Page 9 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Daughter (Demon Daddies #8)

LENNY

T en days. Ten days, and I'm starting to lose myself in the rhythm of this place.

I scrub the copper pot with more force than necessary, the bristles of the brush grating against metal in a sound that sets my teeth on edge. Water sloshes over the rim, splashing across my apron and the spotless kitchen counter that I've already cleaned twice this morning.

Through the window above the basin, I can see Ava in the garden with Rhyen.

She's perched on his shoulders now, her small hands tangled in his silver-white hair as she points excitedly at something in the flowering hedges.

He turns his head to follow her direction, patient as stone, and when she leans forward to whisper something in his ear, his deep laugh carries across the courtyard.

My hands still on the pot.

She's never done that with anyone else. Never been comfortable enough to touch a stranger's hair, to whisper secrets, to assume she'll be caught if she falls.

For four years, it's been just us—Ava and me against a world that wanted to hurt her.

And now she's sitting on broad shoulders like she belongs there, like this massive xaphan warrior is her personal climbing tree instead of a man who could snap her in half without thinking about it.

The brush resumes its aggressive path around the pot's interior.

Ten days, and my daughter has claimed this place like it was always hers.

She knows which stairs creak, which doors stick, where Lira keeps the good cookies.

She greets Tovren every morning with a hug around his gruff old knees.

She trails after Merrin like a devoted shadow, helping fold linens and dust furniture with the concentrated seriousness of someone performing vitally important work.

And Rhyen...

I force myself to keep scrubbing as I watch him lift Ava down from his shoulders.

She immediately grabs his hand, tugging him toward something that's caught her attention near the stone benches.

He follows without question, his massive frame folding gracefully as she leads him to crouch beside a patch of white-blooming vines.

The ease of it makes my chest tight. The way he moves around her—careful but not fragile, protective but not controlling.

Yesterday I found him reading to her in the library, Ava curled against his side like she's been doing it her whole life while his deep voice brought fairy tale heroes to vivid life.

When she fell asleep halfway through the story, he simply held still until I came to collect her, one large hand resting gently on her dark curls.

No one has ever been gentle with the things I love.

"You're going to scrub the copper right off that pot if you keep that up."

Lira's voice makes me jump. I hadn't heard her enter the kitchen, too lost in the scene playing out beyond the window.

The half earth nymph stands beside me now, her warm brown eyes following my gaze to the garden where Rhyen is now examining something Ava has found among the vines—probably a bug or interesting rock that requires serious adult consultation.

"It needed a proper cleaning," I say, returning to my scrubbing with deliberate focus. "The grease wasn't coming off with regular washing."

"Mmm." Lira doesn't sound convinced. "That pot's been in this kitchen for longer than I have. I think it can handle whatever you're throwing at it."

She moves to the bread ovens, checking the loaves that have been rising since early morning. Even though I'm the primary cook, Lira always helps me. I suspect Rhyen was never even in need for someone else in his kitchen, but Lira insists she couldn't keep doing it all on her own.

Her movements are unhurried, comfortable in this space she's tended for years. Everything about her radiates the kind of settled contentment I remember seeing in other people's mothers—women who belonged somewhere, who had homes instead of just places to hide.

"He's good with children," Lira says quietly, her back still turned. "Always has been. When his nephew visits—sweet boy, about seven now—Rhyen drops everything to spend time with him. Teaches him to fly, lets him 'help' with estate business, plays whatever ridiculous games the child invents."

I don't respond. Can't respond. Because acknowledging it—admitting that I see how naturally Rhyen fits into the role of protector, how easily Ava has claimed him as hers—feels like stepping off a cliff I'll never be able to climb back up.

"Never seen him take to a child quite like this, though," Lira continues, pulling one of the loaves from its pan to test its doneness. "Course, little Ava's got a way about her. Could charm the scales off a dragon, that one."

The brush freezes mid-scrub. "Dragons aren't charming creatures."

"No," Lira agrees readily. "They're dangerous.

Powerful. Capable of terrible destruction.

" She sets the loaf on a cooling rack and turns to face me, flour dusting her dark hands.

"But that doesn't mean they can't be gentle with the right person.

Doesn't mean they can't choose to protect instead of destroy. "

The pot slips from my hands, clattering into the basin with enough noise to make us both wince.

I grab for it quickly, heat flooding my cheeks at my clumsiness, but Lira just smiles like my nerves are something perfectly normal instead of a sign that I'm losing the careful control I've spent four years perfecting.

