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

8

RIDWAN

I slam my fist into the training dummy, the impact echoing through the empty hall. My wings twitch with irritation. Every time I try to focus, her face appears in my mind - Eva, standing in the doorway last night, her amber eyes following my movements.

The memory burns. I'd been working through combat forms, letting the familiar motions drain the tension from my shoulders when her scent hit me. Sweet, like the pastries she bakes, mixed with something uniquely her .

I throw another punch, harder this time. The dummy rocks on its base.

She'd leaned against the stone archway, arms crossed. Not intimidated by my size or status like everyone else. Just... watching. And I didn’t know what to make of it. Not when I caught her staring, not when I found myself wondering why she was at all.

If she was feeling the same things I do sometimes. The same emotions I try to bury and ignore, that I shouldn’t be having when it comes to her.

I grunt and slam my wing into the dummy, knocking it sideways. The memory won't fade. Not of how she looked in the moonlight, stunning with her guard lowered a little.

My fist connects with the dummy again. The leather splits under my knuckles. Blood trickles down my fingers, but I barely notice the sting.

" You're a good father, Ridwan ," she'd whispered. " Or at least... you could be. "

I’d asked her to go then, leaving me with thoughts I couldn't silence and feelings I refused to name. Now here I am, still thinking about a human who dared speak to me as an equal. Who looked past my walls and saw... too much.

I flex my bloodied hand. The physical pain is easier to deal with than her words that keep echoing in my head.

I clean the blood from my knuckles and change into fresh clothes. My wings ache from the early morning workout, but the pain grounds me. Keeps my mind from wandering to places it shouldn't.

The dining hall stretches before me, morning light streaming through tall windows. My footsteps echo against the floor as I approach the private table where Annalise and Eva take their meals.

Eva's fork freezes halfway to her mouth. Her amber eyes widen for a fraction of a second before she recovers, returning to her plate with careful precision. But I catch the slight tremor in her hands, the way her throat moves as she swallows.

Annalise's reaction is less subtle. "Father?" Her silver eyes narrow, suspicion written across features so like her mother's it makes my chest ache. "What are you doing here?"

I pull out the chair across from them. The scrape of wood against stone fills the silence. "I wasn't aware I needed permission to eat breakfast in my own home."

Eva's gaze flicks between us, tension radiating from her slim frame. She pushes a plate of sweet rolls toward me - the ones I’m certain she baked this morning, their scent still warm and inviting.

"You've never eaten with us before." Annalise's wings rustle, betraying her agitation. "Why start now?"

The challenge in her voice should irritate me. Even though it’s true. I just started sharing dinner with her but not the other meals.

Instead, I find myself studying the way she holds herself - rigid, defensive. Ready for rejection. When did my daughter start looking at me like an enemy?

Eva clears her throat softly. She doesn't speak, doesn't need to. Her expression says enough: Fix this .

I reach for one of her rolls, letting the familiar scent of cinnamon and honey fill my lungs. "Perhaps I should have started sooner."

The tension bleeds from Annalise's shoulders as she picks apart her sweet roll. Her wings relax, no longer pulled tight against her back. When she laughs at something Eva whispers, the sound hits me like a physical blow. When was the last time I heard her laugh?

Eva's fingertips brush Annalise's arm, a casual gesture of affection I've never managed. The morning light catches in her chestnut hair, creating patterns that draw my attention despite my attempts to focus on my breakfast. She tucks a loose strand behind her ear, the movement graceful, unconscious.

My daughter's happiness should be enough to hold my focus, but my gaze keeps drifting to Eva's hands as she gestures, describing some mishap in the kitchen. Strong hands, marked with small burns and calluses from her work. When she smiles - really smiles, not the polite mask she usually wears - it transforms her entire face. Her amber eyes catch the light, warm and bright as sunrise.

I force my attention back to my plate. These observations are... inappropriate. Dangerous. But then Eva laughs at something Annalise says, and the sound slides down my spine like honey.

"Father?" Annalise's voice pulls me from thoughts I shouldn't be having. "Eva's teaching me to bake later. Would you..." She hesitates, silver eyes uncertain. "Would you like to join us?"

