Page 31 of Monster's Secret Baby

The girl is Harmony's daughter. That makes her mine in all the ways that matter. They both are. They have always been, from the moment I first saw Harmony in Arkan's garden, from the moment this child drew breath.

I will not lose them again.

Sliding deeper into the shadows, I watch as Harmony leads her daughter inside, both of them carrying small baskets of vegetables. The restaurant door closes behind them, and I wait, wings pressed painfully against my back, the hunger to follow them so strong it makes my body shake.

Soon. But not yet. First, I need to understand this life she's built. Find its weaknesses. Find my way in.

15

HARMONY

Iwipe my forehead with the back of my wrist, careful not to smear flour across my face despite the heat making my skin slick with sweat. The kitchen windows are thrown open, but the summer afternoon hangs heavy and motionless, refusing to stir even a hint of breeze through the restaurant.

"Marda, I swear the gods are trying to cook us alive today." I punch down the bread dough with more force than necessary. "If this weather doesn't break soon, I'll have to start serving the food raw."

Marda's laugh rolls through the kitchen like distant thunder. "Been five summers in Saufort, and you still complain like a newcomer." She hefts a pot of stew onto the counter with arms that never seem to tire. "Heat like this means good business. Everyone too lazy to cook at home."

I smile despite myself. Five years. Five years of safety, of building something resembling a life, of watching Brooke grow from a squalling infant into the fierce little storm of a girl playing in the garden behind the restaurant.

Through the back door, I can see her crouched beside Joss, their heads bent together over a lump of clay. Her pale blond curls catch the sunlight, so much like her father's that sometimes it feels like a knife between my ribs. But today, I push the thought away.

"Mama! Look what Joss showed me!" Brooke bursts through the door, proudly displaying a misshapen clay bowl with uneven edges. Her silver eyes shine, another inheritance I try not to dwell on. "It's for your herbs!"

"It's beautiful, little love." I kneel to her level, genuinely impressed by the care in her small fingerprints pressed into the wet clay. "We'll put it on the windowsill when it's fired."

Her smile could light the darkest corner of Saufort. Four years old and already so determined to make her mark on the world.

"Harmony, table six needs another round of blackberry tea." Marda hands me a tray. "And Tam's gone and upset Eira again. Something about her dreelk being too bitter for his pies."

I roll my eyes. "Those two need to either fight it out or kiss already."

"I heard that!" Tam calls from the dining room, but there's a smile in his voice.

The afternoon drifts by in the rhythm I've come to love—the clink of plates, the hum of conversation, Brooke's laughter as she moves between tables, charming coins from regular customers with her stories. My little entrepreneur.

It happens when I'm balancing three plates of roasted zarryn and dreelk stew. A crash from the corner, followed by Brooke's voice, higher and tighter than usual.

"It's MINE! I made it!"

I turn to see her face flushed crimson, tiny fists clenched at her sides, facing off against Tam's grandson who holds the clay bowl above his head, just out of her reach.

"Brooke," I call sharply, setting down the dishes. "We don't yell inside."

But something's different. The air around her seems to vibrate, a static charge raising the fine hairs on my arms. I've seen this before—rare moments when emotion surges through her too powerfully to contain. Magic. Her father's magic.

"Give it BACK!" she screams.

The clay bowl flies from the boy's hand—not falling, but shooting across the room as if thrown. Glass shatters. A woman shrieks. And suddenly every plate on every table begins to rattle.

"Brooke!" My voice is swallowed by the chaos as cups slide off tables, herbs wilt in their pots along the windowsill, their leaves curling and blackening before my eyes. A chair topples backward. Someone screams.

I push through the suddenly panicked crowd, heart hammering against my ribs. This is what I've feared since the first golden spark danced from her infant fingers—exposure, discovery, the village turning on us when they realize what she is. What lives in her blood.

"Everyone stay calm!" I shout, but Brooke's magic feeds on the panic, growing stronger. The windows rattle in their frames. A clay pitcher explodes, sending shards and water flying.

I reach for her, but the air around her feels wrong—thick and charged with energy I don't understand and can't control. Her eyes have gone luminous, silver light bleeding from them.

"Brooke, sweetheart, you need to breathe." My voice shakes. "Look at mama, focus on?—"

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