The Devil's Daughter.

"You, of all people, should know that I don't share what's mine with anyone." His voice is dangerously low, each word laced with a quiet, simmering warning.

"This isn't about you," I snap, my patience unraveling as my eyes burn with unshed tears.

His jaw tightens. "This is about me looking out for you. You've been through enough-I'm not giving anyone else the opportunity to hurt you." His tone is firm, unwavering.

"You can't make this decision for me!" Frustration coils tight in my chest. "How do you even know he's going to hurt me?"

His expression darkens. "I am making this decision for you. And how do you know he won't? It's a risk. Is he even who he says he is? It's not every day your dead father shows up out of nowhere, claiming he wants to take you home."

Before I can respond, a smooth, amused voice cuts through the tension.

"Will a DNA test be enough for you?"

We both freeze. Slowly, we turn toward the open doorway.

There, leaning casually against the frame, stands a man who looks no older than his twenties. He's dressed in all black-Dolce & Gabbana trainers, fitted jeans, and a simple T-shirt. A silver dog tag hangs over the fabric, catching the light as he shifts. His toned arms are on full display, and my breath catches at the sight of the tattoo curling around his forearm-a grey scorpion wrapped around a dagger.

I know that tattoo.

I've traced my fingers over it more times than I can count.

His dirty blond waves fall slightly over his forehead, and as I meet his electric blue eyes, playful yet knowing, something inside me lurches.

I know him.

This isn't a stranger.

This is my father.