Page 6 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Daughter (Demon Daddies #8)

I stare at him, waiting for the other boot to drop. The qualifier. The list of conditions. The explanation of what he expects in return for this unprecedented freedom.

It doesn't come.

"I don't understand." The words slip out before I can stop them, and I immediately curse my honesty. Never show confusion. Never admit weakness.

Rhyen's celestial blue eyes study my face with what looks like genuine puzzlement. "What's to understand? This is your home now. You don't need permission to walk in your own home."

Home. The word hits me like a physical blow, and I have to work to keep my expression neutral.

I haven't had a home since I was sixteen.

I've had hiding places, temporary shelters, safe houses that lasted a few days if I was lucky.

But home suggests permanence, belonging, safety that doesn't come with a price tag attached.

"Nothing's free," I say quietly, hating how small my voice sounds. "There's always a cost."

Something flickers across Rhyen's features—pain, maybe, or recognition. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and for a moment the careful courtesy in his expression gives way to something rawer. When he speaks again, his voice carries an edge of steel wrapped in velvet.

"All I ask is that you cook, Lenny. That's it." He smiles down at Ava. "Besides, I think that most of us find your presence a fair exchange."

The conviction in his words should be reassuring. Instead, it terrifies me. People who claim to want nothing are the most dangerous of all, because their real motivations stay hidden until it's too late to escape them.

But Ava chooses that moment to wake up properly, blinking those impossible violet-gold eyes and looking around the room with wonder.

She takes in the soft furnishings, the gentle light filtering through the enchanted windows, the way everyone in the room is watching her with expressions of warmth rather than fear or disgust.

"Mama," she whispers, pointing at the window seat. "There's.. it's a big chair."

"I see them, sweetheart."

"Can I sit on it?"

The question breaks something inside my chest. My four-year-old daughter is asking permission to sit on furniture like she expects to be told no, like comfort is something that has to be earned.

Because that's what I've taught her, isn't it?

That we don't belong anywhere, that we have to make ourselves small and grateful for whatever scraps of safety we can find.

"Of course you can," Rhyen answers before I can find my voice. His tone is gentle but firm, the kind of certainty that children crave. "Those cushions are there for sitting on. That's their job."

Ava grins at him, that brilliant smile that transforms her entire face, and I see the exact moment Rhyen falls completely under her spell. His stoic expression softens, and something almost vulnerable flickers in his eyes as he carefully sets her down.

"Would you like to see the view from the window?" he asks, crouching down to her level. "There are nightlilies in the garden that bloom in the evening. They glow like tiny stars."

"Real stars?" Ava asks, padding over to the window seat with the kind of fearless curiosity that's going to get her into trouble someday.

"Magic stars," Rhyen says solemnly, as if this is a perfectly reasonable distinction. "Better than real ones because you can see them up close."

Lira makes a soft sound that might be a contented sigh. "She'll love the garden paths. They're perfect for little feet, and we've got thalivern that come to visit the nightlilies after dark. She might see their wings glowing."

I watch this exchange with growing unease. They're talking about Ava like she's going to be here long enough to develop routines, to have favorite spots, to wait for evening creatures to emerge from their hiding places. Like she's going to stay.

Like we're going to stay.

"The little one will need proper clothes for exploring," Lira says, giving my travel-worn outfit a significant look. "And you'll both want something warm for the evenings. The mountain air gets crisp once the sun goes down."

"We have clothes," I say quickly. Our meager possessions are still tucked into the canvas bag I've carried for the last four years—three changes of clothing for each of us, a few books for Ava, and the small collection of items too precious or practical to leave behind.

"I'm sure you do," Lira says diplomatically. "But wouldn't it be nice to have choices? Different dresses for different occasions, maybe a warm cloak for winter walks, proper boots for the rocky paths?"

Choices. When did I stop believing that word applied to my life?

Rhyen straightens from where he's been watching Ava explore her new domain, and suddenly I'm very aware of his size again.

Six and a half feet of controlled power, broad shoulders that could easily overpower my smaller frame, hands that could snap my wrists if he chose.

