Page 14 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Son (Demon Daddies #7)

KALEEN

T he crowd's voices rise around us like storm winds, overlapping and urgent.

"Get away from her!"

"Xaphan don't belong here!"

"Kaleen, step back!"

But their shouts feel distant, muffled, like hearing voices through deep water.

All I can focus on is this stranger who claims to know me.

This impossibly tall figure with wings that catch the rune-light like spun silver, whose dark eyes bore into mine with an intensity that makes my chest tight.

There's something about the way he says my name— Kaleen —like it belongs in his mouth.

Like he's said it a thousand times before.

The nagging sensation in the back of my mind grows stronger, insistent as a knock at a door I'm afraid to open. Not quite memory, but something deeper. Recognition without understanding, like glimpsing your own reflection in unfamiliar glass.

Especially as I look at his eyes. From this distance, they are bright. Maybe silver. Maybe even the silver-blue that haunts my dreams.

"Enough." I raise my voice, cutting through the villagers' protective fury. My hands shake, so I press them flat against my thighs, willing steadiness I don't feel. "Let me just talk to him."

Marnai's sharp eyes narrow on me. "Kaleen, you don't need to?—"

"I can handle this." The words come out calmer than I feel, each syllable carefully controlled. I've learned over two years how to project confidence even when uncertainty claws at my throat. "Please. Give us space."

Tolle steps forward, his broad frame radiating aggression. "That xaphan could?—"

"Could what? Harm me in front of the entire village?" I meet his gaze steadily, even as my pulse hammers against my ribs. "I'll be fine. Just... watch from a distance if you must."

The crowd exchanges glances, reluctance written in every line of their bodies.

These people who took me in when I had nothing, who helped me build a life from the scattered pieces of whatever came before.

They don't trust easily, especially when it comes to xaphan, and their protective instincts are deeply ingrained.

But they know me well enough to recognize when I've made up my mind.

Marnai nods once, sharp and decisive. "Around the corner, then. No farther."

"Of course." I force my lips into something resembling a smile, though it feels brittle as winter ice.

The stranger—Domiel, he said his name was—hasn't moved during this exchange.

He stands perfectly still, those dark eyes tracking every word, every gesture.

There's something predatory in his patience, like a hunter who knows exactly when to strike.

But underneath that controlled exterior, I catch glimpses of something else. Desperation, maybe. Pain.

Why would a xaphan like him be in pain over me?

I turn without another word, my basket forgotten in the scattered herbs at my feet.

My legs feel unsteady as I walk toward my cottage, each step deliberate and measured.

The modest stone dwelling feels smaller suddenly, inadequate under his scrutiny.

It's nothing compared to whatever grand estate a xaphan of his obvious status must call home.

The thought comes unbidden, unwelcome. How do I know he has status? How do I know anything about xaphan estates?

The nagging sensation intensifies as I round the corner of my home, leading him away from the crowd's protective circle.

Here, shielded by stone walls and the thick mist that clings to everything in Veylowe, the world narrows to just the two of us.

The weight of his presence behind me is almost physical, like standing too close to a fire.

When I turn to face him, my hands betray me with their trembling. I clasp them behind my back, lifting my chin in a gesture I hope projects more confidence than I feel.

"You said you've been looking for me for two years." My voice comes out steadier than expected, though my chest aches with each word. Because that fact at least makes sense. I've been here for two years. "Why?"

He's close enough now that I can see the exhaustion carved into his angular features, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead in unruly waves.

There's a scar at his temple, thin and white against his pale skin.

His clothes speak of wealth and quality, but they're travel-worn, wrinkled from countless nights sleeping rough.

This is not a xaphan who came here on a whim. This is someone who has been searching, just as he claimed.

But it's his eyes that undo me. Bright and intense, yes, but there's something in them that makes my breath catch. Pain. Longing. And underneath it all, a tenderness that feels impossibly familiar.

They are silver-blue.

Why does looking at him make my chest ache like something vital has been carved away? Is he the man from my dreams?

Those bright eyes move over my face like he's memorizing every detail—the way my hair catches the misted light, the nervous press of my lips, the way I hold myself just slightly apart from him.

There's something almost reverent in his scrutiny, like he's looking at something precious he thought was lost forever.

The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken words. I want to fill it, to demand answers, to push him away from whatever pain I see flickering in his expression.

But something holds me back. Maybe it's the way he looks at me—not with the possessive hunger I've heard xaphan show toward their human servants, but with something deeper. Something that makes my stomach flutter with recognition I can't name.

When he finally speaks, his voice is so quietly broken it barely reaches me above the whisper of wind through the trees.

"You really don't know who I am."

It's not a question. It's a statement weighted with two years of hope slowly crumbling into dust. The devastation in his tone hits me like a physical blow, and I find myself taking a half-step toward him before I catch myself.

My teeth find my lower lip, worrying the soft flesh as I struggle to find words that won't add to whatever wounds I've already opened. "I'm sorry." The words taste inadequate, bitter as dreelk leaves. "I... were you my...?"

I can't bring myself to finish the question, but the meaning hangs between us anyway.

Master. The word that explains everything about why a xaphan would travel so far to find one lost human.

Why he'd spend two years searching. I've seen the scars on my own wrist. The faded mark of indenture that tells its own story about who I must have been before Veylowe.

But something shifts in his expression when I don't finish—a flash of something that might be pain or anger or both. He blinks once, slowly, and when he opens his eyes again, there's a careful blankness there that somehow hurts worse than the devastation.

"You were never my property."

The words are quiet but firm, carrying a weight that makes my chest tighten inexplicably.

He straightens slightly, and for the first time since he appeared in the square, some of that predatory stillness falls away.

What remains is exhaustion and a politeness that feels forced, like armor hastily donned.

"My name is Domiel Saevrix." His voice carries the cadence of formal introduction, though it cracks slightly on his surname. "You lived with me. Freely. Happily, I thought."

Lived with him. Not worked for him or served him, but lived . The distinction should matter, but all I feel is the sharp ache in my temples that always comes when I try to push past the wall in my memory. Like pressing against broken glass—painful and ultimately futile.

I close my eyes briefly, willing something to surface. Anything. A face, a voice, a moment that might explain why this stranger's presence makes my skin feel too tight, why my body wants to step closer even as my mind screams warnings.

But there's nothing. Just the same void that's haunted me for two years, and the growing pain behind my eyes that tells me I'm pushing too hard again.

When I open my eyes, he's still watching me with that careful blankness, but I catch the way his hands clench at his sides. The barely controlled tension in his shoulders. Whatever we were to each other, my lack of recognition is tearing him apart.

Before I can find words—apology or explanation or anything—the sound of running footsteps cuts through the misted quiet. Small feet pounding against packed earth, heading straight for us.

"Mama!"

Braylon's voice rings clear and bright through the afternoon air. I turn toward the sound with a smile already tugging at my lips, the tension in my shoulders easing automatically at his call. My boy, racing toward me with his dark hair flying and those unusual pale eyes bright with excitement.

But when I glance back at Domiel, he's gone completely still.

Not the careful stillness from before, but something deeper. Absolute. Predatory. His entire body has locked into perfect immobility, and those eyes are fixed on my approaching son with an intensity that raises every protective instinct I possess.