Page 13 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Daughter (Demon Daddies #8)

LENNY

I wake to pale light filtering through the curtains, that soft gray hour before true dawn breaks. My hand reaches automatically to the space beside me, finding only cool sheets. Empty, as expected.

Ava's been an early riser since she could walk—something about the quiet hours before the world fully wakes that calls to her.

In our years of running, it was a blessing and a curse.

A blessing because we could slip away from inns and camps while others still slept.

A curse because a four-year-old has no concept of stealth when she's excited about something.

I pull my woolen shawl around my shoulders and pad barefoot through the suite. The sitting room holds only the lingering scent of last night's tea and the memory of Rhyen's voice saying he loves her. The words still send something warm and complicated spiraling through my chest.

The corridors stretch before me, empty and hushed.

My feet know the way without conscious thought—toward the gardens, toward the training grounds, toward wherever Rhyen might be found in these early hours.

It's become routine over the weeks we've been here.

Ava disappears at first light, and I follow to collect her for breakfast.

Except I'm not really collecting her anymore, am I? I'm watching. Always watching them together, this man and my daughter who've somehow found each other across impossible odds.

The garden doors stand open, letting in the crisp morning air. I step onto the stone path, pulling my shawl tighter against the chill. The world holds that hushed quality of early dawn—dew clinging to everything, colors muted to watercolor softness, the sky painted in gentle pastels.

Then I hear it. Laughter. Pure, joyful, completely uninhibited laughter that could only belong to Ava.

I follow the sound around a bend in the path and stop, my breath catching somewhere between my ribs and my throat.

They're in the wide clearing where Rhyen usually practices alone—him and Ava, both wielding wooden practice swords that are comically mismatched in size.

Rhyen's blade is proper length, worn smooth from years of use.

Ava's is child-sized, carved specially for her small hands, painted bright blue because she insisted that blue swords are obviously better than brown ones.

"Guard up," Rhyen calls, his voice carrying easily across the morning stillness. "Remember what we practiced about footwork."

Ava's face scrunches in concentration, her little feet shuffling into what I assume is supposed to be a fighting stance. She looks absurd and perfect—dark curls escaping from yesterday's ribbon, still in her nightgown with bare feet, wielding a sword like she was born to it.

They circle each other with exaggerated seriousness. Rhyen moves with fluid grace even while obviously restraining himself to match her pace. His silver hair catches the early light, and there's something boyish in his expression that makes him look younger than his apparent years.

"Now," he says, raising his sword. "Show me your best?—"

Ava charges with a war cry that would make a seasoned warrior proud, her blue blade swinging in a wild arc. Rhyen parries with theatrical flair, stumbling backward as if her tiny strike carries the force of a giant.

"Oh no," he groans, pressing his free hand to his chest. "I'm wounded. Mortally wounded by the fierce warrior Princess Ava."

She giggles, advancing with renewed confidence. "I'm not a princess. I'm a dragon slayer."

"My mistake." He blocks another of her swings, this time spinning dramatically and dropping to one knee. "Defeated by the legendary dragon slayer. My reputation is ruined."

Their next exchange ends with Ava landing a solid tap against his ribs.

Rhyen's reaction is immediate and completely over the top—he cries out as if she's run him through with a real blade, staggers backward with his hand pressed to the "wound," then collapses into the grass with a more theatrical death scene than any stage actor would dare attempt.

Ava squeals with pure delight. She throws her wooden sword aside and launches herself at his prone form, landing on his chest with her knees and pumping her tiny fists in the air.

"I won! I won! I'm the best sword fighter in all of New Solas!"

"You're the best sword fighter on all of Aerasak," Rhyen agrees solemnly, apparently speaking from beyond the grave.

She bounces on his ribs. "All of Aerasak?"

"Every continent. Every realm. There has never been and will never be a warrior to match your skill."

The praise makes her beam so brightly I'm surprised the sun doesn't pale in comparison. She leans down to poke at his closed eyes. "Are you really dead?"

"Completely dead. Vanquished by superior swordsmanship."

"But if you're dead, how can you talk?"

"Ghost." He opens one eye to peer at her. "Very chatty ghost."

She considers this with the seriousness of a scholar. Then, apparently deciding that chatty ghosts are perfectly reasonable, she settles more comfortably on his chest.

"Can ghosts fly?"

"The good ones can."

"Are you a good ghost?"

"I try to be."

In one fluid motion, he sits up and wraps his arms around her small form. She shrieks with delighted surprise as he surges to his feet, her legs wrapping around his waist, her arms circling his neck.

And then they're airborne.

My breath stops entirely. I've seen him fly before—been up there with him. But I've never just let myself admire him.

His wings unfold in a rush of soft blue feathers, catching the morning light like scattered sapphires.

They're beautiful—more beautiful than I let myself remember during those stolen glances.

Powerful and graceful, with darker blue markings near the tips that somehow make the pale color more striking by contrast.

