Page 19 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Son (Demon Daddies #7)

KALEEN

T he first time I linger, it's purely practical.

Braylon has fallen asleep against Domiel's shoulder while they worked on some intricate wooden puzzle that hums with gentle magic, and I can't bring myself to wake him.

The afternoon light slants through the trees at the edge of the village, catching the gold threads in both their hair and making them look like they're carved from the same precious metal.

"He's tired himself out," Domiel murmurs, his voice pitched low to avoid disturbing our son.

His large hand rests protectively on Braylon's back, those long fingers spanning nearly the entire width of his small torso.

"The magic work takes concentration. More than most children his age can sustain. "

I settle onto the grass beside them, close enough that I catch the faint scent of stone dust and something indefinably warm that seems to cling to Domiel's skin. "He's always been focused when something catches his interest. Almost stubborn about it."

Something flickers across Domiel's features—surprise, maybe, or recognition. "Where do you think he gets that from?"

The question could be innocent, but there's weight behind it.

An implication that he knows the answer, knows me well enough to see my own traits reflected in our son.

I find myself studying his profile as he gazes down at Braylon, noting the sharp line of his jaw, the way his silver-blue eyes soften when they rest on our child.

"I don't know," I admit quietly. "There's a lot about myself I don't know."

Domiel's gaze shifts to me then, and the intensity of it makes my breath catch.

Those pale eyes seem to see straight through every careful wall I've built around my missing memories.

"You were always like that. Once you decided something was worth your attention, you pursued it with single-minded determination.

It's one of the things that—" He stops abruptly, jaw clenching as if he's bitten back words he didn't mean to speak.

"One of the things that what?"

But he just shakes his head, attention returning to Braylon's sleeping form. "It doesn't matter. That was before."

The dismissal stings more than it should. Makes me want to push, to demand answers to questions I'm not sure I'm ready to hear. But something in his expression—a careful blankness that feels deliberately constructed—warns me off.

So instead, I ask about the puzzle pieces scattered around us, about the magic that makes them respond to Braylon's touch.

Domiel explains with the patience of a natural teacher, his hands moving as he describes how young xaphan children learn to channel their abilities through focused play.

His voice is rich and precise, shaped by that faint accent that does strange things to my nerves.

When Braylon finally stirs, blinking sleepy silver eyes in the golden afternoon light, I realize we've been talking for over an hour. The conversation flows so easily between us that I forget to guard my words, forget to maintain the careful distance I've been trying to preserve.

It becomes a pattern after that. Each day, when I come to collect Braylon, I find reasons to stay.

Just for a few minutes at first. Then longer.

Domiel never pushes, never suggests I linger, but he doesn't seem surprised when I settle beside them on the grass or accept his quiet invitations to walk while Braylon explores.

"Tell me about the village," he says one evening as we stroll along the edge of the forest. Braylon has discovered a patch of late-blooming aracin blossoms and is carefully examining each one with the intense focus that marks all his explorations. "What's it like, living here?"

I find myself describing Veylowe in ways I never have before—not just the practical details of daily life, but the deeper rhythms that govern our small community.

The way everyone knows everyone else's business but pretends not to.

How the baker's wife always has too many loaves and distributes them to families with more children than income.

The quiet contentment of a place where nothing much changes and most people prefer it that way.

"It sounds peaceful," Domiel says, and there's something almost wistful in his voice. "Safe."

"It is." I glance at him, noting the way his wings shift restlessly behind him even when the rest of his body remains perfectly still. "Is that... not something you're used to?"

His mouth curves in what might charitably be called a smile, though it's edged with something too sharp to be humor.

"Peace is a luxury most of my kind can't afford.

There's always a deadline, always another project that needs completing before the magical matrices destabilize or some noble family decides their ethereal architect isn't meeting expectations. "

The words are delivered with casual precision, but I catch the undercurrent of exhaustion beneath them. The bone-deep weariness of someone who's spent years carrying burdens too heavy for any one person to bear.

Without thinking, I reach out and touch his arm. His skin is warm beneath the fine fabric of his shirt, solid and real in a way that makes something deep in my chest flutter to life. "That sounds lonely."

Domiel goes very still under my touch, those silver-blue eyes fixing on my face with an intensity that steals my breath. For a moment, the careful mask he wears slips, revealing something raw and hungry and desperately hopeful.

"It was," he says quietly. "Until it wasn't."

The words hang between us like a confession, heavy with meanings I can't quite grasp.

My hand is still on his arm, and I can feel his pulse beneath my fingertips—steady, strong, slightly too fast. The late sunlight catches the gold threads in his dark hair, and I have the strangest urge to brush them back from his face.

The thought is so unexpected, so completely inappropriate given my relationship with Lake, that I snatch my hand back as if burned. Heat floods my cheeks, and I quickly turn my attention back to Braylon, who's now attempting to coax one of the aracin blossoms to follow him like a pet.

