Page 17 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Son (Demon Daddies #7)

She tilts her head, studying me with those warm amber eyes that used to see straight through every wall I'd ever built.

"He likes stories. Especially ones about flying creatures.

He laughs when I make the sound effects for thalivern wings.

" Her arms uncross, hands falling to her sides.

"He's gentle with small things—insects, flowers, the village cats.

But he's fearless about climbing and jumping and getting into places he shouldn't. "

My vision blurs slightly. I can picture him—this brave, curious boy who carries pieces of both of us in his bones. "Does he... does he ask about his father?"

The question hangs between us like broken glass. Kaleen's eyes drop to the ground, and when she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper. "I'm sure he thinks Lake is."

The word punches through me, stealing what's left of my breath. My son calls another man father while I've spent two years not even knowing he existed.

"I want to meet him." The words tear out of me before I can stop them.

"I swear to you, Kaleen, I never hurt you.

Never would have hurt you. And I didn't—" My voice cracks, the careful composure I've maintained for two years finally fracturing.

"I didn't know about him. If I had known, nothing in any of the seven hells could have kept me away. "

Nothing kept me away when I thought it was just her. Now, I have so much more to lose and this is all killing me.

She's watching me again, those perceptive eyes cataloging every break in my voice, every tell that reveals how close to shattering I am. The silence stretches between us, filled with the weight of everything we can't say. Everything she can't remember.

"You really didn't know?" The question is soft, almost tentative.

"No." The word comes out hoarse. "I searched for you for two years. Every village, every trade route, every path you might have taken. I never stopped looking, never stopped believing I'd find you." I take a step closer, then stop when I see her tense. "Please. Let me meet our son."

Her expression shifts, something almost like recognition flickering across her features before it's gone again. She looks toward the cottage once more, and I catch the subtle shake of her head—a warning to whoever's watching from behind those curtains.

"He's at lessons right now," she says finally, her voice carefully neutral. "With Derri. She teaches the village children .

The fact that my son is learning to read sends an unexpected warmth through my chest. "How far?"

"Not far. But Domiel..." She pauses, and the way she says my name—hesitant but not unfamiliar—makes something twist deep in my ribcage. "He doesn't know you. And Lake has been... he's been the only father Braylon's ever known. I don't want to make this too hard on him."

The reminder hits like a blade between my ribs, but I force myself to nod. "I understand."

She studies me for a long moment, those amber eyes searching for something I'm not sure I can give her. Trust, maybe. Or proof that I won't shatter the careful life she's built from the pieces of her broken memories.

"All right," she says quietly. "But we do this my way."

I'd agree to anything right now. Anything that gets me closer to the son I never knew existed.

The walk through Veylowe feels endless and far too short at the same time. Kaleen moves beside me with that familiar purposeful stride, but I catch the way her fingers twist together when she thinks I'm not looking. The nervous energy she's trying to hide behind composed silence.

Villagers slow their morning tasks to stare as we pass, their eyes lingering on my wings, my height, the silver rings that mark me as nobility.

A few murmur greetings to Kaleen, but their gazes remain wary when they settle on me.

These people know her story—know she arrived here with no memories and a half-xaphan child growing in her belly.

They've clearly drawn their own conclusions about what that means.

If only they knew how wrong they are.

The cottage where lessons are held sits near the village center, smoke rising from its chimney in lazy spirals. Through the open windows, I can hear a woman's voice reading aloud, punctuated by the occasional burst of childish laughter.

One of those laughs—bright and fearless—stops me dead in my tracks.

"That's him," Kaleen says softly, and I realize she's been watching my face. "He laughs like you."

The observation hits me harder than it should.

Until two years ago, I rarely laughed at all.

But with Kaleen, laughter had come as easily as breathing.

The idea that my son carries even that small piece of our happiness makes my throat tight.

And the fact that she somehow knows what that sounds like… It gives me hope I shouldn't feel.

Kaleen knocks softly on the cottage door, and it opens to reveal a woman with dark curls and warm brown eyes. Derri, I assume. Her gaze flicks between us, taking in my wings, my obvious tension, before settling on Kaleen with gentle concern.

