What Was I Made For?

All I Want

Chapter Eighteen: All I Want

All I want-Kodaline

Alastor's eyelids snapped open, the familiar yet disconcerting wail of his infant daughter slicing through the silence like a razor. Her cries were more than mere sound—they crackled with an innate power, a raw and untamed version of his radio frequency that he wielded with such finesse. Yet in her innocence, Isabella's siren-like screams had no such control, careening off the walls with a life of their own.

He sat up, the echoes of her distress hammering against his skull, rhythmically pulsating as if trying to pry apart his very thoughts. The room shuddered with each piercing cry, a testament to the strength of the bloodline she carried within her diminutive form.

Beside him, Charlie lay in a deep but restless slumber, the dark shadows beneath her closed eyes telling tales of recent trials—trials that would have undone lesser souls. It had been a mere fortnight since she had teetered at death's door, birthing their daughter into a world that seemed to demand everything from her. Yet still, she remained unbroken, even when the news of her parents' perilous brush with demise reached her ears, an ordeal that came on the heels of her near-fatal confrontation with Lute.

And then there was Valentino—the final blow delivered by Charlie herself, a necessary end that undoubtedly left its own scar upon her psyche. Alastor watched her for a moment, noting the slight furrow between her brows, the only indication of the turmoil that lurked beneath her exhaustion. She was more than a princess now; she was a queen—a queen who bore the weight of her crown even in sleep.

With the gentlest of movements, so as not to disturb her, Alastor slid from the bed and stood upright. His posture straightened, the instinctual call to comfort his child propelling him forward. He moved swiftly to the source of the cacophony, knowing that his presence alone might be enough to soothe young Isabella's agitation, to quiet the chaotic chorus that spilled forth from her lips.

The din of Isabella's cries, a shrill siren call, shook Alastor to his core. Teeth clenched, he winced, pressing a palm against the side of his throbbing head as if to quell the internal reverberations, his head still tender from the lasting effects of Valentino's saliva. With careful precision so as not to jostle the bed any further, he peeled back the crimson sheets and eased himself out, feet touching down on the cool floorboards. A glance over his shoulder revealed Charlie, still ensconced in the sanctuary of slumber, her chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of much-needed repose. He exhaled, a silent prayer of thanks that the tumult had not stolen her from the arms of Morpheus.

The nursery door materialized before him, the edges of its frame bleeding into existence with an ethereal glow that only Hell's magic could conjure. Alastor reached out, his fingertips brushing against the solid wood that moments ago had been nothing but air, and pushed it open to reveal the haven crafted for their child.

Isabella's domain was a stark contrast to the infernal landscape beyond its walls—a testament to hope amidst despair. The soft pastel palette whispered promises of gentleness and care, each hue a brushstroke of Charlie's love. The myriad of stuffed animals stood sentinel around the crib, their plush forms a menagerie of comfort, gifts from realms afar, and tokens of affection from those who had come to adore Hell's youngest princess.

His gaze swept the room, lingering upon each detail—the way the light caught the gentle curve of a teddy bear's ear, the delicate flutter of a mobile turning lazily above, casting whimsical shadows upon the walls. This was a corner of Hell that defied expectation, a nursery that held the laughter and dreams of its occupant, and the very essence of what they were trying to achieve here.