Page 11 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Daughter (Demon Daddies #8)

LENNY

I wake with sunlight streaming through windows that aren't barred or covered with heavy drapes, and for a moment, the simple luxury of natural light makes my chest tight with something between gratitude and disbelief.

Three weeks here, and I still can't quite accept that this is real. That we're safe.

Ava's already awake beside me, most likely having come up after her morning ritual with Rhyen, humming quietly as she arranges her few belongings—a worn cloth doll, the wooden practice sword Rhyen gave her, a collection of smooth stones she's gathered from the garden.

She's made this room her own in ways I never could, claiming space with the fearless confidence of someone who's never had to doubt their right to exist.

I know she technically has her own, but I"m not sure how to let her be that far from me. I already struggle with letting her out of my sight even though everyone does so well with her.

"Morning, little star," I murmur, pressing a kiss to her dark curls.

"Morning, Mama." She beams up at me, violet eyes bright with the promise of another day filled with adventures. "Do you think Rhyen will teach me how to block with my sword today? I almost got it yesterday, but my feet were wrong."

"I'm sure he will." The certainty in my voice surprises me. When did I stop questioning whether he'd keep his promises?

Downstairs, the kitchen already smells of fresh bread and brewing meadowmint tea. The staff moves with quiet efficiency around us, but not the tense, fearful kind I remember from Ikoth. Here, the energy feels warm, purposeful. Safe.

I'm reviewing my mental list of supplies we need when Ava pipes up from her perch at the kitchen table.

"Can we go to the market today, Mama? I want to see all the pretty things again."

My hands still on the tea cup I'm holding. The market means crowds. Strangers. Eyes that might notice too much about a little girl with violet eyes and tiny horns hidden beneath dark curls.

"I was just going to ask one of the maids to fetch what we need," I say carefully.

"But the market is more fun," Ava wheedles. "Remember how many different colors the ribbons were? And that man who carved little animals out of wood?"

Before I can formulate a gentle refusal, Rhyen's voice carries in from the doorway.

"What's this about the market?"

He fills the space casually, still wearing his training clothes from whatever early morning routine he follows.

His silver hair is pulled back, and there's a light sheen of sweat on his bronze skin that suggests he's been sparring.

The sight shouldn't affect me the way it does—this casual display of controlled power, of strength that could destroy but chooses instead to protect.

"I need a few things from the market," I explain, hoping my voice sounds steadier than I feel.

"And I want to go!" Ava announces.

"Excellent idea." His tone is so matter-of-fact that I blink in surprise. "I need to pick up a few things myself. We could all go together."

"Together?" The word comes out smaller than I intended.

"Unless you'd prefer not to." His blue eyes find mine, and there's no pressure in them, no expectation. Just an offer, freely given. "But I thought you might enjoy getting out of the estate for a while."

Ava bounces in her chair. "Please, Mama? Please? Rhyen can show us all the best stalls!"

My first instinct is to refuse. The market means exposure, vulnerability. It means trusting that Rhyen's presence will be enough to keep us safe if someone looks too closely at Ava's features. It means believing that he won't simply disappear if trouble finds us.

But when I look at his face—at the quiet certainty there, the way he's positioned himself between us and the rest of the world even just standing in the doorway—something in my chest loosens.

"You'd stay close?" The question slips out before I can stop it, revealing more of my fear than I meant to.

"Every step," he promises, and the simple conviction in his voice makes me want to believe him. "I won't let anything happen to either of you."

I study his expression, searching for the tells I've learned to recognize—the shift of eyes that means someone's calculating how much trouble I might be worth, the slight tightening around the mouth that suggests patience wearing thin. But Rhyen's face remains open, patient. Protective.

"All right," I say finally, and Ava's delighted squeal nearly splits my eardrums.

An hour later, we're walking through the busy streets of New Solas, and I'm trying to remember the last time I moved through a crowd without every muscle coiled for flight.

Rhyen keeps his word, staying close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his large frame, but not so close that I feel trapped.

