Long gone were the nights of neon smoke and pulsing bass. Of stumbling through clubs with red in his eyes and nothing but static in his chest. Of waking up with bruises he didn’t remember earning and a heart so hollow he could hear the echo of it in his skull.

Yeah—Ruhn Danaan remembered those days. Fuck, sometimes he even missed them. Not the pain, not the numbness—but the simplicity. The clean ache of not giving a damn.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

These days, Ruhn Danaan knew three things with absolute, unshakable certainty.

One: he had smelled more nail polish remover in the last hour than he had in his entire rebellious life, and his head was spinning because of it. His little girl was on her fifth attempt at getting the color “just right.”

Two: he had, gods help him, agreed to play princess with his princess. Which meant sitting—sprawled, wide-legged and battle-scarred—on a too-small, too-pink beanbag chair while she painted his nails with deadly concentration. What he hadn’t anticipated was his wife joining the ambush, her sly grin promising mischief as she began braiding his long, ink-black hair into something that could only be described as... intricate. Tight. Regal. He was starting to understand what true pain was.

And three: he fucking loved his life.

He loved his girls.

After the Asteri fell and the war split the world open, he never thought he’d find peace. He never thought he’d find home.

But he’d built one. Day by slow, steady day. Piece by piece.

He'd found her—his wife—when he wasn’t looking. Strong where he was weary. Soft where he was steel. The kind of love that didn’t burn you down but rebuilt you in golden light. They’d survived the end of the world, and then they created one of their own. Small. Loud. Full of glitter.

And now?

Here he sat—Prince of the Valbaran Fae, tattooed and muscled and wearing a tulle tiara—because his daughter asked him to.

“Look, Daddy!” his little girl chirped, her balck curls bouncing as she clutched his hand like it was a masterpiece. “I wrote a message on your nails!”

He blinked, squinting down at the chaotic colors painted over his black nail beds. Five nails, each one with a shaky, glitter-drenched letter.

C. U. N. T. !

His lips twitched.

“Uh.” He cleared his throat. “What... what does it say, baby?”

Her eyes sparkled. “See you next time! Like in the salon! The lady always says that.”

A pause. A sharp inhale from his wife, who turned away under the guise of fixing a braid but was definitely laughing into her shoulder.

Ruhn bit his lip—hard. “Yep,” he muttered, there was definitely his blood in the little one. “That’s... that’s exactly what it says.”

He caught his wife’s gaze, her eyes gleaming with laughter, and rolled his eyes skyward. “You know, when I imagined becoming a king one day, I didn’t expect to be dethroned by a five-year-old dictator in a tutu.”

His wife grinned, fingers running through the last lock of his hair. “You love it.”

He sighed—long, dramatic, thoroughly defeated. “I really fucking do.”

Because he did. He loved them more than anything he’d ever burned for. More than the power he never wanted. More than the crown he no longer wore. This was his kingdom now. A tiny salon, a pink throne, and the sharp laughter of the two women who owned his soul.

He looked at his daughter, beaming and proud. Then back at his nails.

“Guess I’m the c-word now,” he muttered, deadpan.

His wife choked.