Page 18 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Son (Demon Daddies #7)

KALEEN

A few days pass in a careful dance of boundaries and tentative trust. Domiel doesn't push—doesn't demand more time than I'm willing to give, doesn't ask questions I can't answer.

He simply shows up each morning at the edge of the village, patient as stone, waiting for whatever scraps of his son's life I'm prepared to share.

And Braylon... Braylon takes to him like he's been waiting his whole short life for this particular person to appear.

I watch them now from the cottage doorstep, my hands wrapped around a cooling cup of meadowmint tea that's gone bitter from neglect.

They're crouched together beside the old stump that serves as Braylon's favorite climbing challenge, their dark gold heads bent over something Domiel is showing him.

Small blocks of wood, I think, carved with symbols I don't recognize but that make Braylon's eyes widen with fascination.

"Look, Mama!" Braylon's voice carries across the yard, bright with excitement. He holds up one of the blocks, his small fingers struggling with its weight. "Magic!"

It's not magic—at least, not the kind that sparks and burns. But when Domiel arranges the blocks in a specific pattern, they seem to hum with some inner energy that makes the air shimmer slightly. Braylon claps his hands together, those silver eyes with their amber rings reflecting pure delight.

The sound of his laughter does something dangerous to my chest. Makes it tight and warm in a way that has nothing to do with the morning sun.

Domiel's mouth curves into something that might generously be called a smile, though it's softer than anything I've seen from him before.

Gentler. The sharp edges that seem carved into his features blur when he looks at our son, as if Braylon's joy has the power to reshape even the hardest lines of his face.

"Your turn," Domiel says, his voice pitched low but carrying clearly in the still air. He nudges another block toward Braylon with one long finger. "Can you put it here?"

Braylon's face scrunches in concentration as he studies the pattern.

His tongue pokes out slightly—a habit that makes my heart clench because I know, somehow, that it means he's thinking hard.

After a moment of careful deliberation, he places the block with the focused precision of someone far older than eighteen months.

The blocks pulse once with gentle light, and Braylon squeals with triumph, launching himself at Domiel with the fearless affection that defines everything about my son's approach to the world.

Domiel catches him easily, those powerful arms closing around Braylon's small frame with a care that borders on reverence. For a moment, they're perfectly still—father and son silhouetted against the morning light, dark gold heads pressed together, and something in my chest fractures just a little.

This should feel familiar. Should feel like coming home instead of watching strangers discover each other.

But it doesn't. And the guilt of that sits heavy in my throat like swallowed stones.

"Again!" Braylon demands, wriggling in Domiel's arms until he's set back on his feet. "More!"

"Patience," Domiel murmurs, but he's already reaching for another set of blocks. The word carries an accent I can't place, vowels shaped by a language that isn't quite human. "The best magic requires patience."

There's something in his tone—a depth that suggests he's speaking from hard-won experience. As if patience is something he's had to learn rather than something that came naturally.

Braylon considers this with the gravity of someone weighing profound wisdom. Then he nods solemnly. "Patience," he repeats, the word massacred by his little tone.

But Domiel just nods. "That's right. It means we wait. We don't rush."

They settle back into their quiet work, and I find myself studying the way Domiel moves.

Everything about him is controlled, measured—from the precise placement of his hands to the deliberate cadence of his words.

But underneath that careful composure, there's something almost hungry in the way he watches Braylon.

As if he's trying to memorize every expression, every gesture, every fleeting moment of connection.

Like a man who's afraid it might all disappear again.

The thought hits me harder than it should. Makes me wonder what kind of life he's lived that would make him hold even joy so carefully, as if it's something that might be stolen away without warning.

Lake appears at my elbow, his presence solid and comforting as he settles onto the step beside me.

His arm slides around my shoulders in a gesture so familiar it barely registers, though I notice the way Domiel's head turns sharply at the movement.

The way those silver-blue eyes track Lake's every touch with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

"He's good with him," Lake says quietly, his voice carefully neutral.

I nod, not trusting my voice. Because he is good with Braylon—patient where I sometimes lose my temper, calm where I worry, confident in ways that seem to settle something restless in our son's spirit.

"Mama, Lake, look!" Braylon's voice cuts through the strange tension threading between the three adults. He's pointing at the blocks, which now pulse with steady, gentle light in a pattern that looks almost like a heartbeat. "Pretty!"

It's obvious Domiel doesn't like how excited Braylon is to see Lake.

I see his shoulders tense, see something sharp and pained flash across his features before that careful mask slides back into place.

But his hands don't falter as he helps Braylon arrange the next set of blocks, his voice steady when he praises our son's careful work.

Lake's arm tightens around me, a subtle reminder of where my loyalties are supposed to lie. But all I can focus on is the way Domiel's jaw clenches when Braylon uses that title, the way his silver rings catch the light as his hands curl once into fists before deliberately relaxing.

This man—this stranger who claims I once belonged to him—is breaking apart by inches, and some traitorous part of me wants to comfort him.

I want to smooth the sharp lines from his face and tell him that everything will be all right, even though I have no right to make such promises. No memory of ever having the power to heal whatever wounds he carries.

But watching him with Braylon, seeing the careful tenderness in every gesture, the reverent way he says our son's name—it stirs something in me that feels old and deep and frighteningly certain.

Something that whispers this is right, this is how it should be, even as my rational mind insists it can't be true.

Because if it were true, if this beautiful, broken man really was the missing piece of my shattered memories, then what does that make the life I've built here?

What does that make the quiet contentment I've found with Lake, the simple peace of a world where nobody expects more than I can give?

The questions circle in my mind like hungry carrion birds, picking at the edges of a certainty I thought was unshakeable.

