Page 16 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Son (Demon Daddies #7)

DOMIEL

I watch her disappear through the cottage door, my chest constricting with every step that takes her further from me.

Two years. Two fucking years of searching every village, every trade route, every gods-damned path she might have taken.

And now I've found her, only to discover she doesn't know me at all.

The rain starts again as I make my way up the hillside that overlooks Veylowe, settling beneath an ancient tree whose sprawling branches provide some shelter.

From here, I can see the warm glow spilling from her cottage windows, can watch the shadows moving behind the curtains.

Can torture myself with glimpses of the life she's built without me.

Without any memory of us.

My wings fold tight against my back as I sink down against the tree trunk, the rough bark biting through my shirt.

The cold seeps through my clothes, through my skin, but I barely notice.

All I can think about is the way she looked at me—polite confusion where there should have been recognition.

Wariness where there should have been joy.

And that bastard's hands on her. The casual intimacy of his kiss, the protective way he angled himself between us. Like he has any right to touch what's mine.

My son.

The knowledge hits me again like a physical blow, stealing what's left of my breath. I have a son. Braylon—that beautiful, bright-eyed boy with my bone structure and Kaleen's stubborn chin. He treated that human male like family. Like the father he believes him to be.

My hands clench into fists, silver rings biting into my fingers as fury and grief war within my chest. That should be me.

I should have been there when Braylon took his first steps, spoke his first words.

Should have been there to hold Kaleen through the long nights of pregnancy, to feel our son's first kicks beneath her skin.

I never even knew she was pregnant.

And now, some faceless human has stepped into my place. Has claimed my family while I've spent two years going slowly insane with worry and loss.

The rain intensifies, turning the ground beneath me to mud, but I don't move.

Can't move. Every instinct I have screams to march back down that hill, to tear that cottage apart until I find answers.

To demand Kaleen remember me, remember us, remember the love that nearly destroyed me when I lost it.

But the pain in her eyes when she tried to remember—that genuine agony as she pressed her palms to her temples—that stops me cold. Whatever happened to her, whatever stole her memories, it left damage. Pushing too hard will only hurt her more.

And I'd rather die than hurt her.

A movement in the cottage window draws my attention, and my breath catches.

Kaleen's silhouette appears, backlit by the warm glow of lamplight.

She's holding Braylon, rocking him gently as she moves about the room.

Even from this distance, I can see the tender way she cradles him, the love in every careful gesture.

She's a mother. My fierce, brilliant Kaleen is a mother, and she's magnificent at it.

The human appears beside her, and I watch him slide an arm around her waist, pulling her back against his chest as they both look down at our son. The casual domesticity of it makes my vision blur with rage and something dangerously close to despair.

This is what she knows. This quiet life with this steady man who probably never leaves her wondering where she stands, never disappears for weeks on end because of work deadlines. Someone uncomplicated, dependable.

Everything I'm not.

My wings rustle against the tree trunk as I shift position, trying to ease the hollow ache in my chest. The movement sends water cascading from the branches above, soaking through my already-damp shirt.

I should leave. Should find an inn in the village, get dry, plan my next move with some semblance of rationality.

But I can't. Can't put any more distance between myself and the family I've been searching for. Can't risk waking up to find this has all been some cruel dream, that Kaleen is still lost and Braylon is still unknown to me.

The cottage door opens, and the human steps out onto the covered porch. Even through the rain and darkness, I can feel his eyes scanning the hillside. Looking for me. His posture radiates protective tension, the careful alertness of a man guarding what he considers his.

Let him look. Let him understand that I'm not going anywhere.

After several minutes, he disappears back inside, but I catch the deliberate way he secures the door, the extra attention he pays to the window latches. He knows I'm out here. Knows I'm a threat to the life he's built with my woman and my son.

He's not wrong.

Hours pass. The rain tapers off to a fine mist, then stops altogether, leaving the night air crisp and clean.

Stars emerge between the breaking clouds, and the village settles into sleep around me.