Eva's breath catches. She tries to hide it by taking a sip of tea, but I catch the slight tremor in her hands, the way her pulse jumps at her throat.

"I have meetings," I say, the words automatic. But then I see Annalise's face fall, see the knowing look in Eva's eyes - hiding , she'd called it - and something in my chest twists. "But perhaps I could stop by. Briefly."

The smile that breaks across Annalise's face is like watching the sun rise. Eva's lips curve up, subtle but genuine, and I find myself studying the way dimples appear at the corners of her mouth.

After we finish, the remnants of breakfast clutter the table - crumbs scattered across fine china, half-empty teacups growing cold. Annalise gathers her books, her wings brushing against the chair as she stands.

Eva rises with fluid grace, stacking plates with practiced efficiency. Her movements are precise, economical. No wasted motion. She steps around the table, balancing the dishes. I know she often helps with the kitchen, and I’m not sure if I should stop her.

The space between us narrows. Her shoulder brushes mine as she reaches past, collecting my empty plate. Heat blazes where our bodies connect, brief but searing. Her scent engulfs me - honey and spice and something that makes me want to pull her close so I can smell her again.

My fingers curl into fists, nails biting into my palms. The pain helps ground me, but her warmth lingers like a brand against my skin. Even after she moves away, I feel the phantom touch of her body against mine.

The rational part of my mind knows it was accidental. But my body reacts like I'm some untried youth, heart thundering against my ribs. Wings twitching with the urge to spread wide, to...

I force the thought down. Lock it away with all the other dangerous impulses she stirs in me. She's human. My employee. The woman who helps care for my daughter. Nothing more.

But her warmth refuses to fade. It seeps through my clothes, under my skin, settling in my bones like molten gold. My nails dig deeper, drawing blood. The metallic scent mingles with the lingering traces of her perfume.

Eva pauses at the doorway, glancing back. Sunlight catches in her chestnut hair, turning the strands to liquid copper. Her amber eyes meet mine for a heartbeat before she turns away.

I remain frozen, muscles locked against the urge to follow. To grab her wrist and pull her close. To?—

No. I am the son of a general. Leader of the guard of New Solas. I will not be undone by a simple brush of shoulders, a lingering scent, a backward glance.

But her warmth remains, a silent accusation against my skin.

It lingers even when I return to my study. I stare at my hands, spread wide across the mahogany desk. The small cuts from this morning's training have already healed, leaving no trace of weakness. But something else lingers - the phantom warmth where Eva's shoulder brushed mine, a sensation that refuses to fade even hours later.

Reports scatter across the surface, documents requiring my attention. Trade agreements. Security briefings. A letter from the Council demanding updates on border patrols. The words blur together, meaningless shapes that can't compete with the memory of her scent.

I try to shake it off, but it doesn’t work. Not when I can still feel the curve of her shoulder, the softness of her skin through the thin fabric of her dress. Such a small thing. Insignificant. Yet it burns like a brand, spreading heat through my veins until my wings twitch with restless energy.

I push back from the desk, pacing the length of my study. Shadows dance across book-lined walls as I pass, cast by enchanted flames that never dim. The familiar space feels too small, too confining. My wings ache to spread wide, to take flight and escape these walls. These thoughts.

But I can't outrun the ghost of her touch. The way her breath caught when our bodies connected. The slight tremor in her hands as she gathered the dishes, betraying that she felt it too.

I flex my fingers, remembering how they itched to grab her wrist. To pull her close instead of letting her step away. The urge had been primal, instinctive—everything I've spent years learning to control.

A growl builds in my chest. I slam my fist against the wall, stone cracking under the impact. Pain shoots through my knuckles, but it's not enough to drown out the memory of her warmth. The way her pulse jumped at her throat. The knowing look in those amber eyes when she glanced back.

My hands remember too much. The curve of her shoulder. The heat of her skin. The way she moved with such fluid grace, like she belonged in my space. Like she had every right to leave her mark on my flesh, even through layers of clothing.

I drop into my chair, wings spreading wide with agitation. The stack of reports mocks me, demanding attention I can't give. Not when my hands still burn with the echo of her touch.