Page 58 of Monster's Secret Baby

In the kitchen, I start the morning fire with practiced movements, setting water to boil for tea. The kitchen window looks out over my garden—not the careful box of herbs I once maintained above Marda's restaurant but a sprawling, vibrant thing that feeds not just us, but half the village when I'm feeling generous.

"Little bird."

I turn to find Adellum leaning against the doorframe, sleep-rumpled and magnificent. His wings are tucked loosely against his back, and in the early light, his silver eyes seem to catch fire. He's wearing only loose sleep pants, and the sight of him—the casual intimacy of this moment—still makes my heart skip.

"Did I wake you?" I move to the counter where I've laid out mugs and the jar of meadowmint tea.

"No." He crosses to me, sliding his arms around my waist from behind, burying his face in my neck. "Your absence did."

I lean back against him, savoring his warmth. His hands slide to my hips, thumbs tracing small circles against my nightgown. "And you call me dramatic," I murmur.

"Because you are." He kisses my neck, his breath warm against my skin.

"Mama? Papa?" Brooke stands in the doorway, rubbing her eyes with tiny fists. Her hair is a riot of curls, her nightgown twisted sideways. The sight of her turns my heart inside out with love.

We told Brooke, too, that Adellum was her father. She took it in a stride, already attached to him. He wove a great story about going around the continent, becoming the best father he could be before coming here to shower her with love. It was enough to quell her questions.

"Good morning, my sunshine." I open my arms and she runs into them, letting me scoop her up. She plants a kiss on my cheek, then turns to Adellum, reaching for him with a sleep-warm hand.

He takes her from me, tossing her high enough to make her giggle before settling her on his hip. "And how's my little sorceress today?"

"I dreamed of thaliverns! Purple ones!" She pats his cheeks with both hands. "Can we go to the big field? You said we could practice making sparks today."

"After breakfast." His tone brooks no argument, but his smile is indulgent. "Your mother needs to get to Marda's, and I have a commission to finish."

"The one for the gorgon lady?" Brooke wrinkles her nose.

Adellum laughs, the sound rich and warm. "Yes, the one for the gorgon lady. She's paying us very well."

"Don't worry, sweetheart," I say, pouring hot water over the tea leaves. "You can help me in the garden first. The dreelk needs harvesting."

Brooke slides down from Adellum's arms, already chattering about which basket she'll use for the dreelk. I hand Adellum his mug of tea, and our fingers brush. Even after everything, that small touch sends electricity through me.

Later, after dropping Brooke with Holt for her daily lessons, I walk through the village to Marda's restaurant. The morning air is crisp, full of promise. Farmers nod as I pass, and the baker's wife waves from her door. It took time, but the village has embraced us—our unusual family with its xaphan father and human mother, our wild-haired daughter who makes sparks dance from her fingertips when she laughs.

I pass the small studio Adellum built at the edge of our property. Through the window, I can see him working, wings half-spread as he stands before a large canvas. Paints splashed across his forearms, that look of intense concentration that transforms his features.

He's different here, away from New Solas, away from Sior's influence and the demands of his fame. Here, he paints what moves him, not what sells.

He must sense my presence because he looks up, catches my eye through the glass. The smile he gives me is so full of quiet joy that it steals my breath.

"You're mooning over him again." Marda's voice breaks into my reverie as I enter the restaurant kitchen. The older woman's eyes crinkle with amusement. Even she's gone soft on Adellum despite him being a xaphan.

I feel heat rush to my cheeks as I tie on my apron. "He's just... he's good at what he does."

"Mmhmm." She hands me a knife for the zynthra I've brought from my garden. "And what he does is make you happier than I've seen you in five years."

I can't argue with that. Instead, I focus on chopping, letting the familiar rhythm soothe me.

After a long day of work, I'm standing in the amber glow of sunset, up to my elbows in soil as I tuck the last seedlings into the newly turned earth. Our garden has become my sanctuary—a place where I create something purely for the joy of it. The scent of fresh soil and crushed herbs rises around me, mint and sage mingling with the darker, earthier notes of my favorite plants.

"Mama, look!" Brooke dances between the rows, careful not to step on any plants. She's learned that rule well. In her hands, she cradles a thalivern butterfly, its iridescent wings catching the last rays of sunlight. "It likes me!"

I sit back on my heels, pushing a stray curl from my face with the back of my wrist. "Of course it does. You're very likable."

"Papa says I have gentle hands." She beams, pride radiating from her small face. "Just like you."

The butterfly flutters away, and Brooke watches it go with a contented sigh before squatting down beside me. Her little fingers immediately dive into the soil, mimicking my planting technique.

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