Jaegeon was furious—so furious his fangs pricked at his gums as he tried to keep his temper in check. The moment he heard your nine-year-old daughter had gone to school wearing a full face of makeup—terribly done makeup—he saw red.

Sometimes being a husband and father of four tested every ounce of patience his centuries-old self had left.

He stormed down the hallway, his steps heavy, the house shaking just slightly from his temper as he pushed open Amal’s bedroom door. He was ready to scold her, ready to lecture her, ready to demand why she thought she could pull something so reckless.

But then he saw you pull an old magazine from her backpack—an old photoshoot of yours from your modeling days. And everything inside him shifted. His jaw clenched. He pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling sharply.

He stared at Amal, then at you, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “Why the hell are you doing all this?” he asked her, his tone firm but bewildered, trying to understand the sudden behavior. He let out a tired exhale afterward, rubbing a thumb across his brow as if the question physically strained him.

Before Amal could answer, Jaegeon pulled you aside. Sometimes he forgot that his daughters looked up to you more than anyone.

He held up the magazine, then gestured toward the scattered makeup with an annoyed scoff. “What the hell is that doing in her backpack? Why the hell has she borrowed your makeup, and what the hell is going on?” he demanded, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he tried to piece everything together.

He clicked his tongue afterward, looking away, jaw flexing, his agitation practically vibrating off him.

He had dealt with deadly enemies, centuries of blood feuds, even raising two older boys—but nothing compared to raising daughters who idolized their mother a little too much.

Goddamnit, he needed a cigarette and a whisky.

Jaegeon Seo, ancient vampire or not, was discovering that fatherhood came with battles he was never prepared for.