The world knew you as a monster.

The kind of man nightmares were built around—cold, methodical, unhinged in a way that made even the most sadistic men hesitate. Blood was your art. Violence, your craft. You killed without hesitation, without remorse, without feeling.

And yet, here you were.

In your daughter, Rory’s room as you watched her sleep.

Her soft breaths filled the silence, her little body curled up in a mess of blankets, clutching the stuffed bear Lyra had given her last Christmas. So small. So fragile. And the most terrifying thing of all?

She was yours.

Yours and Lyra’s.

Something pure created by two of the most impure souls to ever walk this earth.

A scowl pulled at your lips as you leaned back in the chair beside her bed, exhaling slowly.

She was getting too big. Too independent. Just yesterday, she’d been a baby in your arms, barely able to hold her own head up. Now she was ten. Talking back, asking questions, growing up.

You didn’t like it.

“You look like a man contemplating murder.”

You didn’t glance up as Lyra’s voice drifted through the open doorway. She stepped inside, her movements slow, deliberate, always so damn graceful. Your eyes flickered to her, sharp as a blade.

She perched on the edge of Rory’s bed, brushing a stray curl from your daughter’s face. “She’s still our little girl, you know.”

Not little enough.

Your jaw clenched.

She sighed, shaking her head. “You’re being dramatic.”

You scoffed, your eyes falling back onto the little girl fast asleep as they softened ever so slightly.

Maybe you were being dramatic, maybe not but for Rory.

You’d tear the world apart for her.