"Everything all right, Kaleen?"

"Fine. I just need to collect Braylon a bit early today."

Derri nods, though her eyes remain curious as she steps aside to let us enter.

The cottage interior is warmly lit, lined with books and children's drawings pinned to the walls.

A small group of children sits in a circle on woven mats, their faces turned up toward a book Derri was obviously reading from.

And there, among them, is my son.

My breath catches. He's even more beautiful up close—all dark gold hair and silver eyes with amber rings that catch the lamplight.

His small wings, barely more than downy feathered bumps, shift restlessly as he turns at the sound of our entrance.

When he sees Kaleen, his entire face lights up with pure joy.

"Mama!"

He scrambles to his feet, small legs carrying him across the room in an unsteady but determined run.

Kaleen scoops him up easily, settling him on her hip with the practiced grace of someone who's done this thousands of times.

The easy affection between them—the way he immediately curls into her neck, the gentle way she smooths down his rumpled hair—makes my chest feel hollow and full at the same time.

This is what I missed. This trust, this love, this perfect bond between mother and child.

Kaleen ushers us both outside, and I feel unnecessarily nervous as she tilts her head toward him.

"Braylon," Kaleen's voice is soft but clear, drawing his attention. "I want you to meet someone."

His silver gaze swings to me, and I see my own eyes reflected in miniature. For a moment, he simply stares, his head tilted in that curious way children have when they're processing something new. Then, without warning, he reaches out one small hand toward me.

"Wings," he says, the word clear despite his young age.

"Yes," I manage, my voice rougher than I intended. "I have wings."

Kaleen glances at me, something unreadable in her expression. "This is Domiel, sweetheart. He's... he's your..."

She falters, and I see her struggle with how to explain something she doesn't fully understand herself. But Braylon doesn't seem to need the explanation. He's still reaching for me, those silver eyes bright with curiosity rather than fear.

"Down!"

Kaleen hesitates, looking to me for confirmation. When I nod, she sets him gently on his feet. He stands there for a moment, studying me with an intensity that's both heartbreaking and humbling. Then, as if some invisible thread pulls him forward, he takes one step toward me. Then another.

I drop to my knees without thinking, bringing myself down to his level. My hands shake as I rest them on my thighs, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid to do anything that might break this fragile moment.

Braylon walks straight into my arms.

The trust in that simple gesture cracks something open in my chest that's been frozen for two years. He's so small, so perfect, fitting against me like he's always belonged there. His downy wings flutter against my palms as I carefully, reverently, close my arms around him.

"Hello, little one," I whisper against the soft gold of his hair.

He pulls back just enough to look at my face, those familiar eyes studying me with solemn attention. Then, with the matter-of-fact acceptance that only children possess, he settles more firmly against my chest.

For the first time in two years, I feel something that isn't hope or grief or desperate longing.

I feel joy.

Pure, uncomplicated joy at holding my son in my arms. At breathing in the sweet scent of his hair, feeling the solid warmth of his small body, watching those silver eyes—my eyes—brighten with curiosity rather than fear.

"Hi," he says, his voice muffled against my shirt.

I can't help the way his tiny voice twists me up.

I glance up at Kaleen, who's watching us with an expression I can't entirely read. Pain, maybe. Or recognition struggling against the blank spaces in her memory.

Braylon shifts in my arms, his small hand coming up to trace one of the silver rings on my finger. "Pretty," he murmurs, then looks back at my face with those too-perceptive eyes. "Play?"

The question hits me like a physical blow. How do I explain to a child that I've spent two years searching for him? That I'd rather die than leave him again?

"I'd love to play with you," I say carefully, glancing at Kaleen for permission I'm not sure I have any right to ask for. Or she has any to deny.

Braylon follows my gaze, then looks back at me with the serious expression of someone making an important decision. "Mama?" His voice carries the particular tone children use when they're about to ask for something they want very badly. "Play?"

And my heart fucking soars when she nods.