Page 21 of Demon Daddy's Little Girl

"Mama's a good teacher." Rose picks up the R card, holding it up. "This one's my favorite because it starts my name."

I watch them interact, struck by how gentle the demon Captain becomes around her. His golden eyes catch mine for a moment, and I quickly look away, focusing on gathering the remaining cards. My fingers tremble slightly, old fears warring with the reality before me.

"Perhaps tomorrow we can practice writing them," Dezoth suggests, his attention back on Rose.

"Can we use the sparkly ink?" Rose clasps her hands together hopefully.

A hint of amusement crosses his face. "I suppose we could manage that."

I gather up the remaining alphabet cards, trying to steady my hands. Even after weeks in Dezoth's home, my instincts still scream danger whenever he's near. But Rose gravitates to him like a flower to sunlight.

"Show me the sparkly ink, please?" Rose tugs at Dezoth's sleeve, completely unfazed by his towering height. "The silver one you use for your special letters?"

"That ink is for official documents." His stern tone softens at her crestfallen expression. "But I may have some blue ink with shimmer powder that would suit your lessons better."

"Blue is pretty too!" She twirls, her worn dress spinning out. "Can we practice now?"

I clear my throat. "Rose, Captain Dezoth has work to do. We shouldn't disturb him."

"I have time." Dezoth straightens, his golden eyes meeting mine. "Unless you object?"

The question hangs between us. I bite my lip, wrestling with the familiar tangle of fear and gratitude. He's given us sanctuary, kept us hidden from those who hunt us. Yet every time he looks at me with those predator's eyes, I remember another demon who once seemed kind.

Rose's hopeful face decides me. "As long as you're certain we're not imposing."

"Yay!" Rose darts into his study, already climbing onto the chair at his desk.

"She needs to learn demon script eventually." Dezoth's voice drops lower, meant only for my ears. "Better in safety than necessity."

The truth of his words stings. I nod stiffly and follow them into the study, where Rose already has her hands wrapped around an ornate quill nearly as long as her forearm. Dezoth adjusts her grip with surprising patience, his large hands gentle as they guide her smaller ones.

"Like this," he demonstrates, helping her dip the quill. "Careful not to press too hard."

Rose's tongue pokes out in concentration as she makes her first wobbly letter. "Look Mama, it's sparkly!"

I lean against the doorframe, watching my daughter leave glittering trails across the parchment. Her joy is infectious, evenas my heart aches with memories of another demon teaching me to write, before everything went wrong.

After lunch, Rose settles in for her nap, and I find myself wandering the halls of Dezoth's home. A glass door catches my attention, sunlight filtering through its clean panes. The handle turns easily under my touch.

The garden sprawls before me, wild and untamed. It's the only thing in the home that doesn't seem to be well taken care of.

Climbing vines twist up trellises, their flowers closed tight against neglect. Weeds choke out what might have once been neat beds of herbs and flowers. But underneath the chaos, I spot the careful planning that went into its creation – raised beds arranged in a spiral pattern, stone pathways now half-hidden by overgrowth.

Before I realize what I'm doing, I'm on my knees in the soil. My fingers work through familiar motions, distinguishing plants from unwanted growth. Unlike the one I'm used to working in, there are no herbs here. These were once someone's passion.

"You don't need to do that." Dezoth's voice startles me.

I whirl around, dirt streaking my skirts. He fills the doorway, expression unreadable.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have presumed–" My hands twist in my lap.

"That's not what I meant." He steps into the garden, boots crunching on the gravel path. "This place hasn't seen proper care since..." He trails off, jaw tightening. "It was…someone else's project. A long time ago."

Longing hangs heavy in the air as he says it, and I'm not sure how to interpret that - or the way it makes my heart sink a little. I return to pulling weeds, giving my hands something to do. "Gardens need tending. Like people, they thrive on care."

"Well, these aren't herbs." He moves closer, examining the plants I've uncovered.

"I like flowers all the same." I separate the useful plants from the weeds. "Sometimes it's nice to just see beauty thriving."

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