Page 15 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Son (Demon Daddies #7)

KALEEN

M y heart slams against my ribs as I watch Braylon race toward us, his small feet splashing through puddles with careless joy. Behind him, Lake's taller frame follows at a more measured pace, that familiar easy smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

But all I can see is the way Domiel has gone completely motionless beside me. The way those eyes track my son's approach with laser focus, drinking in every detail. And suddenly, with a clarity that makes my knees weak, I see what he sees.

The resemblance.

Braylon's face is still round with childhood softness, but the bone structure underneath—the sharp cheekbones, the determined set of his jaw, even the way his brow furrows in concentration—it's all there in Domiel's face.

Older, sharper, but unmistakably similar.

And those eyes. Braylon's pale silver gaze with its amber rings suddenly makes terrible sense when I see it reflected in this stranger's stare.

Silver-blue eyes.

How had I not realized before?

My mouth goes dry. The nagging sensation in my skull transforms into something rawer, more urgent. Not recognition exactly, but the horrible understanding that I'm standing at the edge of something that will shatter the life I've carefully built.

And a part of me—a large part if I'm being honest—wants that.

"Mama!" Braylon throws himself against my legs with the full enthusiasm of eighteen months, his small arms wrapping around my thighs. The top of his head barely reaches my hip, dark hair sticking up in impossible directions from whatever adventure he's been on. "Mama! Up! UP!"

His words wash over me, but I don't move. I can't do anything but stare between my son and the xaphan who claims to know me. The xaphan who's looking at Braylon like he's seeing a ghost.

"Braylon." My voice comes out strained, barely above a whisper. I smooth his wild hair with trembling fingers, needing the familiar comfort of his solid warmth against my legs. I need to take him inside, but I haven't moved.

"Hey there, little man." Lake's voice cuts through my stammered direction as he approaches, rough palm settling warm and familiar against my back. "You wore me out chasing after you."

The kiss he presses to my skin is soft, casual, the kind of absent affection that speaks to routine. To intimacy built over months of shared mornings and quiet evenings. It should comfort me. Should ground me in the reality of the life I know, the man who's been nothing but steady and kind.

Instead, the moment Lake's lips touch my temple, the air around us shifts.

Domiel's careful stillness explodes into something far more dangerous.

The controlled mask he's been wearing since I failed to recognize him cracks completely, revealing something primitive and territorial underneath.

His dark eyes fix on the point where Lake's mouth meets my skin, and the temperature seems to drop ten degrees.

Those white and gray wings spread slightly—not fully, but enough to make him appear larger, more imposing. More threatening. The subtle glow that emanates from his bronze skin dims to something darker, more ominous, like storm clouds gathering before lightning strikes.

"Don't." The word falls from his lips quiet and sharp as a blade. Not quite a command, but close enough that every instinct I have screams danger.

Lake's hand stills against my back, though he doesn't pull away.

His mossy green eyes narrow as he takes in Domiel's aggressive posture, the way those powerful wings cast shadows across the misted ground.

I feel the shift in his body language—the subtle straightening of his shoulders, the protective way he angles himself slightly in front of both Braylon and me.

"And you are?" Lake's voice carries the steady competence that's gotten us through countless difficult moments over the past year. No fear, just quiet assessment of a potential threat.

But Domiel doesn't answer. He can't answer, maybe, because he's staring at Lake's hand on me like it's a personal insult. Like the casual intimacy between us is physically painful for him to witness.

The silence stretches taut between them, heavy with masculine tension and unspoken challenges. I can feel Braylon's small body pressed against my legs, his chatter dying as even his young mind picks up on the danger crackling through the air.

My heart hammers wildly as pieces of a puzzle I never knew existed start sliding into place. The way Domiel looked at me. The way he's looking at Braylon now—not with surprise at finding a half-xaphan child in a human village, but with something deeper. More personal.

The way his wings spread wider when Lake touches me, like he wants to physically insert himself between us.

"Lake." I somehow find my voice, though it comes out hoarse and unsteady. "This is Domiel. He says... he says he knows me. From before."

The words taste strange in my mouth, inadequate for the magnitude of what I'm beginning to understand. Lake's expression shifts, protective concern giving way to something more complex. He knows about the blank spaces in my memory, knows I came to Veylowe with nothing but questions and fear.

But he doesn't know about the dreams that sometimes wake me in the middle of the night. Dreams of wings and warm bronze skin and a voice that whispers my name like a prayer. Dreams that leave me aching with loss for something I can't remember, can't name.

Dreams that suddenly feel less like fantasy and more like memory.

Domiel's gaze moves from Lake to my face, searching for something, what I'm not sure.

But what I see in his eyes makes my chest constrict with an emotion I can't name.

Not just pain, but devastation. The kind of raw anguish that comes from watching someone you love look through you like you're a stranger.

And underneath it all, barely leashed fury at the scene playing out before him. At Lake's casual claim to touches that Domiel clearly believes belong to him.