But I can still feel Domiel watching me, can sense the weight of his attention like a physical thing. And when I risk a glance in his direction, the careful emptiness has returned to his features, though something still burns behind his eyes.

The walk back to the cottage feels both too long and not nearly long enough.

I find myself cataloguing small details about Domiel that I've somehow failed to notice before—the way he adjusts his pace to match mine without seeming to think about it, how his wings curve slightly forward when he laughs at something Braylon does, the unconscious elegance of his movements even when he's just walking across uneven ground.

Lake is waiting when we return, his broad frame silhouetted in the cottage doorway.

His smile is warm when he greets us, but I catch the way his green eyes track from me to Domiel and back again.

The way they linger on the space between us, as if he's trying to measure some invisible distance that might tell him whether his fears are justified.

"Good day?" he asks as I hand Braylon over for his evening bath.

"Yes." The word comes out slightly breathless, though I can't say why. "Braylon's been practicing with those wooden blocks again. He's getting remarkably good at arranging them."

Lake nods, but his attention has already shifted to Domiel, who hovers at the edge of our small garden with the careful stillness of someone who knows he's not entirely welcome but isn't quite ready to leave.

"You're not staying for dinner?" Lake's question is politely neutral, but there's steel underneath it. A quiet reminder of boundaries, of who belongs here and who doesn't.

Domiel's silver rings catch the light as his hands clench once at his sides. "No. I should return to my inn."

He turns to go, then pauses, his gaze finding mine across the small space that suddenly feels vast. "Tomorrow?"

The single word is a question, a request, a prayer all at once. And despite every rational reason I should maintain distance, despite Lake's growing concern and the voice in my head that whispers I'm playing with fire, I hear myself answer.

"Tomorrow."

The night brings dreams that leave me gasping awake in the pre-dawn darkness, my heart hammering against my ribs and Lake's arm heavy across my waist. But for once, the man who haunts my sleep isn't faceless.

I see flashes of silver-blue eyes bright with laughter, catch fragments of a voice I recognize saying words I can't quite remember.

You're magnificent when you're angry, you know that?

Come here.

I love the way you think.

The memories—if that's what they are—feel like stepping into someone else's story. But they're vivid enough to make my skin burn, real enough that I find myself reaching across the bed for someone who isn't there before I remember where I am. Who I'm supposed to be with.

Lake stirs beside me, his breathing deep and even.

We've been sharing a bed for over a year, but lately, he's been finding reasons to stay later at his family's farm.

Helping with repairs that could wait, tending to livestock that his brothers manage perfectly well without him.

The space between us in the narrow bed feels deliberate now, careful in a way it never has before.

I slip from beneath his arm and pad silently to the window, pulling the curtain aside to peer out at the sleeping village. Somewhere out there, Domiel lies awake in his rented room at the inn. I wonder if he dreams too, if the fragments of memory that torment me visit him with equal persistence.

The thought makes my chest tight with something that might be longing.

By morning, Lake has already left for his family's farm, a hastily scrawled note the only evidence he was here at all.

The emptiness of the cottage feels different now—less like solitude and more like abandonment.

Braylon chatters through breakfast, his excitement about seeing his father again so obvious I can't help but smile.

But underneath his joy, I'm aware of my own anticipation building like storm pressure in my bones.

The thought of seeing Domiel again, of settling beside him on the grass and letting conversation flow between us like water finding its level.

.. It makes me walk faster than usual toward our meeting place.

When I see him waiting under the old tree at the village's edge, something in my chest unclenches. He's arranged the wooden blocks in a new pattern, one that pulses with soft blue-white light, and Braylon abandons my hand to run toward him with delighted squeals.

"Papa! Magic!"

Domiel sweeps him up with easy strength, and I catch the flash of genuine happiness that transforms his serious features. It's like watching the sun break through storm clouds—sudden, brilliant, and unexpectedly beautiful.

"Good morning," he says to me, his voice carrying that faint accent that does impossible things to my equilibrium. "Sleep well?"

The question is innocent enough, but something in his tone suggests he already knows the answer. That he, too, spent the night wrestling with dreams and half-remembered pieces of a story neither of us can quite recall.

"Well enough." The lie comes easily, but I catch him watching me with those too-perceptive eyes as if he can see straight through to the truth.

And maybe he can. Because when I settle onto the grass beside them, close enough that our knees almost touch, he doesn't look surprised. Just quietly pleased, like a man who's been hoping for something he was afraid to ask for.

I tell myself it's just for Braylon's sake. That my son deserves to know his father, to have whatever stability this strange situation can provide.

But when Domiel laughs at something I say—really laughs, not the careful approximation he usually offers—I catch myself brushing a strand of hair behind my ear and smiling in a way that has nothing to do with maternal duty.

And for the first time since he appeared in Veylowe, I don't try to stop myself.