Page 7 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Daughter (Demon Daddies #8)

LENNY

T he pale gray light filtering through the enchanted windows pulls me from restless sleep, and my hand immediately reaches for the warm body that should be curled against my side. My fingers find only empty bedsheets, still holding the faint impression of where Ava's small form had been.

Gone.

Panic slams through my chest like a physical blow, driving the air from my lungs. She's gone, she's gone, they took her while I slept like a fool who believed in safety and promises and?—

I roll out of bed before the thought finishes forming, my bare feet hitting the cold stone floor with barely a sound.

The cloak I'd draped over the chair gets thrown around my shoulders as I move, muscle memory taking over while my mind fractures into a thousand possibilities, each worse than the last.

We should have left before dawn. Should have gathered our things while the house slept and disappeared into the forest paths like we always do.

Should have trusted my instincts instead of the treacherous warmth in a stranger's eyes.

Four years of survival, four years of keeping us alive, and I let one kind xaphan and his comfortable estate make me forget that nowhere is safe, no one can be trusted, not when it comes to protecting what's mine.

The hallway stretches before me in the predawn gloom, all silver-veined archways and shadowed corners where someone could be hiding.

My hand finds the knife concealed in my sleeve, fingers wrapping around the familiar weight of the hilt while I force myself to think.

Where would they take her? The stables? Some hidden room I haven't seen yet?

Off the property entirely while I slept like a trusting idiot?

I move through the house like smoke, checking corners and doorways, listening for any sound that might tell me where she is.

The polished stone floors are cold against my bare feet, but I barely notice.

Everything in me is focused on finding my daughter, on the growing certainty that I've made the worst mistake of my life by thinking we could have something good.

The main staircase curves down into the front hall, and I take the steps two at a time despite the need for stealth. If they have her, if someone came in the night and?—

Soft laughter drifts up from somewhere deeper in the house. A child's giggle, bright and unafraid, followed by the low rumble of a man's voice saying something I can't quite make out. The sound stops me cold, one hand gripping the banister while I strain to listen.

That's Ava's laugh. Not distressed, not frightened. Happy.

Relief and confusion war in my chest as I follow the sound through the maze of hallways toward what must be the kitchen. The darkness gradually gives way to warm golden light spilling from an open doorway, and I creep closer until I can see inside.

The kitchen is massive, all warm wood and copper pots hanging from iron hooks.

A large stone fireplace dominates one wall, the enchanted flames dancing merrily in the hearth and casting shifting shadows across the room.

The wooden table in the center could easily seat a dozen people, but this morning it hosts only two occupants.

Ava sits in a chair that's slightly too big for her, her small legs swinging freely while she hunches over a piece of parchment.

Her thick black curls are still mussed from sleep, and she's wearing the simple nightgown Lira provided yesterday—soft white cotton that makes her caramel skin glow in the firelight.

The tip of her tongue peeks out between her lips as she concentrates, gripping a piece of charcoal like it's the most important tool in the world.

Beside her, Rhyen sits with the relaxed ease of someone who belongs in this space.

His silver-white hair is loose around his shoulders, and he's dressed more casually than I've seen him—simple dark trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

An untouched mug of tea sits at his elbow, steam curling up into the warm air, but all his attention is focused on my daughter.

"That's a very good spiral," he says seriously, leaning forward to examine her work. "See how it gets tighter as it goes toward the center? That's exactly how nautilus shells grow."

"What's a nautilus?" Ava asks without looking up from her drawing, adding another careful line to whatever masterpiece she's creating.

"It's a sea creature with a shell that spirals just like that.

They live deep in the ocean and can change colors like magic.

" Rhyen's voice holds the perfect tone for talking to a four-year-old—not condescending, not overly simplified, but warm with the kind of patience that suggests he could sit here all day answering her questions.

"Can they really change colors?"

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Really truly. They can turn blue or green or purple, whatever color helps them hide from the big fish that want to eat them."

Ava finally looks up from her drawing, those impossible violet-gold eyes wide with fascination. "Like how Mama makes us hide sometimes?"

My breath catches in my throat. She's too young to understand what she's revealed, too innocent to know that she's just handed this man a piece of our history wrapped in the simple honesty that only children possess.

Rhyen's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in the way he holds himself. When he speaks, his voice is carefully gentle. "Sometimes hiding is the smartest thing to do. It keeps the people we love safe."

"Mama's really good at hiding. She knows all the best places." Ava returns to her drawing, adding what might be fins to her spiral creature. "But I don't like it when she gets scared. Her face goes all white and her hands shake."

"That must be frightening for you."

"Sometimes. But Mama always takes care of me, even when she's scared. She sings to me when the thunder gets too loud." Ava pauses in her artistic endeavors to look at him again. "Do you ever get scared?"

Rhyen considers this with the seriousness the question deserves. "Yes, I do. Everyone gets scared sometimes, even grown-ups."

"What scares you?"