The bronze of his skin seems to shimmer slightly in the magical light, and I catch myself wondering if that's normal for xaphan or if it's something specific to him.

"The market in New Solas has excellent tailors," he says casually, as if outfitting strangers is something he does regularly. "And there's a children's shop that specializes in sturdy play clothes. Ava will need things she can get dirty."

"I can't pay for new clothes." The admission tastes like ash in my mouth, but it's better than letting him think I'm stupid enough to accept expensive gifts without understanding what they'll cost me later.

Rhyen's expression doesn't change, but something in his stillness tells me I've hit a nerve. When he speaks, his voice carries that same steel-wrapped-in-silk quality that makes my pulse quicken.

"Did I ask you to pay for them?"

"No, but?—"

"Then don't." The words are quiet but absolute. "Money means nothing to me. I take care of my staff."

The casual way he says it—like my comfort actually matters to him, like Ava's safety is something he's genuinely invested in—makes my chest tight with emotions I can't afford to feel.

This is how they get you. Not with threats or demands, but with kindness so overwhelming you stop questioning whether it's real.

"Mama, look!" Ava presses her face against the window glass, pointing at something in the garden below. "There's a fountain!"

I move to the window despite myself, drawn by her excitement.

The view takes my breath away. The gardens spread out below us in carefully cultivated wilderness—not the rigid formality of noble estates, but something that looks like nature improved upon itself.

Winding stone paths disappear between flowering shrubs and ornamental trees, leading to hidden alcoves where benches wait in dappled shade.

The fountain Ava spotted sits in the center of it all, its water catching the late afternoon light and throwing tiny rainbows across the surrounding flower beds.

"Can I go see it?" Ava asks, already bouncing on her toes with anticipation.

"After dinner," Rhyen promises. "And only with your mother or one of us to show you the safe paths. Some parts of the garden are still wild, and we don't want you getting lost."

Lost. Like there are places on this property where a small child could wander off and never be found.

The thought should alarm me, but instead I find myself thinking about how freeing it must be to have enough space that getting lost is even a possibility.

Every place we've lived has been small enough that three steps in any direction would bring you to a wall.

"The evening meal is in an hour," Lira says, smoothing down her skirts. "I've been handling dinner, so it's nothing fancy—roasted tuskram with baked zynthra and fresh bread. Simple fare."

Simple fare that probably costs more than I've spent on food in the last month. My stomach betrays me with a low growl that makes Merrin giggle.

"I'll bring a plate up if you'd rather not come down to the dining room," she offers kindly. "Sometimes it's nice to eat somewhere quiet when you're settling in."

The dining room. Where all of Rhyen's people will gather, where I'll be the center of attention whether I want to be or not. Where Ava will be watched and evaluated and judged, no matter how kindly they're treating her now.

Where I'll have to sit across from Rhyen and pretend I'm not constantly calculating how quickly I could grab Ava and run if things go wrong.

"We'll come down," I hear myself saying, though the words feel like someone else spoke them. "Ava should... she should eat with other people. She doesn't get to do that often."

Never gets to do that, actually. We've eaten every meal alone for four years, huddled in whatever corner or rented room we could afford, always listening for footsteps that might mean discovery.

Rhyen nods as if this is perfectly normal, as if he hasn't just witnessed me make what feels like the most terrifying decision of my adult life. "The dining room is informal. No ceremony, no special rules. Just people sharing a meal."

Just people. Like we're just people too, instead of a fugitive and her half-demon child. Like we belong at someone's table.

"I'll let you get settled," he says, moving toward the door. "Rest, explore, make yourselves comfortable. This is your home now."

There it is again. That word that makes my chest ache with longing and terror in equal measure.

He pauses in the doorway, his broad frame filling the space, silver-white hair catching the magical light like captured starshine. When he looks back at us, there's something in his expression I can't quite name—protective, maybe, or possessive in a way that should scare me but somehow doesn't.

"Lenny." My name in his deep voice does things to my nervous system that I really can't afford right now. "Whatever you're afraid of, whatever you're running from—it can't touch you here. I give you my word."

Then he's gone, leaving me alone with Ava and the echo of a promise I have no reason to believe but desperately want to trust.