Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Viraat
I don’t want to watch her.
That’s the part that irritates me the most. I don’t want to. And yet... I do.
Like some glutton for punishment, I find myself perched in the high shadows of the east wing, night after night, watching the little human move through the halls like she belongs there.
Like we aren’t bound beneath the bones of the place.
Avalon Apples.
Even her name sounds like something pulled from a dream or a cursed fairytale. She doesn’t walk with the arrogance of the bloodline we were at first forced, and then vowed to protect.
She’s soft-footed, kind-spoken, and maddeningly... pleasant.
No demands. No barking orders to the staff that move through Stonebound. Just a quiet reverence for the manor and the ghosts it carries.
She doesn’t even flinch at the cold breath of old magic in the stairwells. She smiles at it.
But what unnerves me most isn't her uncanny calmness or her habit of humming softly to herself while exploring forgotten wings of the house. It’s her voice when she speaks to that man. The one she calls... Daddy.
I know from Ichabod that her father's name is Carter.
The man had not been described with any warmth, and from what little I recall of Ichabod's tone when he'd spoken of his niece's childhood, there had been damage left in that wake.
So imagine my confusion when Avalon whispers into her phone late at night, curled up in the library with her ridiculous cat and her tea, speaking softly to a man she calls Daddy. With affection.
Devotion.
It isn’t familial. I know what a father sounds like. I used to have one. Centuries ago. This is something else.
The tone. The dynamic. The way in which she says 'Yes, Daddy. I promise.' like it means everything in the world to her. It stirs something in me that I don’t want to name.
One night, curiosity wins.
She’s in the library, the fire crackling low, shadows dancing across her freckled cheeks as she pulls a fluffy blanket tighter around her shoulders. Sparrow’s in his usual place—planted on her lap like a self-appointed feline guardian.
Her phone is on speaker. I recognize the deep, calm voice that came through.
Daddy Drè.
"You haven't eaten a proper meal all day, have you, little peach?"
She winces and tugs the blanket higher. "I got distracted. I finally went into the attic and started exploring. And then I found the nursery and..."
The man interrupts her babbling. "You promised."
There is no anger in his tone. Only firm disappointment.
I watch as her shoulders hunches and her cheeks flush. "I know, I'm sorry, Daddy," she mutters softly.
"I want fifty lines before bed," he orders her. "Handwritten. 'I will take care of my body as well as I take care of my new home.' Got that, little peach?"
Her groan is almost a whine. "Fifty?"
"Yes. And you'll eat something warm tomorrow. Three full meals. Send me a picture of each."
"Okay," she mumbles, reaching for the notebook she constantly keeps at hand to jot into.
The man's tone softens. "You're doing so well, babygirl. I'm proud of how hard you're working. That place suits you."
My claws clenches into the stone railing I stood behind. The conversation continues for a while—mundane chatter about her day, a story about the cat getting tangled in the drapes, plans to reorganize the drawing room—but I hear none of it. My mind had stalled back at fifty lines.
And the fact that she keeps calling him Daddy.
Somehow, that, coupled with the affection she clearly feels for him makes me hate the man. Sight unseen.
But not because he's actually done anything wrong. No. It’s because she glows under his attention. She lets him into a part of her that seems tender, raw and rare.
Still...
Later that night, when the manor is quiet and Avalon’s asleep upstairs, I slip into the library.
The computer.
I loathe the cursed machine, but Ichabod insisted we learn the basics. I use it once every couple of years to keep up to date with the changes in technology, but refuse otherwise.
With a grunt, I turn it on. Wait. Click. Search. And then in a fit of private insanity, hoping Jodrick doesn’t sneak up on me, I type the words: Why would an adult woman call a man not her father ‘Daddy’.
The rabbit hole it leads me down is extensive. Confusing. At times, uncomfortably honest.
Ageplay.
Dominant and submissive.
Caregiver and Little.
I read articles. Watch a few videos that even turn my stone cheeks red. And worst of all?
I understand it.
That craving to care for someone. To have someone to protect. Someone who depends on you for that kind of support, affection and attention.
Is this why she’s our fated? Because at a deep level we match in a way I didn’t even know was possible?
I hate it.
Before I know it, I feel the call of the sun and have to rush to move back up to the roof and take my position on the turret.
The entire time we sit there, I can’t stop thinking about what I found, and what it means.
Jodrick keeps pestering me to tell him what’s bothering me, but I can’t open up and share until the sun sets and the moon slowly starts its rise.
"She calls that man on the phone Daddy."
Jodrick blinked. "Yes, I'd noticed this."
"Yet he's not her father."
He nods. "I know this, too, but what does it mean?"
As we both listen to our damn fated mate move around in the kitchen, fixing herself a decent meal, as per her Daddy's orders, I explain to Jodrick what I found yesterday.
He stands there, staring at me.
I don’t want to admit it, but I’m beginning to understand her.
Bit by bit, through fragments of her whispered confessions and quiet rituals, she’s revealing herself. Not just to the man on the phone—but to this house. To us.
That terrifies me more than I care to admit.
Because if she keeps doing it—keeps showing us softness, trust, hope—Jodrick won’t be the only one who falls for her.
I’m not ready for that.
Later that night, I find myself on the third-floor landing, just outside the old nursery she has started restoring. I don't know what pulls me there—habit, curiosity, some cruel trick of fate—but I hover, cloaked in the shadows, watching her through the cracked door.
She’s on her knees, surrounded by a zoo of plush animals she's carefully cleaned and lined up like a council of tiny bossy bears.
A soft lullaby hums from her lips as she sorts through a box of wooden blocks, her fingers moving with a gentle reverence, as if each item holds a forgotten story.
"Some of these are over a hundred years old," she murmurs, mostly to herself. "I wonder if the children who played here were happy."
There is no one else in the room.
She isn’t speaking for show.
She’s talking to her new... friends?
And I find it much sweeter than I thought I would.
"I hope they were," she adds. "And I hope you were well cared for and loved."
My chest tightens at the fondness in her voice and the sweet quality to her tone.
She stands a moment later, brushing dust from her knees, and walks to the window. She stared out at the moonlit garden below, arms wrapped around herself. From where I stand, she looks so small. Fragile. But something about her posture makes her seem unbreakable, too.
She turns back to the audience of stuffed animals, a sweet smile on her face.
"Have I told you what I'm planning to do?" she asks them. "I'm going to open up the manor," she says, firmly. "Make it a bed and breakfast." She smiles, and it’s all softness, light and sweetness.
It makes a deep crack in the wall around my heart.
"This house deserves to be filled with life again."
I back away quietly before I do or say anything to her. My pulse beats like war drums in my chest.
She’s going to open the house.
Invite strangers inside.
Let them breathe the air we bled for.
I should be furious. I want to be furious.
Instead, I just feel the last of my defenses shift, and the cracked, crumbling walls around my heart fall and shatter as they land.
She’s changing everything.