Page 47 of The Monster's Daughter

Bella chokes on her coffee, coughing into her mug. My frills flick upward.Mommy.

She glares at me like I’m about to say something. So I don’t.

The game stretches on. I let Natalie climb onto my back, ride my shoulders, command me to stomp like a shipwrecked beast. She stabs me in the ribs, and I pretend to die with every jab.

“You’re too good at this,” Bella mutters, shaking her head.

I shrug, scooping Natalie into the air again. “I’ve been called worse.”

Natalie’s laughter fills the room, sharp and bright. Every squeal knots something tight in my chest.

Later, when she disappears into her room to fetch “treasure maps,” I sit back against the couch, removing the crooked tiara.

“She yours?” I ask, voice low.

Bella doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Mine.”

The words are too fast, too sharp.

I drum claws against my knee. “The father?”

Her jaw tightens. She doesn’t meet my eyes. “Not in the picture.”

Truth. But not all of it.

My frills twitch, instinct screaming at me to demand answers. To drag the rest of it out of her. But the brittle look in her eyes… no. Not now.

Instead, I grunt. Adjust the tiara one last time. “Pity. He missed the coronation.”

She actually laughs. Short. Broken. But real.

That night, Natalie refuses to sleep until I read her book.

She shoves it into my claws—a flimsy thing about stars and wishes.

“You have to do the voices,” she demands, crawling into my lap like I’ve always been here.

My throat rumbles. “Voices?”

“Yeah! The star has a squeaky voice.”

I attempt it, growling falsetto. Natalie cackles so hard she nearly falls off the couch.

Bella leans in the doorway, arms crossed, smiling despite herself.

By the time I finish, Natalie is curled against me, her little hand resting on my arm. Her breaths deepen, soft and steady.

I murmur, “The stars are real. And they’re watching.”

She mumbles something in her sleep. My chest aches.

Bella moves closer, sits on the other side of the couch. Our shoulders almost touch.

“You’ve done well,” I whisper, staring at the sleeping child.

Her smile is small, tired. “I tried.”

She doesn’t saywe.But the word hangs between us anyway.