Page 12 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Daughter (Demon Daddies #8)

RHYEN

I shift Ava's sleeping form higher on my chest as we pass through the gates of my estate, her exhaustion from the market had her drooping before we even left.

She weighs almost nothing in my arms—this tiny creature who's managed to slip past every defense I've spent decades building.

Her dark curls tickle against my forearm as I adjust my grip, careful not to wake her.

"She's completely worn out," I murmur, noting how her small fist clutches the wooden thalivern I bought her, even in sleep.

Lenny nods but doesn't say anything. She's been silent since everything happened, and I don't know how to make it better. I will protect Ava, but I can't always stop words—though I wish I could.

Quietly, we walk upstairs to their wing. There's something different in her expression tonight—less of the wariness that usually shadows her features, though the tension in her shoulders suggests she's still processing everything that happened in the market.

The suite feels different with both of them in it. Warmer somehow, filled with the kind of quiet domesticity I never thought I'd want. Firelight dances across the walls, casting everything in soft gold that makes Lenny's pale skin seem to glow.

In the bedroom, I lower Ava onto the smaller of the two beds—though Lira has told me they still sleep together despite having an entire suite—with the care I'd use handling spun glass.

She mumbles something unintelligible and burrows deeper into the pillows, the blue ribbon still threaded through her curls catching the lamplight.

Lenny moves around me with practiced efficiency, tucking blankets around her daughter's small form, checking that the carved toy is secure in her grip.

Her movements are fluid, economical—every gesture speaks of years spent perfecting the art of caring for this child in less than ideal circumstances.

"Sleep well, little one," I whisper, brushing a curl back from Ava's forehead. Even unconscious, she leans into the touch, completely trusting.

Something tightens in my chest. When did this fierce, innocent child become so essential to my peace of mind? When did her happiness become more important than my own carefully ordered existence?

I straighten, intending to leave them to their evening routine, but Lenny's voice stops me at the threshold.

"Would you..." She pauses, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. "Would you like to stay for tea? I mean, if you're not too busy."

The invitation catches me off-guard. In the weeks they've been here, our interactions have been pleasant but carefully bounded—conversations about practical matters, shared meals with Ava chattering between us, moments of connection that never quite crossed into intimacy.

We've never been alone, though, and I've been careful never to push her too hard.

Even if sometimes I wish to get to know her better.

"I'd like that," I say, and mean it more than I probably should.

She nods once, sharp and decisive, then moves to the small table by the window where someone from the kitchen staff has left a tea service. Her hands shake slightly as she pours—just enough for me to notice, though she tries to hide it.

I settle into the chair across from her, hyperaware of how the space seems to shrink around us.

Without Ava's bright chatter to fill the silence, the air feels charged, expectant.

Lenny's scent reaches me across the small distance—something clean and subtle, like rain-washed stone with an underlying warmth that's purely her.

She hands me a cup, careful not to let our fingers brush, then cradles her own tea like it's an anchor. The silence stretches between us, but it's not uncomfortable exactly. More like walking along the edge of something significant, both of us afraid to disturb the delicate balance.

"Thank you," she says suddenly, the words barely above a whisper.

I raise an eyebrow. "For the tea? You're the one who made it."

"No." Her amber eyes meet mine briefly before darting away. "For today. For what you did in the market. For..." She gestures helplessly, as if trying to encompass something too large for words. "For how you are with her. With Ava."

The rawness in her voice catches me unprepared. This isn't polite gratitude or social obligation. This is something deeper, more personal—the kind of thanks that comes from someone who's watched their most precious thing be treated with the care it deserves.

"You don't need to thank me for that," I say, setting my cup down. "She's easy to care about."

"Not for most people." Lenny's laugh holds no humor. "Most people look at her and see something that shouldn't exist. An abomination, like that bastard in the market said."

Anger flares hot in my chest at the memory. "That bastard is an ignorant fool who wouldn't recognize something precious if it carved its name into his forehead."

The corner of her mouth twitches—almost a smile, but not quite. "You really mean that, don't you? You don't see her as... as what she is."

"I see her exactly as what she is," I counter, leaning forward slightly.

"A brave, intelligent, wonderful child who lights up every room she enters.

A little girl who asks for nothing more than the chance to be herself, and who gives back joy in quantities that should be impossible for someone so small. "

Lenny stares at me like I've said something revolutionary.

"She asks me sometimes why people don't like her.

She's four years old, and she already knows the world thinks she's wrong somehow.

" Her voice cracks slightly. "And I never know what to tell her because part of me believes it too.

Part of me looks at what she is and remember my past, what part of her is ?—"

"No." The word comes out harder than I intended, carrying enough force that she flinches.

I force myself to gentle my tone. "Don't ever think that.

Don't ever let her think that. She is not wrong for existing.