One by one, the cottage windows go dark until only a single lamp glows in what I assume is Kaleen's bedroom.

I imagine her in there, brushing out that beautiful chestnut hair I used to love running my fingers through.

Changing into whatever she wears to sleep now—probably something practical and worn, nothing like the silk nightgowns I used to buy her.

Does she still sleep on her left side? Still steal all the blankets in her sleep?

Does she dream of me the way I've dreamed of her every night for two years?

The bedroom light flickers and goes out, plunging the cottage into complete darkness. But I don't move from my vigil. Can't move when every breath brings me the faint scent of woodsmoke from her chimney, when every shift of the wind carries whispers of the life happening just beyond my reach.

Dawn feels like a lifetime away, but I'll wait. I've gotten good at waiting these past two years. Good at patience born of desperation, at hope that refuses to die no matter how much evidence suggests it should.

I found them. Against all odds, against every rational expectation, I found my family.

Now I just need to figure out how to get them back.

The morning light cuts through the mist like a blade, illuminating the village below as it stirs to life.

I haven't moved from my position beneath the tree, my clothes still damp from the night's rain, my body stiff from hours of motionless watching.

But the discomfort means nothing when I see her cottage door open and Kaleen emerge.

She moves with the same fluid grace I remember, her chestnut hair caught in a loose braid that swings against her shoulder blades.

The morning sun catches the gold threads woven through the brown, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.

She's wearing a simple green dress that brings out the amber flecks in her eyes, practical boots that suggest a life of honest work.

She glances up the hillside once—a quick, nervous sweep that makes my chest tighten—before heading toward the village center. I watch until she disappears between the buildings, her silhouette swallowed by the maze of stone cottages and morning shadows.

The human took Braylon somewhere earlier, and that has been slowly driving me mad, too.

My hands clench against the tree bark as I force myself to remain still, to wait.

Every instinct screams to follow her, to corner her somewhere private and demand answers to the thousands of questions burning through my mind.

But startling her in public, surrounded by villagers who clearly consider her one of their own, would only make things worse.

So I wait. Watch the smoke curl from chimneys, listen to the distant sounds of a village waking up.

Children's laughter carries on the morning breeze, and I wonder if one of those voices belongs to my son.

If he's playing somewhere below while I sit here like a stalker, afraid to claim what should have been mine all along.

An hour passes. Maybe two. Then I see her returning, alone as I'd hoped. She moves more slowly now, a basket balanced on her hip, her head slightly bowed as if lost in thought. Or perhaps troubled by memories she can't quite grasp.

I wait until she's nearly at her cottage door before I stand, stepping out from beneath the tree's sheltering branches. The movement sends a cascade of water droplets from the leaves above, and the sound makes her freeze mid-step.

She turns slowly, and I see the exact moment recognition hits—not of me, but of the inevitability she's been trying to avoid. Her shoulders square, chin lifting with that familiar stubborn tilt that used to drive me crazy during our arguments about her safety.

"I need to talk to you." My voice carries easily across the distance between us, rougher than I intended. Two years of calling her name into empty spaces has worn it raw.

Kaleen sets the basket down on her doorstep, her movements careful and deliberate. When she straightens, her amber eyes meet mine with a steadiness that makes my throat tight. "I figured as much. You've been up there all night."

"You knew?"

"Lake saw you." She crosses her arms over her chest, the gesture both defensive and achingly familiar. "Hard to miss a xaphan with wings brooding on a hillside."

The casual way she says the human's name—Lake—makes my jaw clench. But I force myself to focus on what matters. "I want to know about my son."

Something flickers across her face at that—pain, maybe, or confusion. She glances toward the cottage, and I catch the subtle movement of a curtain in one of the windows. Someone's watching us.

"His name is Braylon." Her voice softens, and the love in it hits me like a physical blow. "He's eighteen months old. Learns new words every day, though most of them are questions. 'What's that? Why? Where?'" A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "He never stops moving unless he's asleep."

"What else?" The words scrape out of me, desperate and raw.