Ava skips between us, her hand secure in mine, chattering about everything she sees with four-year-old enthusiasm.

The market spreads before us in a riot of colors and sounds.

Vendors call out their wares from wooden stalls draped with bright fabrics.

The air carries the scent of fresh bread, roasted nuts, and those goddess hearts from the bakery that make Ava's eyes widen with longing.

For a moment, surrounded by normal people living normal lives, I almost feel like we could belong here.

"Look, Mama!" Ava tugs on my hand, pointing toward a stall selling hair ribbons in every shade imaginable. "Can I have a blue one? Like Rhyen's eyes?"

My cheeks warm at the innocent request, but Rhyen just chuckles. "I think that's an excellent choice. Blue suits you."

The ribbon vendor—a middle-aged woman with flour dusting her apron—smiles warmly as we approach. "What a lovely little one. Those eyes are extraordinary."

I feel my shoulders tense automatically, but the woman's tone holds nothing but genuine admiration.

She helps Ava pick out a gorgeous blue ribbon, chattering about how it brings out the gold flecks in her violet irises.

When Rhyen pays for it with easy generosity, tying it carefully in Ava's curls, the vendor beams at all three of us.

"Beautiful family," she says warmly, and something painful twists in my chest at the casual assumption.

We move through the market peacefully for nearly an hour.

Rhyen buys Ava a carved wooden thalivern that makes her gasp with delight.

I select the supplies we need while he keeps her entertained, pointing out different wares and explaining how various items are made.

For precious minutes, I let myself imagine this is simply what life could be—safe, normal, filled with small joys instead of constant vigilance.

Then a man at the weapon smith's stall gets a clear look at Ava's face.

I see the exact moment recognition flickers in his eyes. The way his expression shifts from mild curiosity to something harder, more calculating. His gaze travels from Ava's unusual eyes to the tiny hint of horn barely visible beneath her ribbon, then back again.

"Interesting child," he says, voice carrying just loud enough for nearby vendors to hear. "Don't see many like that around here."

The words slice through the market's ambient noise like a blade. Conversations quiet. Heads turn. I feel dozens of eyes suddenly focusing on us with the weight of judgment and suspicion.

"Mama?" Ava's voice is smaller now, uncertainty creeping in as she notices the shift in atmosphere.

"Half-breed," someone murmurs from a few stalls over. "Should've known."

"What's one of those doing so far from Ikoth?"

"Nothing good, I'd wager."

The whispers rise like smoke, spreading from vendor to vendor, customer to customer.

I feel the familiar ice of panic beginning to form in my veins.

This is how it always starts—the noticing, the whispers, the way normal people suddenly seem to remember that creatures like my daughter aren't supposed to exist in their safe, orderly world.

My hand tightens on Ava's, and I take a careful step backward, mapping the quickest route to the market's edge. But before I can move further, Rhyen shifts position.

He doesn't make a show of it, doesn't announce his intentions.

He simply moves with fluid grace until his broad frame blocks the worst of the staring eyes, creating a protective barrier between us and the growing crowd of onlookers.

His wings remain folded, but there's something in his posture—a coiled readiness, a predator's stillness—that speaks of imminent danger for anyone who presses too hard.

"Come on," he says quietly, his hand finding the small of my back in a gesture that's both protective and steadying. "Let's finish our shopping."

But the damage is done. Word has spread through the market like fire through dry grass. More people gather, not quite close enough to be threatening, but near enough to make their opinions known.

"Demon spawn," a woman hisses from behind a fabric stall. "Shouldn't be allowed on our continent."

"Probably escaped from the slave markets," another voice adds. "Should send it back where it came from."

Each word hits like a physical blow. I feel Ava's small body pressing closer to mine, her earlier joy withering under the weight of so much hostility.

This is exactly what I'd feared, what I'd spent five years trying to avoid.

All these people, looking at my beautiful, innocent daughter and seeing only something to be despised.

"Mama," she whispers, "why are they being mean?"

