Page 5 of Demon Daddy's Baby Girl

"No," I whisper to the empty room, my voice hoarse and unfamiliar. "Please, not yet."

I try to sit up, but my body protests, weak and trembling. My limbs feel disconnected, floating away from me like driftwood on a current. A film of sweat coats my skin, and heat radiates from within despite the cool air. My head pounds in rhythm with my racing heart.

The room is dim, too quiet. No guards. No chains. No harsh voice commanding me to silence.

Panic sets in as I scan my surroundings. This isn't a cell. It's not the street where I've been sleeping these past weeks, curled around my swollen belly beneath shop awnings. The bed is warm beneath me, and the sheets are clean—actual sheets, not filthy rags or damp cobblestones.

"Where am I?" My words dissolve into the silence.

I squint through the gloom. A small window lets in just enough moonlight to outline simple furnishings: a wooden chair, a table, the bed I'm lying in. My hands clutch at the blanket covering me, fingers tracing the unfamiliar softness.

Freedom or another cage? My body doesn't care either way. It clenches again—another contraction that steals my breath and bends me forward. When it passes, I notice a pitcher on the bedside table.

Water. My cracked lips part at the sight. How long has it been since I had clean water? Days? The thought alone makes my throat constrict with need.

I reach for it, my joints aching with the effort, and pour shakily into a waiting cup. The water splashes over my trembling hands, cool and precious. I bring the cup to my mouth and drink greedily, dribbling some down my chin in my haste. It tastes sweeter than any amerinth I've ever stolen sips of, more satisfying than anything I can remember.

"Slow," I caution myself between gulps. "You'll be sick."

But my body refuses wisdom. I drink until the cup is empty, then pour again with steadier hands. The water hits my empty stomach like a stone dropping into a well. For a moment, I fear it will come back up, but the nausea passes, leaving behind blessed relief.

My body clenches again—another contraction, stronger than the last. I cry out, unable to hold back the sound as pain radiates through me. The cup falls from my hand, rolling across the floor.

"No. Not now. Not alone."

Fear grips me tighter than the pain. I've been preparing for this moment for months, whispering to my unborn child each night, promising protection I wasn't sure I could provide. Now the moment has arrived, and I am utterly unprepared.

"I can't do this," I whisper, as if my child might somehow hear and decide to wait. "I don't know how."

My hand rests protectively on my belly, feeling the tightness beneath my skin. The movement inside has changed—no longer the playful nudges and rolls, but something more determined. My child is coming, ready or not.

I push damp hair from my face, feeling the heat of fever on my skin. My thoughts swim, disconnected and hazy. How did I get here? Who brought me to this place? The last I remember is stumbling through the streets, the pain in my back spreading slowly around to my front, my vision blurring as I searched for somewhere, anywhere to hide.

Another contraction grips me, this one stealing even my ability to breathe. I curl forward, clutching at my abdomen, riding the wave until it recedes enough for me to gasp for air.

The tears come then, hot and unwelcome. I've survived Kaelith's cruelty. I've survived weeks on the streets of a city that cares nothing for a pregnant runaway. But this—bringing my child into the world alone, weak and feverish—this might be the thing that breaks me.

"I'm sorry," I whisper to my unborn child. "I tried to give you better than this."

My child can't be born here. I don't even know where "here" is.

I drag my feet over the edge of the bed, toes barely grazing the cool floorboards. My entire body protests, muscles trembling as I push myself to stand. My clothes cling to my sweat-soaked skin as I take one tentative step, then another.

"Just... need to... find out," I whisper, steadying myself against the wall.

A sliver of light catches my attention—a door, slightly ajar. The possibility of answers, or escape, pulls me forward. Each step is a negotiation between determination and pain. I keep one hand pressed against my belly, the other trailing along the wall for support.

The floorboard creaks beneath my weight just as I reach the door. My fingers brush the wooden frame, and suddenly the door swings open.

I stumble back, a gasp catching in my throat.

A demon fills the doorway, massive and imposing. Silver eyes flash in the dim light, catching mine like twin moons. My heart stutters, every instinct screaming danger.

He doesn't move. Doesn't lunge or leer or grab. He simply stands there, his expression shifting from surprise to something unreadable.

"You're awake," he says, his voice a low rumble that reminds me of distant thunder.

I take another step back, my hand pressing protective circles against my belly. Fourteen years under Kaelith's ownership taught me what demons want. What they take.

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