Azazel Sinclair found his way to his daughter's, Amara's, room. He kicked the wide doors open and a sweet smell saluted him as he entered. He saw a large bed and a small child lying on it. Bandages covered her body and even the top of her head was wrapped in white cloth.
The flame that decorated her hair sparkled against her powder skin. Her lips seemed to hold a natural pout; her eyebrows are a fine shade of almond, without the need for grooming. Her face resembled his brothers' faces. Just like how his sons mirrored him.
He could feel nothing as he stared at the child. But somehow, the bandages that slithered around her skin irritated him. Not because the child is suffering, but because it reminded him of his sons' failure in protecting their reputation. To have lost a child to mere