And all the while, Domiel and Braylon continue their careful work, building patterns of light and magic that seem far too much like the foundation for something I'm not sure I'm brave enough to want.

The cottage feels smaller than usual after I retrieve Braylon from his evening with Domiel. My son is drowsy and pliant, his small body warm against my chest as I carry him inside, but his eyes stay fixed on the doorway as if he's already counting the hours until morning brings his father back.

Lake follows us in, his footsteps heavier than usual on the wooden floor.

There's a tension in his shoulders that's been building for days—a tightness that speaks of words held back, patience wearing thin.

He helps me navigate Braylon's bedtime routine with the practiced ease of someone who's done this countless times, but his usual gentle humor is absent.

Instead, he moves through the motions with mechanical precision, his mossy green eyes distant and troubled.

Braylon fights sleep longer than usual, his small hands reaching toward the window as if he can summon Domiel back through sheer force of will. When I finally settle him in his small bed, tucking the worn quilt around his shoulders, he whispers something that makes my chest tighten.

"Papa magic," he murmurs, his voice thick with approaching sleep. "Pretty lights."

We explained to him that Domiel was his papa, and he has clung to that word. Papa, Papa, Papa. It goes with almost every word he says now.

I smooth his dark hair back from his forehead, those familiar gold glints catching the lamplight. "Sleep now, little one."

But even as his breathing evens out, I catch Lake watching from the doorway, his expression unreadable in the flickering shadows. The silence stretches between us as we retreat to the main room, heavy with all the things neither of us wants to say.

Lake moves to the hearth, feeding logs to the dying fire with more force than necessary.

The flames leap higher, casting dancing shadows across his broad frame and highlighting the tension in every line of his body.

His sandy brown hair is more tousled than usual, as if he's been running his hands through it, and the freckles across his face stand out starkly against skin that's gone pale with worry.

"We need to talk," he says finally, his voice rougher than usual.

I settle into one of the two worn chairs by the fire, pulling my shawl tighter around my shoulders.

The fabric is soft, familiar—something Lake's mother knitted for me during my first winter in Veylowe.

A gesture of acceptance, of belonging. But tonight it feels like armor, a barrier between me and whatever conversation Lake has been building toward.

"I know what you're going to say."

He turns from the fire, those green eyes searching my face with an intensity that makes me want to look away. "Do you? Because I don't think you understand what's happening here, Kaleen. What's at risk."

His hands clench at his sides, the long scar down his forearm standing out white against his sun-bronzed skin.

Lake isn't a man given to grand gestures or dramatic speeches—when he speaks, it's because he has something worth saying.

But tonight, there's a desperation in his voice that I've never heard before.

"He's xaphan," Lake continues, the words coming faster now, as if he's afraid he'll lose his nerve. "Winged, magical, powerful. And you're just... you're letting him waltz back into your life like the past two years meant nothing."

I open my mouth to protest, but he holds up a hand, cutting me off.

"I've watched you with him, Kaleen. Seen the way you look at him when you think no one's paying attention.

And I get it—he's Braylon's father, he's got that otherworldly thing going on that probably made your heart race back when you knew him.

But what happens when he gets bored? When whatever business brought him here is finished and he decides to move on? "

Lake's voice cracks slightly on the last words, revealing the hurt beneath his anger. He sinks into the chair across from me, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his broad hands clasped so tightly his knuckles have gone white.

"You don't remember him, Kaleen. You don't remember why you were running when you ended up here. Maybe there's a good reason for that. Maybe your mind is protecting you from something you're better off forgetting."

The words hit me like physical blows, each one precisely aimed at the doubts I've been trying to ignore.

Because he's right—I don't remember. Don't know what kind of relationship Domiel and I had, what drove me away from him in the first place.

The few fragments of memory that stir when I look at him are frustratingly vague—impressions of warmth and safety that could just as easily be wishful thinking.

But even as my rational mind acknowledges the truth in Lake's concerns, something deeper rebels against his words.

Something that recognizes the careful way Domiel moves around me, as if I'm made of spun glass.

The reverence in his voice when he speaks my name.

The way he looks at me sometimes—like I'm a miracle he never expected to see again.

"He hasn't tried to take Braylon," I say quietly. "Hasn't made any demands or threats. He just... wants to know his son."

Lake's laugh is bitter, humorless. "For now. But what about tomorrow? Next week? What happens when he decides that knowing isn't enough, that he wants custody? You think a human woman with no memories and no legal standing is going to be able to fight a xaphan lord for her child?"

The fear in his voice is genuine, born of love and protectiveness and a deep, abiding terror of loss. Lake has built his life around the quiet certainty of belonging somewhere, of being needed. The idea of that stability being ripped away is clearly torture for him.

But as I watch the firelight play across his familiar features—the broad, honest face that's been my anchor for two years—I can't shake the feeling that I'm the one who's drowning.

Because Lake is wrong about one thing. When I look at Domiel, it's not my heart that races with remembered attraction or the flutter of new fascination.

It's something deeper, more fundamental.

Something that whispers home in a voice I've been hearing in dreams for two years without understanding what it meant.

"I hear what you're saying," I tell him, my voice carefully measured. "And I understand why you're worried. But I can't make decisions based on fear of what might happen."

Lake's jaw tightens, his green eyes flashing with frustration. "Then make them based on what you know. You know me, Kaleen. You know I love you, love Braylon. You know I'd never hurt either of you, never abandon you. Can you say the same about him?"

The question hangs between us like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. And the terrible truth is that I can't answer it—not with the certainty Lake needs, not with the logic he deserves.

Because what I know about Domiel could fit in a thimble. But what I feel when he's near... that's something else entirely. Something that makes the careful life I've built here feel suddenly fragile, like a house of cards waiting for the right wind to bring it all tumbling down.

Because Domiel… He feels like home.