Page 10 of Demon Daddy's Little Girl

"I used to sing this to you when you were tiny." Ada's voice carries a warmth I haven't heard before. "Your father loved it too."

The silence that follows weighs heavy with unspoken grief. I trace the ritual markings on my forearm, remembering how Raina used to run her fingers along the raised patterns while we planned our future. A future that shattered like glass when we lost-

"Tell me about Papa?" Rose's question pulls me from the memory.

Ada's pause stretches long enough that I think she won't answer. "He had eyes just like yours. And he loved you more than anything in this world."

"Even more than sparkly flowers?"

"Even more than sparkly flowers." Ada's laugh catches on something that might be a sob.

I press my palms flat against the desk, fighting the urge to drown myself in work until these echoes of the past fade. But the lullaby continues, Ada's voice growing softer as Rose drifts toward sleep, and I find myself unable to move until the final notes fade into silence.

5

ADA

Iwake to sunlight streaming through gauzy curtains, Rose's warm weight curled against my side. The familiar panic seizes my chest before I remember where we are - Dezoth's home. Safe, for now.

A soft knock draws my attention. "Mama, do you smell that?" Rose lifts her head, honey-blonde curls wild from sleep.

The aroma of fresh bread and something sweet drifts through the air. My stomach growls despite my wariness. I ease out of bed, checking the hallway before letting Rose follow.

In the kitchen, a spread covers the wooden table - still-warm bread, preserves, fresh fruit, and what appears to be honeyed porridge. No sign of our... host? Captor? I'm not sure what to call him anymore.

"Look!" Rose points to a folded note propped against a ceramic pitcher of milk. The handwriting is precise, almost artistic:

Duties called early. Help yourselves. -D

"Can we eat, Mama? Please?" Rose bounces on her toes, eyeing the feast.

I run my fingers over the note, frowning. This doesn't fit with what I know of demons, especially one of his rank. They don't leave breakfast for their captives. They don't write polite notes or provide fresh milk.

"Mama's thinking too hard again." Rose tugs my sleeve, breaking through my spiraling thoughts.

"Just being careful, little flower." I lift her onto a chair, but my mind keeps circling back to the gesture. Is this meant to lower our guard? Make us complacent? Or...

"The bread has seeds in it! And it's still warm with magic." Rose tears into a slice, honey dripping down her chin.

I touch the loaf - she's right. It's still at that perfect just-baked temperature - which must be from a preservation spell. Another thoughtful detail I wasn't expecting.

"You should eat too." Rose pushes the bread basket toward me. "He made it pretty, see? Like a flower."

The loaves are indeed arranged in a spiral pattern, with the smaller rolls forming petals around the larger centerpiece. It's... artistic. Deliberate. Not the actions of someone viewing us as mere prisoners.

I sink into a chair, my certainty about our situation crumbling like the warm bread in my hands.

After breakfast, I clean our dishes - a habit ingrained from years of service. Rose skips ahead of me through the halls, investigating every corner of our temporary sanctuary.

"Look at all the books, Mama!" She presses her face against a glass-fronted cabinet in what appears to be Dezoth's study. Row upon row of leather-bound volumes line the shelves, each spine pristine, perfectly aligned.

A single high-backed chair sits behind the massive oak desk. The surface gleams, not a paper out of place. No half-finished projects or personal items, just a neat stack of reports and a perfectly arranged set of writing implements.

"Can we read them?" Rose's fingers leave smudges on the glass.

"Those aren't for us, little flower." I guide her away, not sure how he'd react to finding us in there.

We move through more rooms, each telling the same story. The parlor holds formal furniture arranged with military precision, but no comfortable reading nook or lived-in spaces. No paintings grace the walls, no keepsakes displayed on mantels.

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