Page 22 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Daughter (Demon Daddies #8)
LENNY
T he evening drags on with excruciating slowness.
Dinner passes in stilted conversation—Ava chattering about her day while I push food mechanically around my plate, hyperaware of Rhyen's absence from the table.
Lira mentions he took his meal in his study, citing work that needed finishing, but the excuse feels hollow. He's never done that before.
I help Ava with her bedtime routine, braiding her dark curls and tucking her into the soft sheets that still feel like luxury after years of rough inn beds and makeshift shelters. She studies my face with those unnervingly perceptive violet eyes.
"Are you sad, Mama?"
The question pierces straight through my careful composure. I smooth her hair back from her forehead, careful of the small horns hidden beneath the silky strands.
"Just tired, little star. Sleep now."
But she doesn't let go so easily. "Rhyen seemed sad too. Maybe you should talk to him."
She is far too perceptive for a four-year-old. I press a kiss to her temple, breathing in her sweet scent. "Maybe I will."
After she drifts off, I pace the kitchen like a caged animal, replaying every interaction from this morning for the hundredth time.
The way Rhyen looked at me across the breakfast table—heat and promise and something deeper that made me believe in possibilities I'd long ago abandoned.
Then the abrupt shift when he returned from the training college, all rigid shoulders and careful distance.
The doubts circle like vultures. Did I misread everything? Was the kiss just a moment of weakness he now regrets? Am I deluding myself into thinking someone like him could want something real with someone like me?
By the time the house settles into nighttime quiet, I can't stand the uncertainty another second. Whatever Rhyen's reasons for pulling away, I need to hear them. I need to know if last night meant anything or if I've been spinning fantasies out of wishful thinking.
I cross the house toward his wing. Warm lamplight glows beneath his door as I approach. Nervous, I stand there like a fool, hand raised to knock, paralyzed by the possibility of rejection.
What if he tells me the kiss was a mistake? What if seeing me in daylight reminded him of all the reasons why a decorated war hero shouldn't involve himself with damaged goods? What if?—
The door opens before I can knock, revealing Rhyen's imposing frame filling the doorway.
He's changed, leaving him in dark trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal powerful forearms marked with faded battle scars.
His silver hair appears disheveled, as if he's been running his hands through it.
"Lenny." My name sounds rough on his lips, like he's been holding it back all day.
"I—" Words tangle in my throat as I search his face for any hint of what he's thinking. The sharp angles of his cheekbones seem more pronounced in the lamplight, his jaw tight with whatever internal battle he's been fighting. "Can we talk?"
He steps back wordlessly, letting me enter his room.
Just like last time, it smells like him—clean soap and something indefinably masculine that makes my pulse quicken despite my anxiety.
The lights are low and the curtains wide open, like he was standing at the window.
A fire crackles in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the dark wood furniture.
But I barely register the surroundings. All my attention focuses on Rhyen as he closes the door behind me, his movements careful and controlled. He doesn't turn around immediately, and I watch the tension in his broad shoulders, the way his hands flex at his sides.
"Do you regret it?" The words tumble out before I can stop them, raw and desperate. "The kiss. Do you regret kissing me?"
He spins to face me so fast I take an instinctive step back. His eyes are wide, almost shocked, and his mouth opens as if he wants to speak but no words emerge. The silence stretches between us for heartbeats that feel like hours.
Then something shifts in his expression—surprise melting into something fierce and almost pained.
"Regret it?" His voice comes out as a low rasp. "Christ, Lenny. That kiss is the only thing keeping me sane right now."
The raw honesty in his words knocks some of my worst fears loose, but new confusion takes their place. "Then why have you been avoiding me all day? You've barely looked at me since you got back from the training class."
"I've been up here because even I have trouble controlling my rage sometimes, and it has nothing to do with you. I don't always get along with the other instructors at work."
"It wasn't me?" I whisper.
He drags both hands through his hair, the silver strands falling back into his eyes. "No, Lenny. It wasn't you. I don't regret it, but I also don't expect it again."
That makes my heart sink. "Why?"
