takes as we prepare to land.

"Would you like to try?" I ask quietly after setting Ava safely on her feet.

Lenny goes very still. "Try what?"

"Flying." I fold my wings carefully, making myself less imposing. "Just a short flight, if you're interested."

"Mama, say yes!" Ava bounces excitedly. "It's the most amazing thing ever! Like being a bird, but better!"

Lenny's hands twist in her skirts. "I... I don't know..."

"It's perfectly safe," I assure her. "And we don't have to go high."

She looks between Ava and me, something fierce and wanting warring in her expression. Finally, so quietly I almost miss it, she whispers, "Okay."

My heart does something complicated in my chest as I step closer. "I'll need to hold you securely. Is that all right?"

Her nod is barely perceptible, but it's there. When I lift her—one arm beneath her knees, the other around her back—she goes rigid for a moment before gradually relaxing into my hold. She's lighter than I expected, all sharp angles and wary tension beneath soft curves.

"Ready?" I ask, and feel her quick nod against my shoulder.

We rise slowly, carefully, my wings working in steady, measured beats. Lenny's hands clutch my shirt at first, knuckles white with tension, but as we reach the height of the garden walls, she begins to relax. Her grip loosens. Her breathing evens out.

"Oh," she whispers, and the wonder in her voice makes warmth bloom behind my ribs.

We soar over the estate in lazy circles, the world spread out beneath us in shades of green and gold.

Lenny doesn't speak, but I feel the moment she stops being afraid and starts experiencing awe.

Her body softens completely in my arms, and when a particularly strong updraft carries us higher, she actually gasps with delight.

"It's beautiful," she says finally. "Everything looks so... peaceful from up here."

"Different perspective," I agree. "Sometimes you need distance to see things clearly."

She turns her head to look at me then, and we're close enough that I can count the gold flecks in her amber eyes. For a heartbeat, the air between us feels charged with something more complex than simple flight physics.

Then she's looking away, color rising in her cheeks. "We should go back. Ava will worry."

But when we land, when I set her carefully on her feet and step back to give her space, she doesn't immediately retreat to the house. Instead, she meets my eyes directly.

"Thank you," she says simply. "It was… It's all better than I expected."

Before I can respond, Ava crashes into her legs with typical four-year-old enthusiasm, demanding a detailed account of the flight experience. But as Lenny describes soaring over the gardens, I catch her glancing at me with something new in her expression.

Trust, maybe. Or at least the beginning of it.

That night, as I review training reports in my study, I catch myself staring out the window toward the guest wing where Lenny and Ava have settled for the evening. Warm golden light spills from their windows, and I can hear the soft murmur of bedtime stories being told.

A month ago, this house felt too large, too quiet, too much like the shell of a life rather than life itself.

Now it hums with purpose. Ava's laughter echoes through the halls.

Lenny's quiet footsteps mark the rhythm of daily routines.

Even my staff seems more animated, as if the presence of a child has reminded them that homes are meant to shelter joy as well as provide mere shelter.

I should be concerned about how attached I'm becoming. Should be analyzing my growing investment in their wellbeing, questioning whether my protectiveness is appropriate for what was supposed to be a temporary arrangement.

Instead, I find myself planning tomorrow's adventures, wondering what new games Ava might invent, hoping Lenny will join us again. Hoping she'll smile. Hoping she'll laugh.

Hoping she'll stay.

The realization should terrify me. This fierce want, this growing need to make them both happy, safe, loved—it's dangerous territory for a man who's spent decades believing that those he cares about are safest when kept at arm's length.

But when I think of Ava's face during our mock battles, of Lenny's wonder during our flight, of the way this house has come alive around them... I can't bring myself to step away.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.