Page 10 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Son (Demon Daddies #7)

KALEEN

T he first contraction hits me like a lightning strike just before dawn, doubling me over as I tend to the small fire in my cottage.

For weeks, my belly has been tight and heavy, making even simple tasks feel monumental.

But this—this is different. Sharp. Insistent.

A force I can't negotiate with or push aside.

I ache for someone's presence as it does.

Who? I'm not sure. They are just a shadow in my dreams, a phantom with silver-blue eyes who feels real but can't be.

I can't even remember much more than that.

The midwife says pregnancy can make memories strange, that my mind might be creating comfort where none exists.

Another wave of pain crashes through me, and I grip the wooden chair until my knuckles turn white.

The fire pops and hisses, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls of the cottage Callen built for me when my condition became obvious.

A refuge. A place where the village's questions can't follow quite so eagerly.

I manage three stumbling steps toward the door before the next contraction drops me to my knees. This baby wants out, and it wants out now.

"Help." The word comes out strangled, barely audible over my ragged breathing. But Veylowe is a small village where sound carries, especially in the pre-dawn quiet. Within moments, I hear footsteps on the path outside.

Derri bursts through my door without ceremony, her dark curls escaping from a hastily-tied braid and her healer's bag already in hand. She takes one look at me crouched on the floor and immediately shifts into the calm efficiency that makes her Veylowe's most trusted midwife.

"There we are," she murmurs, helping me to my feet with gentle but firm hands. "Let's get you to bed, love. This little one's decided today's the day."

The next hour passes in a blur of mounting pain and quiet preparation.

Derri sends someone—probably young Pez—to fetch the other women.

Soon my cottage fills with familiar faces: Marnai with her iron-gray braids and steady presence, Brisa carrying an armload of clean linens and herbal remedies, even stern Tolle hovering near the doorway with his bag of emergency supplies.

They move around me like a well-rehearsed dance, these women who have delivered half the children in Veylowe.

Brisa boils water and prepares herbal teas.

Marnai positions herself at my head, offering sips of meadowmint tea between contractions and murmuring encouraging words.

Derri examines me with practiced hands, her expression focused but reassuring.

"Everything looks good," she announces. "Baby's positioned well. You're strong, Kaleen. Your body knows what to do."

I want to believe her. But as the labor intensifies, primal fear claws at me.

Not just the normal terror of childbirth, but something deeper.

The persistent feeling that I don't belong here, that I'm playing a role in someone else's life.

That this baby growing inside me is connected to mysteries I can't unravel.

The pain builds in waves, each one stronger than the last. I lose track of time, of everything except the relentless pressure and the encouraging voices around me. Somewhere in the haze, I hear Derri telling me to push, her hands steady and sure as she guides my baby into the world.

And then—suddenly, miraculously—relief. The absence of pressure so complete it leaves me gasping. A thin, angry wail fills the cottage, and my heart simultaneously breaks and heals at the sound.

"A son," Derri announces, her voice warm with satisfaction. "A beautiful, perfect son."

She places him on my chest, this tiny creature who's been sharing my body for months. He's slippery and red-faced, his dark hair plastered to his skull, his tiny fists already waving in indignation at this cold, bright world. But his eyes?—

His eyes are the most startling silver-blue I've ever seen, flecked with gold like captured starlight. They're ancient eyes in an infant face, wise and familiar in a way that makes my breath catch.

"He's perfect," I whisper, tears in my eyes. And he is. But that ache grows stronger as I look at him. Those silver-blue eyes…

The women exchange glances over my head. I catch the look—sharp, knowing, carefully neutral. Brisa's bangles jingle softly as she leans forward to get a better view of my son, and I see her expression shift from wonder to something more complicated.

Derri's hands are gentle as she cleans the baby, but I notice how she pauses at his back, her fingertips tracing small bumps along his shoulder blades that I can barely see. Tiny protrusions, no bigger than pearl buttons, but distinctly there.

Wing buds.

The realization hits me like ice water. My son—this beautiful, perfect child—has the beginnings of wings. Which means his father was xaphan. Which means I was with…a xaphan? But humans are never with xaphan.

I'm clearly not the only one thinking that, but Marnai's weathered hand finds my shoulder, her grip firm and reassuring. "Rest now," she says quietly. "What matters is that you're both healthy."

But I see the questions in their eyes, the assumptions forming like storm clouds. They think I was some nobleman's plaything, discarded when I became inconvenient. Or a human woman who ran from her xaphan master when pregnancy made her burden instead of pleasure.

They're probably right. The alternative—that I loved someone, that I was loved in return—feels too fragile to hope for. Too much like the dreams that haunt my sleep, full of silver-blue eyes and gentle touches and names that feel more real than my own reflection.

I pull my son closer, marveling at his tiny features, the way his fingers curve around my thumb with surprising strength. Whatever brought me to Veylowe, whatever circumstances led to his conception, this moment is mine. This love is real, even if nothing else makes sense.

The women busy themselves with the practical matters of afterbirth and recovery, their voices a comforting murmur in the background. None of them ask the questions I can see brewing behind their careful expressions. They simply accept what is—a mother and child who need care, protection, belonging.

In Veylowe, sometimes that's enough.