"I should start preparing lunch," I mumble, lifting the pot from the soapy water. "Ava gets hungry early, and?—"

"Lenny."

Something in Lira's voice makes me look at her properly. Her expression is gentle but serious, the way she might look at a wounded animal she's trying to coax out of hiding.

"He's not going to hurt her. Or you." Her words are soft but certain.

"I've worked for Rhyen Sarenthil for eight years.

Seen him through hard times and good ones, watched him with children and warriors and nobles who tried his patience something fierce.

Never once—not once—have I seen him raise a hand to someone off the battlefield. It's just not in him."

I want to believe her. The longing for it hits me so hard I have to grip the edge of the counter to keep myself steady. I want to believe that this place is safe, that this man who reads bedtime stories and lets small hands tangle in his hair can be trusted with the most precious thing in my world.

But wanting something doesn't make it true.

"People change," I say finally. "When they're angry, or frustrated, or when someone does something they don't expect..."

"Some people do." Lira steps closer, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "But not him. And honey, I think deep down you know that. Think maybe that's what's scaring you most of all."

Before I can respond to that—before I can figure out how to deflect that uncomfortable accuracy—footsteps echo from the hallway. Heavy boots that I've learned to recognize even before their owner appears in the kitchen doorway.

Rhyen enters with Ava riding piggy-back style, her arms wrapped around his neck and her legs dangling on either side of his broad torso.

Dirt stains her pale blue dress and there are leaves caught in her dark curls, but her face glows with the particular joy that comes from having been thoroughly entertained by someone who takes her interests seriously.

"Mama!" she calls out, bouncing slightly on Rhyen's back. "We found a family of thalivern in the vines! Their wings are purple and gold and Rhyen says they only come out when the weather's warm like this!"

"That's wonderful, little star." The endearment slips out automatically, the way it always does when I see her face light up with discovery. "Did you remember to look with your eyes instead of your hands?"

"Yes! Rhyen told me they're very delicate and we should just watch them dance instead of trying to catch them." She leans forward to whisper conspiratorially. "But he said maybe tomorrow we can look for their chrysalis shells because those are safe to touch and collect."

My gaze snaps to Rhyen, who's watching this exchange with an expression I can't quite read. There's something warm in those celestial blue eyes, something that makes my pulse quicken in ways I'm not ready to examine.

"If you'd like to," he says simply. "Chrysalis shells make good additions to nature collections."

Nature collections. As if Ava will be here long enough to start collecting things, to build the kind of treasures that children accumulate when they have permanent bedrooms and shelves to display their finds on. As if this is the beginning of something instead of a temporary reprieve from running.

The casual assumption in his words makes my throat tight.

"Can I help with lunch?" Ava asks, finally wiggling down from Rhyen's shoulders to land with a soft thump on the kitchen stones. "I promise I won't spill anything important."

"Of course," I manage. "You can help me slice the bread once it's finished cooling."

"And I can show Rhyen my drawings from this morning! I made one of the thalivern and one of Greywind and one of..." She launches into an enthusiastic description of her artistic endeavors, chattering to Rhyen as if they've known each other for years instead of days.

He listens with the same focused attention he'd give a military briefing, asking questions about her color choices and technique that make her beam with pride. When she mentions that she tried to draw his wings but couldn't get the shading right, he actually crouches down to her level.

"Wing shading is tricky," he says seriously. "Even seasoned artists struggle with it. Would you like me to show you some techniques after lunch?"

"Yes! Can you pose for me? Like a real art model?"

"If you think that would help."

I turn back to the bread with more force than necessary, my hands shaking as I transfer the cooling loaves to cutting boards.

This is how it happens. This is how people get pulled into lives that aren't theirs, how children form attachments to men who will eventually leave or change or decide that the responsibility of caring for someone else's damaged family is more burden than blessing.

This is how hearts get broken—slowly, gently, with butterfly wings and art lessons and patient answers to endless questions.

Behind me, I can hear Ava describing her planned drawing in detail while Rhyen offers suggestions with the kind of seriousness that treats her four-year-old concerns as genuinely important.

Lira bustles around us, setting the table and humming under her breath, and for a moment the kitchen feels like something from the fairy tales I tell Ava at bedtime.

Warm and safe and filled with people who care about each other.

Too good to be real. Too perfect to last.

I slice the bread with mechanical precision, each cut clean and even, while my daughter's laughter mingles with the deep rumble of Rhyen's voice behind me. Ten days, and already I can feel my carefully constructed walls beginning to crumble.

What terrifies me most is how badly I want to let them fall.