To Love A Villain

Chapter 248: Side Story - The Father-Daughter Bond 2

>>Third Person POV

The sterile white of the hospital walls made Hael feel like he was drowning in light. He sat hunched in the corner of the private room, elbows on his knees, head bowed, eyes glued to the floor. His robes were damp with cold sweat, the scent of potion smoke and panic still clinging to him. Just a few feet away, Zola lay in the arms of the attending doctor—an older woman with kind eyes and steady hands who had taken control the moment Hael arrived, frantic and breathless, cradling his burning child in arms that had never felt heavier.

And although the sight of the master of the magic tower startled the doctor, she remained professional and immediately accessed the situation.

Zola was calm now.

Her fever had broken.

But Hael... Hael couldn’t stop hearing her cries. Couldn’t unfeel the heat that had pulsed from her skin like fire magic gone wild. Couldn’t forget the helplessness that had hollowed out his chest.

"She’s stable," the doctor said, adjusting Zola’s blanket, which was now a thin cotton blanket, with practiced care. "Her temperature’s dropping now. It wasn’t dangerously high—but in babies, even a little heat can be alarming."

Hael looked up slowly.

The doctor turned toward him. "You did the right thing bringing her in when you did."

His lips parted, but no words came.

Then the doctor added, more gently, "But next time... don’t wrap her in anything too warm. Especially not if she already has a fever."

Hael blinked, eyes narrowing slightly.

The doctor continued, "It’s a common mistake. Parents worry they’ll catch a chill, but it only traps the heat in. Her fever likely spiked harder because of it."

!!!

The words hit him like ice. He sat up straighter. His eyes went wide for a moment, before dropping once again, "I wrapped her in a thick blanket... and I... I enchanted it. To keep her warm."

There was a long pause.

The doctor gave a slow, understanding nod. "Then that’s likely what pushed her temperature too high."

Hael knew what he did wrong. The cold room wasn’t the problem. The spell-warmed blanket was.

A shame Hael hadn’t felt since his earliest days coiled in his gut like a snake.

He stood wordlessly and crossed the small room. The doctor handed Zola back to him without hesitation, and he took her carefully, pressing her tiny body to his chest. Her head settled against his shoulder with a sleepy whimper, and the warmth of her, no longer burning, made his arms tremble.

"I thought I was helping," he whispered. "I thought I was keeping her safe."

The doctor didn’t scold him.

She simply said, "You were trying your best. That’s what matters."

But Hael didn’t believe her.

Not fully.

Not yet. He was simply afraid that his daughter might start to hate him again now that he had made her go through such intense pain again.

***

The sun was setting by the time he arrived back at the tower.

The sky outside bled shades of violet and red, but the inside of the tower felt still, and somehow... distant.

Hael didn’t take her to the crib.

He didn’t even look at it.

Instead, he carried Zola into the master bedroom and gently lowered her onto the center of the wide bed, her tiny frame nearly disappearing into the folds of the soft sheets.

She was half-asleep, her breathing still a little uneven, but her fever was gone.

Still, Hael hovered.

He lowered himself slowly beside her and stretched out on his side, resting on one elbow as he watched her. Then, almost uncertainly, he reached forward and placed a steady hand on her chest, just above her little ribcage, where her heartbeat fluttered beneath warm skin.

He began to pat gently—soft, rhythmic motions—more to calm himself than her.

She didn’t stir.

He exhaled.

For all his confidence and pride and how sure he was. At the very moment, all his power felt fragile.

How useless.

’I have saved the world from complete annihilation.’ he thought bitterly, ’but I can’t even keep my daughter from crying.’

The ache in his chest was deeper than any wound he’d ever sustained in battle.

His fingers continued their quiet motion—pat, pause, pat—until his breathing matched hers.

"I’m sorry," he whispered, even though she couldn’t hear.

Hael lay there beside her, the room cloaked in quiet shadows, lit only by the soft amber glow of the tower’s warding lanterns. His hand still rested gently on her chest, feeling the rise and fall of her small breaths. Her fever had broken, but his guilt remained like ash in his mouth.

"I’m sorry," he whispered again, barely audible.

His voice trembled.

"I thought I knew what fear was. When I almost lost your mother... I thought that was the worst feeling in the world."

He swallowed hard, staring up at the ceiling as though it could offer him some kind of absolution. "But when your fever spiked... when I held you and you kept crying and I couldn’t do anything—" He stopped himself, breathing in sharp and shallow. "—I was just as scared."

He let the silence wrap around him like a shroud. Zola slept, or so he thought, her form small and peaceful beside him. Hael closed his eyes, worn down by the weight of helplessness.

He had never imagined being attached like this. Not to anyone besides Amber. Not in a way that made his power feel like nothing—like air between his fingers.

He sighed in quiet defeat.

But just then, something soft brushed against his cheek.

His eyes flew open.

Zola’s tiny hand rested there—her fingers barely big enough to cover the curve of his face. She was wide awake, her gaze locked with his. Round, searching eyes stared into his as though trying to understand the worry she saw etched across his face.