She is not too much of anything or not enough of something else. She is perfect exactly as she is."

Tears gather in Lenny's eyes, threatening to spill over. "How can you be so certain? How can you look at her and not see the danger she represents? The problems she'll face? The way people will treat her?"

"Because those aren't her problems to solve," I say fiercely. "Those are their problems. Their prejudice, their fear, their inability to see past surface differences to the person underneath. And if the world has a problem with her existence, then the world can answer to me."

The silence that follows feels heavy with unspoken things. Lenny wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand, a gesture so vulnerable it makes my chest ache.

"She adores you," she says finally. "I've never seen her trust anyone the way she trusts you. Even me, sometimes I think she holds back a little, like she's afraid if she's too much trouble I might..." She shakes her head. "But with you, she just is. Completely herself."

"She should be," I murmur. "She should never have to be anything else."

"And you..." Lenny looks up at me, something wondering in her expression. "You just let her. You encourage it. When she climbs on your shoulders or insists on 'helping' you with sword practice or falls asleep against your arm while you're reading... you never act like she's an inconvenience."

"Because she isn't." The response comes automatically, but as soon as I say it, I realize how true it is. "She's never an inconvenience. She's... she's light, Lenny. Pure light in a form small enough to fit in someone's arms. How could anyone see that as anything but a gift?"

Something shifts in Lenny's expression—a softening around the edges, like ice beginning to thaw. "You love her."

It's not a question, but I answer it anyway. "Yeah. I do."

The admission settles between us like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples in all directions. I hadn't meant to say it so plainly, but now that it's out there, I can't take it back. Don't want to take it back.

Ava has carved out a space in my heart I didn't know existed. Somewhere along the way, her happiness became essential to mine. Her safety became my priority. Her trust became something I'd kill to protect.

"She loves you too," Lenny says quietly. "More than I think even she realizes. You're the first person besides me who's ever made her feel safe."

The weight of that responsibility should terrify me. Instead, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

We talk until our tea grows cold, trading stories about Ava's small triumphs and endearing quirks.

Lenny tells me about the first time Ava tried to braid her own hair, ending up so tangled they had to cut out half the knots.

I share how she managed to convince me that thaliverns are actually tiny dragons who've just forgotten how to breathe fire, and how seriously she takes the responsibility of helping them remember.

Slowly, as the evening wears on, some of the tension melts from Lenny's posture.

Her hands stop shaking. She meets my eyes more often, holds the contact longer.

The wariness doesn't disappear entirely—I doubt it ever will, given what she's survived—but it recedes enough for me to catch glimpses of the woman underneath.

She's funny, I realize. Dry wit surfaces in unexpected moments, usually at her own expense.

When she talks about Ava, her whole face transforms with love so fierce it takes my breath away.

And when she forgets to guard herself, lets the walls drop just a fraction, she's stunning in a way that has nothing to do with physical beauty and everything to do with the strength it takes to keep caring in a world that's given her every reason to stop.

"I should let you get some rest," I say eventually, though the last thing I want is for this evening to end.

She nods, rising with me, but something prevents her from immediately moving toward the door. "Rhyen?"

"Yeah?"

"It was nice talking with you." I swear she nearly smiles and internally, I'm begging for it. "I haven't had a conversation like this in... well, in five years."

"Neither have I," I admit, and realize it's true. Even if it was all just about Ava—a safe topic for us both—I got to see sides of Lenny I don't normally.

When was the last time I sat with someone and just talked? Really talked, not the careful verbal sparring that passes for conversation among the nobility or the professional discussions I have with colleagues. This felt real in a way I'd forgotten was possible.

"Well." She tucks a strand of ash-brown hair behind her ear, a gesture that draws attention to the delicate curve of her neck. "Maybe we could... do this again sometime?"

"I'd like that," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than intended.

She smiles then—just a small upturn of her lips, barely there and gone almost instantly. But for that brief moment, her whole face changes. The wariness disappears, replaced by something warm and genuine and completely unguarded.

The sight hits me like a physical blow.

I've seen her worried, frightened, exhausted.

I've seen her fierce with protective fury and gentle with maternal love.

Even the rare glimpses of a smile I thought I'd seen before are nothing compared to this soft one I just got.

But I've never seen her simply happy, and the transformation is devastating.

"Good night, Rhyen."

"Good night."

I leave before I do something stupid, like ask if I can see her smile again. But as I walk back through the quiet corridors toward my own chambers, that brief expression follows me. It's carved into my memory with the kind of clarity that suggests it's going to haunt me for a very long time.

The realization settles over me slowly, like dawn breaking over mountains I didn't know were there.

This isn't just about Ava anymore. Somewhere along the way, while I was falling in love with her daughter, I started falling for her mother too.

And that smile—fleeting as it was—just sealed my fate completely.