Three weeks into motherhood, I discover that Braylon has inherited more than just his father's eyes. He possesses an uncanny ability to sense my growing desperation and respond with increasingly frantic wails that pierce through Veylowe's morning quiet like a blade.

Today's expedition to the village market was supposed to be simple—purchase some dried dreelk and zynthra for soup, maybe let the other mothers admire my son's unusual beauty while pretending not to notice their whispered speculation about his parentage.

Instead, I'm standing beside the well in the village center, bouncing a red-faced, screaming infant whose cries could wake the dead.

"Shh, little one," I murmur, shifting him to my other shoulder for the dozenth time. His tiny body is rigid with fury, his silver-blue eyes squeezed shut as he expresses his displeasure with this cold, bright world. "Please, Braylon. What do you need?"

The other villagers give us a wide berth, their sympathetic but helpless glances doing nothing to ease the knot of frustration building in my chest. I've tried feeding him, changing his wrappings, singing the lullabies Brisa taught me.

Nothing works. The crying just escalates, bouncing off the stone cottages and echoing through the narrow streets like an accusation.

My arms ache from holding him. My head throbs with exhaustion.

The persistent fog of memory loss that's plagued me since my arrival in Veylowe seems thicker when I'm this tired, making even simple decisions feel overwhelming.

Should I go home? Try walking him around the village again?

Admit defeat and seek help from one of the older mothers?

"I could help."

The voice is gentle, steady, and completely unexpected.

I turn to find Lake Thorne approaching with the careful, unhurried movements of someone accustomed to skittish creatures.

He's broad-shouldered and solid in the way that suggests real work rather than posturing, his sandy brown hair tousled by the morning breeze.

Freckles dust his fair skin like scattered stars, and his mossy green eyes hold a kindness that doesn't demand anything in return.

I know Lake by reputation—Jorren's eldest son, the one who fixes broken cart wheels and delivers firewood to the elderly without being asked.

He's quiet, reliable, the type of man who shows up when needed and disappears when the crisis passes.

But I've barely spoken to him beyond polite nods at the market.

"I don't know what's wrong with him," I admit, my voice cracking with exhaustion. "He's been fed, he's clean, he's warm. But he won't stop crying."

Lake steps closer, his calloused hands steady as he reaches for Braylon. "May I?"

I hesitate for a heartbeat—some primitive maternal instinct warning against letting anyone else hold my child. But desperation wins over caution, and I carefully transfer Braylon to Lake's arms.

The change is immediate and startling. Lake cradles my son against his chest with the easy confidence of someone who's soothed countless upset children. His large hands support Braylon's head and back perfectly, and he begins a gentle swaying motion that's more rhythm than rocking.

"There now," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, rumbling frequency that seems to cut through Braylon's hysteria. "Easy, little man. Nobody's going anywhere."

Braylon's cries stutter, then gradually subside to hiccupping whimpers. His tiny fists uncurl, and those startling silver-blue eyes blink open to stare up at Lake's face with the solemn attention of a scholar studying ancient texts.

"How did you—?" I start, then stop, too amazed to finish the question.

Lake's mouth quirks in a small smile. "Sometimes they just need a different voice.

Different heartbeat." He continues the gentle swaying, and I watch my son's face relax into the peaceful expression I've been desperately trying to achieve for the past hour.

"I've got four younger siblings. Learned early that there's no shame in tag-teaming a fussy baby. "

Relief floods through me so completely that my knees nearly buckle.

For weeks, I've felt like I'm failing at the most basic maternal instincts, that my missing memories have somehow stripped away the knowledge I need to care for my own child.

Watching Lake calm Braylon with such effortless skill should make me feel inadequate. Instead, it feels like salvation.

"He likes you," I observe, noting how Braylon's gaze tracks Lake's movements with unusual focus.

"Smart kid. Knows quality when he sees it." Lake's deadpan delivery makes me laugh despite my exhaustion. "Want to try walking him around the square? Sometimes the movement helps settle them when they're overstimulated."

We fall into step together, Lake maintaining that gentle sway as we circle the village well.

Braylon remains blissfully quiet, his small head tucked against Lake's shoulder like he's found the perfect resting spot.

Other villagers nod approvingly as we pass—the sight of a crying baby being soothed always earns goodwill in a place like Veylowe.

"You're good at this," I tell Lake, meaning it. There's something deeply reassuring about his presence, the way he handles my son with casual expertise while asking nothing in return.

He shrugs, a flush of pink creeping up his neck. "Just practice. You're doing fine, Kaleen. The first few months are hard for everyone."

The way he says it—without pity or judgment, just matter-of-fact acceptance—makes something tight in my chest loosen. I've grown so accustomed to the weight of others' curiosity about my past, their careful questions and meaningful glances, that Lake's simple kindness feels revolutionary.

We complete another circuit of the square before Braylon finally surrenders to sleep, his tiny body going limp with the boneless abandon of an exhausted infant. Lake transfers him back to my arms with the same gentle care, making sure I have a secure hold before releasing his support.

"Thank you," I whisper, afraid to speak too loudly and wake my sleeping son. "I was starting to think I was a terrible mother."

Lake's green eyes meet mine, serious and steady. "You're not. Sometimes we all need help carrying the load."

And that is so true for me right now.

Deep in the back of my mind, though, I swear there is a part of me screaming that I have someone. But all these months later, I still don't know who.