Page 4 of Demon Daddy's Baby Girl

The guards pass, laughing about something crude. None of them glance my way. I count to ten before stepping back into the street.

The rest of the journey passes in tense silence. When I finally reach my home—a modest stone building backed against the outer wall of the city—I shift her weight to unlock the door, slipping inside the darkened interior with practiced stealth.

"Welcome home," I tell her as I kick the door shut behind us, knowing she can't hear me. "It's not much, but it's safe."

Something about this feels inevitable, like the universe correcting an old wrong. I gently lay her on my bed, her small form nearly swallowed by the large frame built for my demon height.

I lay her gently on the guest bed I have, her small form nearly disappearing against the dark sheets. She seems impossibly fragile beneath my hands, like something made of hollow bones and desperate hope. The fever still radiates from her skin as I carefully adjust a pillow beneath her head.

A damp curl clings to her temple. I brush it away with a hesitant fingertip, surprised at the softness of her hair despite its matted condition. Her lips are cracked and dry, skin pulled tight across her cheekbones. Even in sleep, pain etches lines around her eyes.

"You're safe now," I murmur, though I doubt she hears me.

I straighten, glancing around my sparse bedroom. The space wasn't designed for comfort—just function. A bed built for a demon's frame, a trunk for clothes, a weapons rack, and a small table bearing a single lamp. Nothing that would help a human woman in labor.

"Water," I mutter to myself. "She needs water."

In the kitchen, I fill a clay pitcher and grab a cup. My hands feel clumsy suddenly, too big for such delicate work. I've dragged wounded men twice my size from battlefields, but this—this feels more precarious somehow.

When I return, she hasn't moved. I place the water on the bedside table, within reach if she wakes. Her eyelids flutter as though chasing dreams, but remain closed.

I stand there, uncertain what to do next. The logical part of my mind catalogs her condition with clinical precision: dehydration, fever, early stages of labor, exhaustion, malnutrition. Each problem has a solution. Each solution requires help I don't have.

My gaze drops to the slave brand on her upper arm. Some house noble's mark—one I don't immediately recognize. Whoever owned her would want her back. The child too, especially if it carries demon blood.

"No one's taking you," I growl, surprising myself with the ferocity in my voice.

A strange tightness pulls at my chest as I watch her shallow breathing. She's so small beneath the layers of filth and exhaustion. Pregnant and alone in a city that would sell her for coin without a second thought.

I pace to the window, pulling the heavy curtains closed. Then to the door, checking that it's locked. Back to the bedside, adjusting the blanket I've draped over her. My movements feel purposeless but I can't seem to stop.

"What am I doing?" I mutter, running a hand through my hair.

Harboring a runaway slave. Bringing her into my home. Risking everything I've built in the guard. For what? A stranger who reminds me of a sister long dead? A chance to ease an old guilt?

The woman moans softly in her sleep, one hand drifting to her swollen belly. The gesture is protective, instinctive. Even unconscious, she shields her child.

"You're braver than you look," I tell her.

I need to clean her wounds. Check how far along the labor is. Find something to bring down the fever. But the thought of touching her while she's unconscious feels wrong somehow.

I back away, leaving the bedroom door cracked open. In the narrow hallway, I resume my pacing, counting the steps between the bedroom and the front door. Twelve exactly. Close enough to hear if she calls out. Far enough to give her space if she wakes frightened.

My silver eyes adjust easily to the dim light as dusk deepens outside. I listen intently for any change in her breathing, any sign of distress. My body refuses to relax, muscles tense as though preparing for battle.

"She needs a healer," I mutter, knowing it's true and impossible. A healer would report her immediately.

I slide down the wall, sitting on the floor with my back against rough stone, legs stretched out across the hallway. From here, I can see a sliver of the bed through the cracked door. Just enough to make out the rise and fall of the blanket as she breathes.

I don't know why I'm so drawn to protect her—but I am. The certainty settles into my bones like an old, familiar weight. Something about her pulls at instincts I'd thought long buried. And I'm not walking away.

So I better call for help and hope it doesn't go wrong.

3

AURELIE

Pain wakes me like a slap—cramping low in my abdomen, a shuddering throb that pulls a groan from my lips. It's not the dull ache I've grown accustomed to over these past months, but something sharper, more insistent. Something with purpose.

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