"Because I want to be better than every other bastard who's ever hurt you."
I step closer, drawn by the anguish in his voice. "What does that mean?"
"It means—" He cuts himself off, jaw working as he struggles with words.
"Fuck. It means I've been thinking about you all day.
About last night. About how you felt in my arms, how you tasted, how badly I want to kiss you again.
And I hate myself for it because you shouldn't feel pressured to—to give me anything just because I've given you shelter. "
Understanding crashes over me like a cold wave.
All day I've been torturing myself with thoughts of rejection, while he's been torturing himself with thoughts of taking advantage.
The man who could command armies, who radiates confidence and control in everything else, is terrified of becoming another predator in my life.
Something cracks open in my chest—not breaking, but flowering. Opening like a bloom that's been waiting years for the right conditions to unfurl.
I close the remaining distance between us, noting how his breath catches as I move into his space. Up close, I can see the exhaustion around his eyes, the tension bracketing his mouth. He's been fighting this want as hard as I've been drowning in uncertainty.
"Rhyen." I reach up, sliding my arms around his neck. His hands hover near my waist but don't quite touch, as if he's still afraid of overstepping. "Maybe I can help take your mind off things."
But instead of the heated response I expect, he tenses beneath my touch. His hands finally settle on my waist, but only to gently set me away from him. The careful rejection feels like ice water in my veins.
"Lenny, no." His voice is strained but firm. "I can't—I won't let you think you owe me anything. Not shelter, not safety, not your body. Nothing."
I start to pull away completely, uncertainty and old shame flooding back, but his hands tighten on my waist just enough to keep me close. When I look up, his expression has gentled, those crystalline eyes warm with something that looks dangerously like tenderness.
"I never want to be another man who expected things in return for basic decency," he continues, each word careful and deliberate. "You don't owe me anything, sweetheart. Not a damned thing."
The endearment hits me like a physical touch, and suddenly I understand what's happening. This powerful, confident man is terrified of being like my master. Terrified of becoming another person who takes instead of gives, who demands instead of protects.
The realization cracks something open inside me—not the brittle breaking I'm used to, but something warmer. Like ice melting after a long winter.
"You want to know what my life was before?" The words come out steady, stronger than I've felt in years. "It was never having a choice. Never being asked what I wanted or how I felt. It was hands that took without permission and a voice that commanded without caring if I agreed."
His jaw tightens, fury flashing across his features at the reminder of what I endured. But I'm not finished.
"I know what pressure feels like, Rhyen. I know what it means to give because refusing isn't an option." I step closer again, letting my hands frame his face the way he held mine last night. "This isn't that. This is the first time in my entire life that I want something for myself."
His expression shifts, surprise giving way to something dark and reverent. The careful control he's been maintaining all day finally starts to crack around the edges.
"You want this?" The question comes out rough, vulnerable in a way that makes my heart ache.
"I want you." The admission feels like stepping off a cliff, but his eyes catch fire at my words. "I've wanted you since the day you took us to that waterfall, maybe longer. Not because I'm grateful or because I think I owe you something, but because you make me feel safe enough to want again."
Something breaks in his expression then—some final wall crumbling under the weight of honesty. He moves so fast I barely have time to register the intent before his mouth crashes down on mine.
This kiss is more intense than our last. This is hunger and desperate need and months of suppressed desire finally breaking free. His hands tangle in my hair as he backs me against the door, his body pressing against mine with barely leashed strength.
I can taste the desperation on his tongue, feel the tremor in his powerful hands as they map the curve of my waist. When he finally breaks away to breathe, his voice is rough as gravel.
"Are you sure?" The question is a rasp against my lips. "Because once we cross this line, I don't think I'll be able to let you go."
Instead of answering with words, I pull his mouth back to mine, pouring every ounce of want and trust and surprising courage into the kiss. He groans against my lips, a sound of pure masculine need that sends heat spiraling through my core.
Then he's lifting me like I weigh nothing, strong arms sweeping me up as if I'm precious cargo. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and he carries me deeper into the room toward the massive bed that dominates the far wall.