Before I can answer, a man steps directly into our path. He's tall and well-dressed, with the kind of confident bearing that speaks of someone accustomed to having his opinions heard and respected. His eyes fix on Ava with open disgust.

"Demons have no business on this continent," he declares, loud enough for half the market to hear. "That thing is an abomination. A reminder of why we should have finished the job years ago instead of agreeing to their pathetic cease-fire."

The words hang in the air like a challenge. Around us, the crowd seems to hold its breath, waiting to see how this confrontation will play out. I feel paralyzed, caught between the instinct to flee and the fierce need to defend my daughter.

Then Rhyen steps forward.

His wings spread slightly—not fully extended, but enough to emphasize his impressive wingspan and remind everyone present exactly what he is.

The movement is fluid, controlled, but unmistakably threatening.

His celestial blue eyes lock onto the man with laser focus, and when he speaks, his voice carries the kind of authority that stops arguments before they start.

"That 'thing,'" he says, each word precise and deadly quiet, "is a four-year-old child. And if you or anyone else in this market has a problem with her presence here, you're welcome to discuss it with me."

The man's confident expression wavers as he takes in Rhyen's full height, his obvious strength, the way his wings catch the light with an almost ethereal glow that marks him as high-ranking among his people. But stupidity or pride drives him forward.

"A xaphan defending demon filth?" He sneers, though there's less conviction in it now. "How far the mighty have fallen."

Rhyen's expression doesn't change, but something deadly enters his eyes. The temperature around us seems to drop several degrees.

"That child," he says, his voice carrying the kind of quiet menace that makes smart people back away slowly, "is under my protection. Anyone who threatens her, insults her, or so much as looks at her wrong will answer to me personally. Are we clear?"

His hand rests casually on the pommel of his sword—not drawn, not even threatening to draw, but the implication is unmistakable. Around us, the crowd begins to disperse with the sudden urgency of people who've just remembered pressing business elsewhere.

The well-dressed man's face flushes red, but he's not stupid enough to push further. He retreats with as much dignity as he can salvage, muttering under his breath about "unnatural alliances" and "the corruption of noble bloodlines."

Rhyen watches him go with the patient attention of a predator tracking wounded prey, ensuring he's well and truly gone before turning back to us.

"Are you all right?" His voice has gentled completely, all traces of that deadly authority replaced by genuine concern.

I realize I'm shaking—not with fear, but with something more complex.

For five years, I've fought these battles alone.

I've stood between Ava and the world's cruelty with nothing but desperation and maternal fury to shield her.

But watching Rhyen step forward without hesitation, watching him claim her as worthy of his protection with such unwavering certainty. ..

"Rhyen was really scary," Ava whispers, but there's awe in her voice rather than fear. "Like a dragon protecting treasure."

"Something like that," he agrees, crouching down to her level. "Are you okay, little one?"

She shakes her head, then wraps her small arms around his neck with complete trust. "Thank you for making the mean people go away."

Over her dark curls, his eyes meet mine.

There's something fierce in them, a protectiveness that goes beyond mere politeness or temporary obligation.

This isn't the careful kindness of someone doing their duty.

This is the raw, uncompromising devotion of someone who would burn the world down before letting it harm what they love.

And I realize that he doesn't just care about Ava the way someone might care about any child in need of protection.

He loves her. Loves her with the fierce, unconditional intensity I thought only parents could feel.

Loves her enough to face down a hostile crowd without a moment's hesitation.

Loves her enough to claim her publicly as his to defend, regardless of what that association might cost him politically or socially.

The knowledge settles into my chest like warm honey, sweet and overwhelming.

For so long, I've been the only one who saw Ava's worth, the only one who believed she deserved love and safety and joy.

But watching Rhyen's gentle hands smooth her ribbon back into place, seeing the way he looks at her like she's something precious beyond measure. ..

I'm not alone anymore. We're not alone anymore.

And for the first time since that night I killed my master and fled into the darkness, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—we might actually be safe.