Page 3 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Daughter (Demon Daddies #8)

RHYEN

T he afternoon market hums with its usual energy—vendors calling their wares, coins changing hands, the general bustle of commerce that fills New Solas's northern district.

I'm cutting through on my way back from the military college, my wings folded tight against my shoulders to avoid knocking over displays or bumping into shoppers.

That's when I catch the scent.

It stops me cold in the middle of the thoroughfare. Demon heritage, unmistakable and sharp as copper pennies, but underneath it something else—something young and innocent and utterly out of place in a xaphan city.

I scan the crowd, following my nose until I spot her near a spice merchant's colorful stall.

A little girl, maybe four years old, with thick black curls that catch the light and skin the color of warm caramel.

She's standing perfectly still, hands clasped behind her back in a formal posture that seems far too mature for her age.

But it's her eyes that give her away completely. Deep violet with flecks of gold at the centers, glowing faintly with the telltale sign of demonic ancestry. And she's alone.

Every instinct I've honed over decades of military service kicks into high alert. A demon child, unattended, in the heart of xaphan territory. I've never seen such a thing. Either someone's lost track of her, or something much worse has happened.

I approach slowly, crouching down when I'm close enough that she notices me. No sudden movements. Children spook easily, and this one has every reason to be wary of strangers.

"Hello there," I keep my voice gentle, pitched low enough that nearby shoppers won't overhear. "Are you looking for someone?"

She tilts her head, studying me with those luminous eyes. There's no fear in her expression, only curiosity. "You have wings."

"I do." I can't help the slight smile that tugs at my mouth. Direct and to the point—I like that in a conversation partner. "What's your name?"

"Ava." She bounces slightly on her toes, energy barely contained in her small frame. "My mama says I'm not supposed to talk to strangers, but you don't look scary."

"Your mama sounds very smart. Where is she?"

The bounce stops. Ava's brow furrows as she glances around the market, suddenly looking very young and uncertain. "I don't know. I…I lost her."

Christ. A lost child in a crowded market is concerning enough without the added complexity of her heritage. If the wrong person spots those telltale eyes, or catches her scent the way I did...

"Well, let's find her then." I straighten slightly, scanning the crowd while keeping my voice calm. "What does your mama look like?"

"She has pretty hair, and she always holds my hand tight." Not a great description, but I don't press as Ava's voice gets smaller. "I lost her." She looks on the verge of tears.

"It's all right." I crouch back down, meeting her eyes. "We'll find her. I'm very good at finding people."

That seems to reassure her. "What's your name?"

"Rhyen."

"That's a funny name." She giggles, the sound bright and infectious. "Are you a soldier? You're really big like a soldier."

"I used to be. How did you know that?"

"You stand up straight like the men in my storybooks." She demonstrates, puffing out her small chest and squaring her shoulders in an adorable approximation of military posture. "And your wings are pretty. Are they soft?"

The innocent question catches me off guard. Most adults, especially non-xaphan, tend to avoid mentioning my wings at all. But children see the world differently.

"They are. Maybe your mama can tell you if it's all right to?—"

"Mama!" Ava's shriek cuts through the market noise like a blade.

I follow her gaze to see a scuffle near one of the food stalls. A human woman with ash-brown hair is struggling against a burly vendor's grip, her face pale with panic. Even from this distance, I can see the family resemblance—the same delicate bone structure, the same determined set to her jaw.

The woman breaks free with a violent twist that sends the vendor stumbling, and her eyes lock on mine across the crowd. The look she gives me is pure terror, the kind that comes from recognizing a threat to everything you hold dear.

"That's my mama!" Ava starts forward, but I catch her gently around the waist.

The vendor recovers his balance and lunges for the woman again, his face twisted with anger. "You don't get to just walk away, you lying bitch!"

That's all I need to see.

I scoop Ava up in one arm, her small body settling against my chest with surprising trust, and push through the crowd toward the altercation. People scatter out of my way—between my size and the spread of my wings, most have enough sense not to block my path.

The vendor has the woman by both wrists now, his fingers digging into what I can see are old scars circling her arms. She's fighting him with desperate strength, but he outweighs her by at least fifty pounds.

"Let her go." My voice carries the kind of authority that made enemy battalions think twice about advancing. The vendor's head snaps up, taking in my approach with wide eyes.

He releases one of the woman's wrists to gesture dismissively at me. "This doesn't concern you, sky-wings."

"I'm not interested in your money." The woman's voice shakes with barely controlled rage. "Let me go."

"Mama!" Ava calls from my arms, reaching toward her mother.

The vendor's gaze shifts to the child, and I watch his expression change as he takes in her distinctive eyes. His lip curls with disgust.

"Well, well. Makes sense now, doesn't it? Demon-fucked whore trying to pass her devil spawn off as?—"

I'm moving before he finishes the sentence. My free hand closes around his throat, not tight enough to cut off air but firm enough that he understands exactly how fucked he is if he keeps talking.

"Finish that thought," I suggest quietly, my voice pitched for his ears alone. "Please."

The color drains from his face. Whatever he sees in my expression convinces him that backing down is his only viable option.

"I... I didn't mean..."

"You meant exactly what you said." I release his throat and step back, placing myself squarely between him and the woman.

My wings spread slightly, creating a barrier that blocks his view of the mother and Ava is buried into my chest. "Now you're going to apologize to the lady and walk away.

Or I'm going to demonstrate why retired doesn't mean soft. "

He scrambles backward, nearly tripping over his own display table. "Keep your demon bitch. Wasn't worth the trouble anyway."

The urge to introduce his face to the nearest stone surface is almost overwhelming, but I have more pressing concerns. The woman—Ava's mother—stands frozen behind me, her breathing harsh and uneven.

"Come on." I turn, shifting Ava to my other arm so I can gesture toward the market's exit. "Let's get you both out of here."

The woman doesn't argue. She falls into step beside me, staying close enough that our shoulders almost brush as we navigate the crowd. Her hands shake where they clutch a small traveling bag, and she keeps glancing back as if expecting pursuit.

"Thank you," she whispers once we've cleared the worst of the crowd. "I... thank you."

"Don't mention it." I glance down at Ava, who's been remarkably quiet during the whole exchange. "You all right, little one?"

She nods, but her arms tighten around my neck. "The mean man was hurting Mama."

"He won't hurt her again." The promise comes out with more heat than I intended, but the child seems to find it comforting. Then I look to her mother. "I'm Rhyen, by the way."

She goes even paler. She's staring at me like I'm a predator who's momentarily forgotten to hunt, waiting for the inevitable moment when I remember what she is and decide she's not worth protecting after all.

I've seen that look before. Usually on the faces of refugees and prisoners of war—people who've learned that kindness is often just cruelty wearing a prettier mask.