Page 23 of Demon Daddy's Little Girl

The silence stretches between us as Ada works the soil. My fingers brush against a fallen rose petal, its velvet texture a stark contrast to my calloused hands.

"Rose seems well-adjusted, despite everything." The words slip out before I can stop them.

Ada's hands still for a moment. "She is. Children are resilient that way." She pulls a weed free, setting it aside with careful precision. "Her father would have adored her spirit."

I watch her face in the moonlight, catching the slight tremor in her jaw. It confirms what I thought - that her father is gone. He's not here to protect them. "What was he like?"

"Kind." She swallows hard. "He saw me - really saw me - when everyone else looked through me. He'd sneak extra foodto the kitchen staff, teach the stable boys to read." Her voice breaks. "He would have been such a good father."

The pain in her words strikes something deep in my chest. I wonder if I would have been a good father. "Do you miss him still?"

Ada sits back on her heels, brushing dirt from her hands. "I loved him. Part of me always will." Her eyes meet mine, steady and clear. "But I've healed from losing him. Rose is my world now - everything I do, every choice I make, it's for her future."

"She's lucky to have you."

"I'm the lucky one." Ada returns to her work, but her movements are gentler now. "She makes it easy to keep going, to find joy even when things are hard. She has his smile, you know? Acts a lot like him, even though she never really got to meet him. Sometimes I see so much of him in her and..." She trails off, shaking her head.

I find myself leaning closer, drawn by the raw honesty in her voice. The moonlight catches the tears she quickly wipes away, but she doesn't try to hide them. There's strength in her vulnerability, in the way she faces her pain head-on while protecting Rose from its shadow.

"Your daughter is remarkable." I offer the words like a peace offering. "She has your strength."

"And his heart." Ada's smile is soft but real. "That's what matters most."

I smile, thinking of the only child that I lost. I wonder if it would have been anything like having Rose here.

"I can't tell you how much it means to me that you are letting us stay here." Ada's fingers trace the edge of a rose petal, her movements delicate yet purposeful. "Having a safe place to rest..." She takes a shaky breath. "I can't remember the last time Rose slept through the night before coming here."

The weight of her words settles in my chest. I've seen the shadows under Rose's eyes slowly fade these past weeks, watched her shoulders relax as she explores the garden without constantly looking over her shoulder.

"Every child deserves safety." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "It's not a privilege - it's a right."

"Still, we really appreciate it." Ada turns to face me fully, moonlight catching the unshed tears in her eyes. "Four years of running, of never knowing if we'd wake up to..." She wraps her arms around herself. "Rose stopped asking for bedtime stories because she was afraid her voice would give us away."

My hands clench, claws digging into my palms. The thought of that bright child silencing herself, of Ada having to teach her daughter to hide even her joy...

"And now she's singing in the garden again." A real smile breaks across Ada's face, transforming her features. "Yesterday she asked if she could plant her own flowers. She's never..." Her voice catches. "She's never felt secure enough to put down roots before."

"This is your home for as long as you need it." The words come without thought, driven by something deeper than duty or honor. Something that has memories of my own daughter flickering in the back of my mind, making me wish I could have just held her once. "Both of you."

Ada's eyes meet mine, and for once she doesn't look away. "Thank you, Dezoth. Not just for the shelter, but for..." She gestures to the garden, to the house beyond. "For giving Rose a chance at childhood again."

The genuine gratitude in her voice stirs something protective in my chest. Here in the moonlight, with her guard lowered and her hands still covered in garden soil, she looks less like a woman on the run and more like someone finally finding her footing.

Her tears catch the moonlight like diamonds, and before I can think better of it, my thumb brushes them away. Ada freezes at my touch, but doesn't pull back. The delicate skin beneath my calloused fingers reminds me how fragile humans are, how easily they break. Yet Ada's spirit remains unbroken despite everything she's endured.

"I'm sorry." She starts to turn away, but I catch her chin with gentle pressure.

"Don't apologize for feeling." My voice comes out rougher than intended. Up close, I can see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, the way exhaustion has carved subtle lines around her mouth.

"Demons must think humans are terribly weak, crying over gardens and bedtime stories." Her attempt at lightness falls flat, betrayed by the tremor in her voice.

"Strength isn't measured by how well you hide your pain." My thumb traces the path of another tear. "Sometimes it's found in letting yourself feel it."

Ada's eyes search mine, looking past the intimidating golden glow that makes most humans flinch. "You sound like you speak from experience."

The observation hits closer to home than I care to admit. My own losses press against my chest - dreams of tiny hands and a family that never came to be. "Perhaps I do."

She doesn't press, but understanding softens her features. For a moment, we're just two souls who've known loss, finding unexpected comfort in the midnight garden.

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