Hael froze.

She didn’t smile, didn’t coo. She simply looked at him, her tiny face still flushed from the fever but calmer now. Clearer. Her fingers twitched once, then slowly fell away.

"You should rest some more," he murmured, startled by how soft his voice had become, like the edge of a lullaby. He didn’t know if she could understand anything at her age—six months was too young for words—but something in her gaze made him feel like she heard him anyway.

She didn’t answer, of course.

Instead, Zola rolled over, slowly and clumsily, and nestled against his side.

!!!

Hael’s breath caught.

He blinked down at her, watching her little fist curl near his chest, her forehead resting against his shoulder like she had chosen this exact place for herself.

The surprise came again—but this time, it melted into something else.

Something warm.

Something he didn’t know how to name, not in any spell or scroll.

His heart softened, unraveling in ways he never thought possible.

He shifted slightly to make sure she was fully covered, gently tucking the edge of the blanket over her legs—not enchanted, this time—and settled his arm carefully around her back.

She gave a small sigh.

And for the first time in hours, Hael let himself exhale too.

They remained like that—just father and daughter, tangled in the quiet, in the warmth, in the beginning of something sacred neither of them had the words for.

Just when he thought she’d drifted off again, Zola’s eyelids fluttered open.

Hael blinked down at her, caught off guard.

"You’re still awake?" he whispered with a faint smile, brushing a curl from her forehead. "Come on. You need sleep."

But Zola didn’t close her eyes.

She only stared at him with that wide, quiet gaze that made him feel like she saw more than a child should. She coughed—small, rasping—and Hael winced.

The sound clawed at his chest. The agony she was in and the spiral his mind went into came back to him.

"I’m sorry," he said again, his voice catching. "I shouldn’t have wrapped you up like that. I thought I was doing the right thing." He looked down at her, the guilt sitting heavy behind his ribs. "But I was wrong. And I promise, Zola... I won’t make that mistake again." There was still fear in him, "Don’t hate me..." he whispered.

His words hung between them.

She blinked once, twice—then slowly raised her tiny hand again and pressed it gently to his cheek.

That simple touch was soft. Forgiving.

Hael froze under it, but then her lips curved into a small, radiant smile.

It caught him off guard.

But what followed unraveled him entirely.

Zola’s grin widened just enough to show the faintest peek of her gums—one little tooth just beginning to push through. Then, with a tiny voice, unsteady but unmistakable, she said:

"Ba-ba."

The world stopped.

The tower around them disappeared, the storm of doubt and shame that had battered him all day quieted into nothing.

Hael stared at her, stunned, his breath lodged in his throat.

"Wh... what did you just—?"

"Ba-ba," she repeated, her little hands gripping the fabric of his robe now, pulling herself closer.

He wasn’t sure if it was meant to be "Papa" or just a baby’s ramble—but it didn’t matter. Not to him.

His throat tightened, and he let out a trembling laugh. It wasn’t pride he felt. It wasn’t even relief.

It was something else entirely.

Zola had looked at him—really looked—and in her own way, she’d spoken to him. Chosen him.

Hael bent his head and kissed her soft hair, letting his eyes close for a long, full breath.

"I’m here," he whispered, voice thick.

And in that quiet moment—so simple, so profound—Hael knew he’d never be the same.

***

The door to the tower creaked open just past dusk, a whisper of magic brushing against its frame as Amber stepped in, already pulling off her cloak.

She was ready to speak before she even crossed the threshold—"I’m so sorry I’m late, the guests wouldn’t stop talking, and then there was a broken tray, and I—"—but her words dissolved on her tongue the moment she looked up.

And froze.

There, on the wide bed bathed in the soft, silvery light of the moon filtering through the tall windows, lay Hael. One arm curled protectively around Zola’s small body, the other resting limp against the blankets. His lashes cast soft shadows over his cheekbones, his face peaceful in a way she rarely saw it—unguarded, gently worn from worry, but at ease now.

Zola was nestled against his chest, her tiny head rising and falling with his breathing, one fist lightly gripping the fabric of his shirt. Her cheeks were still faintly flushed from the fever, but her expression was calm, dream-soft.

Safe.

Amber didn’t move for a long time.

She just stood there, hand still half-lifted, staring at them as something deep and warm bloomed in her chest. It spread slow and steady, like sunlight melting over the edge of morning.

She exhaled, quietly now, and let her smile rise.

All the exhaustion from the day faded into that one perfect image: the man she loved, and the daughter they made together—finally resting, finally connected.

Without a sound, Amber crossed the room.

She peeled off her shoes with a flick of her foot and gently, carefully, slipped into the bed beside them. She turned toward them, propping herself on one elbow as she watched Zola’s tiny hand twitch in sleep. Hael didn’t stir.

Amber let her fingers brush against his, just barely, and whispered, "You did well."

There was no reply.

But there didn’t need to be.

She pressed a kiss to the top of Zola’s head, then to Hael’s shoulder. Then softly closed her eyes next to them.