Page 1 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Son (Demon Daddies #7)

KALEEN

T he morning light filters through the tall windows of the estate's eastern wing, casting geometric patterns across the polished stone floor.

I pause in my inspection of the main hall, watching dust motes dance in the ethereal glow that seems to emanate from the walls themselves.

Everything here pulses with quiet magic—Domiel's signature woven into every arch, every carefully placed stone.

My bare feet make no sound as I move through the corridors. The servants know better than to disturb the morning routine. This time belongs to me, to the careful orchestration of a household that's become as familiar as my own heartbeat.

The receiving hall holds three packages this morning, their magical seals still intact.

I run my fingers along the edges, feeling for temperature changes or ward fluctuations.

Old habits. The middle parcel hums with contained energy—runestone, probably high-grade from the Quarry District.

The other two feel inert. Decorative pieces, maybe, or components waiting for Domiel's touch to awaken them.

Two years ago, I would have been the one delivering these packages.

The memory rises unbidden as I lift the first crate.

Different hands then—scarred from harsher work, always slightly trembling from exhaustion.

Different eyes, too. Always watching for the overseer's switch, for the moment someone would notice I'd paused too long or handled something with insufficient reverence.

I'd stood in this very hall once, contract marks still fresh on my wrist, arms aching from carrying a particularly volatile shipment of ward crystals.

The other delivery workers had warned me about this place—about the ethereal architect who lived here, how particular he was, how he could spot flawed material from across a room.

"Set them down gently," I'd whispered to myself, the same mantra I used at every high-end estate. "Don't make eye contact. Finish quickly."

But then he'd appeared at the top of the curved staircase, and everything I'd been taught about keeping my head down had crumbled.

Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with that peculiar xaphan grace that made common movement look like choreography. Dark gold hair caught the light as he descended, and when those silver-blue eyes fixed on me, I'd forgotten how to breathe properly.

"You're new," he'd said, not unkindly. Just... observing.

I'd managed a nod, not trusting my voice. But my hands—my hands had kept working, sorting the crystals by resonance frequency without thinking. It was instinct by then, reading the subtle differences in magical signature that even trained mages sometimes missed.

He'd watched me work. Actually watched , not the way overseers did—looking for mistakes to punish—but with genuine curiosity.

"You can feel the variance in the third crystal," he'd said after a moment.

It wasn't a question, but I'd answered anyway. "The matrix is slightly unstable. Still usable, but it'll need compensation in the binding ward."

The silence that followed had stretched long enough for panic to set in. Had I overstepped? Spoken out of turn? But when I'd finally dared to look up, something in his expression had shifted.

"What's your name?"

"Kaleen." The word had escaped before I could think better of it.

"Kaleen." He'd tested it, like he was tasting something rare. "I'll request you specifically for future deliveries."

Request me specifically. As if I were a person, not just a pair of hands attached to an indenture contract.

I shake off the memory and continue my morning rounds, but the ghost of that first meeting clings to me like morning mist. The garden needs attention—the thalivern flowers have opened overnight, their iridescent wings catching every stray beam of sunlight.

I kneel among them, feeling the cool earth beneath my knees, and remember other mornings when my hands belonged to someone else entirely.

The stoneweaving syndicate had owned every hour of my time, every careful movement, every breath I took near their precious materials.

Twelve hours a day in the sorting rooms, checking shipments, loading carriages, delivering to estates like this one where people lived in beauty I could only glimpse in passing.

My fingers work automatically now, deadheading spent blooms and checking soil moisture. This garden is mine to tend, mine to shape. The irony isn't lost on me—I have more freedom in choosing to stay than I ever had in being forced to leave.

The thalivern petals feel like silk between my fingers as I work through the morning garden routine.

Domiel's old cloak hangs loose around my shoulders—deep blue wool that still carries traces of his scent even after countless washings.

The fabric pools around my knees as I kneel, soft and familiar as a second skin.

He'd wordlessly draped it around me one morning months ago, watching me shiver in the pre-dawn chill as I tended the early bloomers.

No grand gesture, no declaration. Just quiet observation followed by quiet care.

The cloak had become mine the way everything else in this house had—gradually, naturally, like water finding its level. But that's how he always was.

Quiet. Watching me. Full of care.

I brush soil from my hands and gather the deadheaded blooms in the cloak's deep pockets. Inside, the house waits with its carefully orchestrated routines, each one a small rebellion against the chaos that defined my old life.

The home workshop calls first. Three stories up, tucked into the estate's highest tower, it's where Domiel loses himself in calculations and crystalline matrices that would make most mages weep with envy.

Even when he's at a client site like today, the space holds his presence—tools arranged with military precision, half-finished ward designs pinned to every available surface, the lingering ozone scent of worked magic.

I move through the organized chaos with practiced efficiency.

The resonance hammers need cleaning—their copper heads dulled from yesterday's session with a particularly stubborn piece of quartz.

I run a soft cloth along each surface, checking for hairline cracks that could throw off their frequency.

Domiel's hands are too valuable to risk on flawed tools.

His sketching charcoal sits scattered across the main workbench, along with three empty teacups and a plate that holds nothing but crumbs. The man could design wards that would make the praexa themselves take notice, but remembering to eat? That requires intervention.

I stack the dishes and straighten his papers without reading them—some habits from the syndicate days die hard. Privacy was a luxury we couldn't afford then, but here it's a gift I give freely. His work belongs to him until he chooses to share it.

The kitchen knows my footsteps. I've walked these stone floors so often now that my bare feet have memorized every slight irregularity, every place where the magical resonance runs just a fraction warmer.

The larder holds fresh brimbark and zynthra from yesterday's market run, along with a wheel of sharp cheese that will pair well with the dark bread cooling on the windowsill.

I start checking that we'll have everything we need for dinner. Most days I cook. We do have help around the house, but I like taking care as much as I can in an estate this size.

I find quiet contentment in these moments. They are simple. Easy. The life that he gave me. All because Domiel took notice of me. All because over weeks and months he talked to me, coaxed me out of my shell, and over time…

He fell in love with me.

He bought me out of the indentured contract well over a year ago, but I'm still here. I manage his household because otherwise, it would be a mess. But truly, I will always stay by his side.

Some might think I'm foolish. A human woman in love with xaphan?

But Domiel will always be everything to me.