Page 5 of Demon Daddy's Little Girl

"Want?" I bark out a laugh. "I want to sleep at night knowing I didn't turn away a child in need. I want to honor the oath I took to protect this city's inhabitants." I pause, letting my next words carry the weight of truth. "I want to help, if you'll let me."

3

ADA

This is not at all what I expected from a demon Captain. No gilded frames or ostentatious displays of wealth line these walls - just simple wooden panels and practical furnishings. The main room spreads before us, dominated by a stone hearth with well-worn armchairs flanking it. Bookshelves stretch from floor to ceiling, their contents neat but clearly read often.

I still haven't answered Dezoth and now he is staring at me, studying me. I don't know what to make of him.

Rose darts ahead of me, her curls bouncing as she investigates every corner. "Mama, look at all the books! And there's a cat pillow!"

"Be careful, Rose." My fingers twist in my skirt as I watch her explore. The lack of servants sets me on edge - in my experience, demon nobles never lift a finger for themselves.

Dezoth's heavy footsteps echo behind me as he moves toward what must be the kitchen. "The house is warded. She can't hurt herself here."

I trail after Rose, noting the absence of artwork save for a few landscape paintings. Everything speaks of functionality overfashion - even the sturdy oak table bears signs of use rather than decoration.

"Would you like water?" Dezoth emerges with a pitcher and cups balanced in one hand, a loaf of bread in the other. "I apologize for the simple fare. I rarely keep much on hand."

Rose scrambles onto one of the chairs, her legs swinging. "Is that honey bread? It smells like honey bread!"

A ghost of a smile crosses his face as he sets down our provisions. "It is. My sister brings it when she visits."

The water is cool and clean - a luxury after days of stream water. I watch as he cuts thick slices of bread, his movements precise despite his large hands. No rings adorn his fingers, no jewels glint at his throat. Everything about him defies what I know of demon nobility.

"Thank you." The words feel strange on my tongue - gratitude toward a demon.

Rose has already claimed her slice, honey crumbs dotting her chin. "This is the best bread ever! Even better than the bread at-"

"Rose." My sharp tone stops her before she can reveal too much about our past. She ducks her head, but continues eating with undiminished enthusiasm.

Dezoth's golden eyes flick between us, but he says nothing about my interruption. Instead, he pushes the bread closer to me. "Eat. You look ready to fall over."

I'm tentative, but I can't turn it away. So, I nibble on the bread and he cocks his head as he watches me.

"What if we make an arrangement?"

I swallow hard, and the bread settles in my stomach as Dezoth leans against the counter, arms crossed. His presence fills the kitchen despite his casual stance. "What do you mean?"

"I live alone by choice," he says. "No staff means privacy, which you clearly need. The house requires upkeep - cleaning,cooking, tending the herb garden out back. I'll offer you a safe place to stay in exchange for your services around the house."

My fingers tighten around the cup. "And what else would you expect from this arrangement?"

His jaw clenches. "I'm not offering charity, but I'm not a monster either. You'd have your own quarters with Rose. Lock the door if it makes you feel safer. I'm rarely home during daylight hours due to my duties."

Rose pipes up between bites, "We can stay here? With the books and the batlaz pillow?"

"If your mother agrees." His tone softens when addressing her, though his posture remains rigid. Then his eyes go back to me. "It's not a trick."

I study his face for any sign of deception. His golden eyes meet mine steadily, no trace of the predatory gleam I've come to expect from demons. The house speaks of solitude rather than luxury, and his position would indeed deflect questions.

"Why?" The word slips out before I can stop it. "Why offer this?"

Dezoth's gaze shifts to Rose, who has abandoned her bread to examine the bookshelves again. "Because some choices leave scars that never heal. Because sometimes honor demands more than following orders." His voice drops lower. "And because no child should pay for their parents' choices."

The weight of unspoken understanding passes between us. He knows - or suspects - Rose's heritage. Yet instead of threat, his words carry something that feels dangerously like compassion.

"The garden," I say carefully. "Would I have freedom to plant what I choose?"

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