She's not yours. She's mine.

"Lake." My voice comes out steadier than I feel, though my hands shake as I gently untangle Braylon's arms from around my legs. "Could you... could you take Braylon inside? Please?"

Lake's mossy green eyes flick between me and Domiel, taking in the xaphan's predatory stillness, the way those dark wings remain partially spread in unmistakable threat. His jaw tightens, but he doesn't argue. That's Lake—always reading the room, always knowing when to push and when to step back.

"Come on, little man." Lake scoops Braylon up with practiced ease, settling my son against his broad chest. Braylon's small hands immediately fist in Lake's worn tunic, those pale silver eyes—so striking, so unusual—peering over Lake's shoulder at Domiel with unguarded curiosity.

"Let's see if we can find some of those honey cakes your mama hid. "

"Cakes!" Braylon's delighted giggle cuts through the tension like sunlight through storm clouds. He waves one chubby fist at me, then at Domiel, apparently deciding this tall stranger with the magnificent wings is just another part of his adventure. "Bye-bye, Mama! Bye-bye!"

The innocent words hit Domiel like a physical blow. I watch his face crumple for just a moment—raw pain flashing across those sharp features before he schools his expression back to careful neutrality.

Lake carries my boy toward the cottage, but not before pressing another kiss to my temple—deliberately slow, deliberately possessive. The message is clear even if the gesture is gentle. This is my family. This is my place.

The moment they disappear through the cottage door, Domiel's carefully maintained control explodes.

" Who was that?" His voice is low and dangerous, edged with barely leashed fury. Those dark eyes burn as they track the path Lake took, wings spreading wider until they cast long shadows across the misty ground. "Who just took my son inside?"

The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs. My son. Not a question, not a suggestion. A statement of absolute certainty that makes my knees weak and my head spin.

I already realized how similar they look, but the way he doesn't seem to even doubt… What am I missing?

"Your son?" The words tumble out of me, disbelief and something dangerously close to hope tangling in my chest. "You're saying... you're saying Braylon is...?"

"Mine." The word falls between us with the weight of absolute truth. Domiel takes a step closer, and I catch that scent again—cedar and storms and something indefinably otherworldly. "Ours. He's our son, Kaleen."

The certainty in his voice makes my breath stutter, makes something deep in my chest unfurl like recognition. But I can't trust it. Can't trust the way my heart wants to leap at his words, the way my body seems to know him even when my mind remains frustratingly blank.

I shake my head, backing away from the intensity in his dark stare. "I don't... I can't remember..."

"Look at him." Domiel's voice turns urgent, desperate. "Really look at him, Kaleen. Those eyes, that bone structure. He's growing wings, for Solas's sake—tiny ones, just like mine were at his age."

The words slam into me with crushing force, and suddenly the constant ache behind my eyes transforms into something sharper, more vicious. Like claws raking across the inside of my skull, trying to tear through layers of fog and confusion to reach something buried beneath.

Images flash—fragmented, painful, impossible to hold onto. Bronze skin gleaming in candlelight. Strong hands cradling my face. A voice whispering my name with desperate tenderness. The phantom sensation of wings wrapping around me, protective and warm and achingly familiar.

"I..." The pain builds, nauseating in its intensity. My vision blurs at the edges, and I press the heels of my palms against my temples as if I can somehow push the agony away. "I can't... it hurts..."

The world tilts sideways, and I double over slightly, gasping for breath as my skull feels like it might crack open from the pressure. Distantly, I'm aware of making some kind of wounded sound—half sob, half whimper—as my body betrays me.

"Kaleen." Domiel's voice changes completely, fury melting into concern so profound it cuts through the haze of pain. "Kaleen, breathe. Look at me."

I feel him move closer, feel the warm presence of him just inches away, but he doesn't touch me.

Doesn't crowd me when I'm clearly struggling.

The restraint in that simple gesture—the way he holds himself back when every line of his body screams that he wants to reach for me—speaks to a knowledge of me that goes bone-deep.

"Go inside." His voice is gentle now, carefully modulated to not add to my distress. Those magnificent wings fold back against his shoulders, making him appear smaller, less threatening. "You're pushing too hard. We'll... we'll talk again soon."

The kindness in his tone nearly undoes me. This stranger who claims to know me, who says my son is his son, who looked ready to tear Lake apart with his bare hands—he's backing down because I'm in pain. Because he can see that forcing this conversation will only hurt me more.

"Domiel, I?—"

"Go." But there's no harshness in the command, only infinite patience. Only the voice of someone who's learned to wait, even when waiting feels like dying. "I'm not going anywhere, Kaleen. I'll be here when you're ready."

My body vibrates with the need to stay and talk to him, to finally understand . But I'm barely holding it together and it's so much to process so I force myself to turn and walk away when everything in me is screaming to stay.

And I can't make sense of that either.