"Hmmm," he says thoughtfully, his celestial blue eyes bright as he studies her. "The tickle monster." He nods with finality. "That one more than anything."

Ava giggles. "I'll save you from the tickle monster."

A smile overtakes his face, full of warmth like every time he's looked at her. These two have instantly connected, drawn to each other, and I'm not sure how to feel about it. "Well, thank you."

I should announce myself. Should step into the kitchen and reclaim my daughter and stop this conversation before it reveals any more of our secrets. But I find myself frozen in the doorway, watching this impossible scene unfold.

Rhyen with my child. Patient and kind and genuine in a way that makes my chest ache with longing and terror.

Treating her like she matters, like her questions deserve real answers, like she's worthy of his time and attention.

The way her face lights up when he speaks to her, the comfortable way she sits beside this powerful man who could snap her neck with one careless movement.

The way she trusts him already, completely and without reservation.

"I drew you a zarryn," Ava announces, turning her parchment so he can see it properly. "See? It has two tails, and I made its fur all scribbly."

"That's magnificent," Rhyen says, and the wonder in his voice sounds completely genuine. "Look at all that detail in the mane. And you remembered the double tails perfectly."

Ava beams at the praise, practically glowing with pride. "I'm going to draw you one too. What's your favorite color?"

"Blue, I think. Like the sky just before dawn."

"I like blue, too. I'll make you the best zarryn ever and you can keep it forever."

"I would be honored to have such a precious gift."

The formal way he phrases it makes Ava giggle, but not in a mocking way. She's delighted by his courtly manner, charmed by being treated like someone whose art is worthy of such respect. When she returns to her drawing, Rhyen's gaze finds mine again, and this time I see him register my presence.

"Good morning," he says without a trace of surprise or alarm, as if finding a half-dressed woman lurking in his doorway at dawn is perfectly normal. "There's tea if you'd like some. Lira left a pot brewing before she went to tend the herb garden."

I hover in the threshold, every instinct screaming at me to grab Ava and run, to not let myself be lulled by this domestic tableau. My hand is still wrapped around the knife in my sleeve, knuckles white with tension, though neither of them seems to notice my aggressive stance.

"How long has she been awake?" My voice comes out rougher than intended, raw with the panic that's still coursing through my system.

"Not long. Perhaps a quarter-hour." Rhyen's tone remains calm and measured. "She came downstairs looking for water, but when she saw me here, she decided to keep me company instead. We've been discussing sea creatures and the proper technique for drawing fur."

Ava looks up from her latest creation, completely oblivious to the tension radiating from my body. "Mama! Look what I made!"

She's happy. Genuinely, radiantly happy in a way I haven't seen since.

.. I can't remember when. Her little face is bright with excitement, her eyes sparkling as she shows off her artwork.

There's no fear in her expression, no wariness, none of the careful watchfulness that's become her default around strangers.

She feels safe here.

That realization hits me like a physical blow, stealing what little breath I've managed to recover.

My daughter, who's spent her entire life learning to be invisible, who's been taught to mistrust kindness and run from comfort, feels safe enough to wander downstairs alone and strike up a conversation with a man who could crush her without effort.

And he's sitting there letting her chatter away about sea creatures and art, responding to her questions like they're the most important things he'll hear all day. Like making a four- year-old feel valued is worth getting up before dawn and brewing tea in his own kitchen.

"Would you like to join us?" Rhyen asks, gesturing to the empty chairs around the table. "Ava was just telling me about a story you told her once, something about a princess who could talk to stars."

My chest tightens. That's one of the stories I made up during the long, frightening nights when she couldn't sleep, when the sounds of pursuit seemed to echo from every shadow. Tales of brave princesses and magical kingdoms where little girls with horns were welcomed instead of hunted.

"I don't remember all the words," Ava says, scribbling furiously. "But Mama does. She knows lots of stories."

"That sounds like a very special gift," Rhyen says, but he's looking at me when he says it, not at Ava. There's something in his expression that makes my throat tight—admiration, maybe, or respect for the way I've tried to fill my daughter's world with wonder despite our circumstances.

I take a tentative step into the kitchen, still gripping my hidden knife but no longer certain I'll need it. The warmth from the fireplace washes over my bare legs, and I'm suddenly aware that I'm standing in this man's kitchen wearing nothing but a nightgown and a hastily thrown-on cloak.

He doesn't seem to notice. Or if he does, he's too much of a gentleman to let it show.

"Sit with us, Mama," Ava says without looking up. "I'm making pictures for everyone. Tovren gets a zarryn, Rhyen gets a blue zarryn, Lira gets flowers, and you get a castle because you like castles in stories."

A castle. Because in all the tales I've told her, the castle is where safety lives. Where the princess finds her happy ending, where the monsters can't reach, where little girls with unusual eyes and tiny horns are treasured instead of feared.

But I've never told my daughter the truth.

There's no such thing as being safe.