Frederick waves it all away. “As long as she grows.”
She does.
Too fast.
By three months, she holds her head steady. By five, she crawls like she’s stalking prey—silent, fluid, eyes locked on whatever has caught her attention. I keep her wrapped, keep her close, keep the curtains drawn and the lights low.
I tell the staff she’s sensitive.
I tell myself I can manage this.
At night, when the estate goes quiet and the stars peek through the balcony doors, I sit with her curled against my chest and whisper stories she can’t possibly understand.
“Your father was fierce,” I murmur, rocking gently. “He loved like it was war. Like it was worship.”
Chelsea’s eyes glow faintly in the dark.
Not red.
Not yet.
Just… warmer than they should be.
I tell myself it’s a trick of the light.
The nanny is new.
Young. Nervous. Her hands shake when she takes Chelsea from my arms. “She’s beautiful,” she says, voice tight.
“She doesn’t like loud noises,” I warn. “Or sudden movements.”
The nanny nods too quickly. “Of course, Lady Ayla.”
I watch them from the doorway as she carries Chelsea toward the sitting room. Every instinct in my body hums like a live wire. I almost call them back.
I don’t.
It happens fast.
A sharp cry—high, shocked. Not Chelsea.
Blood splatters against the pale carpet.
The nanny stumbles backward, clutching her hand. “She—she bit me!”
Chelsea sits on the floor, diapered and steady, one tiny hand braced against the ground.
Her mouth is red.
Not from teething.
From blood.
She looks up at me.
And she purrs.
A low, vibrating sound—soft, pleased, utterly wrong.
