Page 32 of Monster's Secret Baby

A dark figure steps between us, moving with impossible grace through the chaos. Broad shoulders block my view for a moment, and then I hear it—a voice I've spent five years trying to forget, deep and melodic, as he murmurs something, kneeling in front of Brooke. I feel the shift of his magic, magic that's touched me so tenderly on cold nights, and I know he's counteracting hers.

The rattling stops. The air settles. The light fades from Brooke's eyes, leaving her small and suddenly exhausted.

And the figure straightens, gathering my daughter into his arms with stunning ease, massive gray wings folding slightly to cradle her against his chest. Wings I once traced with wandering fingertips in the dark.

"There now, little bird," Adellum says, his silver eyes—the exact match to our daughter's—scanning Brooke's face with naked wonder. "That's quite a storm you've got inside you."

The world tilts beneath my feet. Adellum. Here. Holding our daughter.

"You're tired yourself out," he continues, his voice softer than I remember, one large hand gently smoothing Brooke's wild curls. "Magic that strong takes practice to control."

Brooke blinks up at him, confusion mingling with curiosity instead of fear. "You made it stop hurting."

"I did." His smile is small but genuine, the one I used to coax from him in private moments, not the dazzling mask he wore for his admirers. "It's a trick I learned when I was not much older than you."

My heart hammers so loudly I'm sure everyone in the silent restaurant can hear it. Five years of running. Five years of building walls around our life. And now he's here, my nightmare and the father of my child, looking at Brooke like she's the answer to every question he's ever asked.

I can't move. My muscles lock in place, frozen as I stare at the impossible tableau before me—Adellum cradling my daughter like she's the most precious thing in the world, and Brooke's tiny hand resting trustingly against his chest. The chest I once pressed my ear to, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.

I wonder if she can feel the connection they must share, the magic calling to each other.

But this isn't the Adellum I knew. This isn't the man who whispered poetry into my hair and laughed when I stole his paintbrushes.

He's changed. There's a hardness to him now, a dangerous edge that prickles against my skin like static. The softness around his mouth is gone, replaced by a tense line that speaks of years spent clenching his jaw. His cheekbones stand out sharper than before, as if time has carved away everything unnecessary.

Yet he cradles Brooke with a terrifying tenderness, his massive hands—capable of crushing stone—adjusting to support her small body with practiced ease. Those hands brush a curl from her forehead with the delicacy of a man handling spun glass.

"Your magic is very beautiful," he tells her, voice pitched low and gentle. "But it needs direction, like water needs a riverbank."

Brooke studies him with that serious gaze she gets when encountering something new and fascinating. "Are you like me? Can you make things fly?"

His laugh is a shadow of its former self. "I'm exactly like you, little bird. And I can teach you to make far more than things fly."

It's the possessive note in his voice that finally unfreezes me. The way he says "little bird"—the nickname he always called me—sends a chill down my spine.

When his eyes lift to meet mine, I see it: he's here for us. He's not asking. He's not begging. He's claiming.

And for the first time in years, I feel true, bone-deep fear.

I thought I outran him but it seems that Adellum's true nature is now on display. A cruel xaphan taking whatever he wants.

"Put my daughter down," I manage, voice steadier than my trembling hands. "Now."

The restaurant has emptied, patrons slipping out during the confusion. Even Marda stands frozen by the kitchen door, sensing something dangerous unfolding. Only Ansel remains in the corner, his healer's instincts keeping him present in case of trouble.

Adellum's wings adjust, the massive gray appendages arching slightly as he sets Brooke down with reluctance. But he keeps one hand on her shoulder, a casual gesture that might as well be a brand of ownership.

"Daughter," he repeats, the word reverent and accusing simultaneously. His silver eyes, once warm when they looked at me, now burn with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. "I don't remember you having a daughter, Harmony."

The room seems to shrink around us. I move forward, forcing myself to walk steadily across the floor despite my leaden limbs.

"Brooke, come here." I extend my hand, willing it not to shake.

Brooke hesitates, looking between us with uncomfortable perception. "He stopped the hurting, Mama. He knows how to make the magic behave."

"I know, sweetheart. Come here anyway."

Adellum's fingers tighten fractionally on Brooke's shoulder before he forces himself to release her. I wonder if he knows she is his or if he's assumed the worst of me. I'd rather the latter.

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