He rises slowly, carefully, spiraling over the garden in gentle loops that make Ava laugh until she hiccups. She's fearless in his arms, trusting him completely to keep her safe. Her dark curls stream behind her like a banner, and her nightgown flutters around her legs.

They're playing some version of their sword fighting game mid-air, Ava making swooshing sound effects while she "attacks" invisible enemies from her perch against his chest. Rhyen banks and turns according to her directions, carrying them through elaborately choreographed battles against imaginary dragons and evil sorcerers.

I should probably be terrified. A reasonable mother would be demanding he bring her daughter down immediately, would be cataloguing all the ways this could end in disaster.

But watching them together—seeing the careful way he holds her, the controlled power of his flight, the absolute trust between them—I feel nothing but wonder.

And something else. Something deeper and more dangerous.

I fall a little bit more every time I see them together like this.

Every shared laugh, every moment of perfect understanding, every instance where he treats her not like an obligation or an inconvenience but like the extraordinary gift she is.

It chips away at walls I built to keep my heart safe, leaves me more exposed and vulnerable than enemy armies ever could.

He's treating her like she's his own child. Like she belongs to him and he belongs to her, and the bond between them is as natural as breathing. And she responds to it completely, basking in the kind of unconditional acceptance she's never had from anyone but me.

The sight sends something warm and terrifying spiraling through my chest. What happens when this ends? Because it will end—it has to end. Men like Rhyen don't keep women like me. They don't build lives around half-demon children and their damaged mothers.

But watching him hold my daughter against the pale dawn sky, both of them laughing like they've discovered the secret to eternal happiness, I can almost pretend that fairy tales are real.

That sometimes the knight really does rescue the princess.

That sometimes love is enough to overcome all the practical reasons why something can't work.

They spiral lower, coming in for a gentle landing near where I stand on the path. Ava spots me immediately, her face lighting up with the special smile reserved for moments when both her favorite people are in sight.

"Mama! Did you see? Did you see me flying? I fought dragons and everything!"

My heart does something complicated in my chest. She looks so happy, so utterly content in Rhyen's arms. Her violet eyes are bright with excitement, her cheeks flushed pink from the cool morning air and pure joy.

"I saw," I manage, my voice steadier than I expected. "You were very brave."

Rhyen sets her down carefully, his hands steady on her shoulders until he's sure she has her balance. His own breathing is slightly elevated from the flight, but there's something peaceful in his expression—a contentment that makes him look younger and more relaxed than I've ever seen him.

"Go wash up for breakfast," I tell Ava, trying to inject some maternal authority into my tone. "You're covered in grass stains and you're still in your nightgown."

She glances down at herself as if just noticing her state of dishevelment, then shrugs with four-year-old logic. "I like grass stains. They're like battle scars."

"Battle scars can be cleaned before meals," I counter. "Go on."

She throws her arms around Rhyen's waist in a quick hug, presses a kiss to my cheek, then races past me toward the estate.

Her giggling voice carries back to us as she disappears through the garden doors, probably composing extremely detailed stories about her aerial dragon battles to share with anyone who'll listen.

The silence she leaves behind feels different than the comfortable quiet of last night. More charged somehow, heavy with unspoken things that hover just beneath the surface.

Rhyen approaches me slowly, and I'm suddenly aware that I'm still in my sleeping dress with only a shawl thrown over my shoulders.

My hair is loose around my face, probably wild from sleep, and I haven't bothered with shoes.

I must look like something that crawled out of bed and wandered into the garden—which, to be fair, is exactly what I did.

But the way he's looking at me doesn't suggest he finds my appearance lacking. There's something warm in his celestial blue eyes, something that makes my pulse skip in ways that have nothing to do with fear and everything to do with possibility.

He stops directly in front of me, close enough that I can see the faint sheen of exertion on his bronze skin, close enough to catch his scent—something clean and masculine with an underlying hint of wind and sky that must come from flying.

His hand rises slowly, as if he's giving me time to object or step away. When I don't move, his fingers brush against my cheek with devastating gentleness. His touch is warm despite the cool morning air, rough with calluses from years of sword work but careful in a way that makes my breath catch.

"You look so beautiful when you smile," he says quietly.

I'm not sure what I expected him to say, but it was not that.

Not soft words that he didn't even seem to mean to whisper that nearly make my heart stop.

Not because they're particularly eloquent or original, but because of the way he says them.

Like he means them completely. Like he's been thinking about my smile and decided it was worth commenting on.

My heart does something acrobatic in my chest, and I'm suddenly aware of all the places our bodies almost connect—his hand still curved against my cheek, the bare inch of space between us that feels charged with electricity.

He holds my gaze for a moment that stretches between us like a bridge I'm not sure I'm brave enough to cross. Then he steps back, his hand falling away from my face, leaving my skin feeling cold despite the growing warmth of the morning.

"I should change for training," he says, his voice rougher than usual.

I nod, not trusting my voice to work properly.

He walks away across the garden, his wings folding tight against his back, leaving me standing beside the path with my heart hammering against my ribs and a thousand confusing feelings chasing each other through my mind.