Page 20 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Son (Demon Daddies #7)

DOMIEL

T he change is subtle at first—so slight I almost convince myself I'm imagining it.

But I've spent years cataloguing every microexpression that crosses Kaleen's face, memorizing the exact shade of gold that flickers in her amber eyes when something amuses her.

I know when she's merely being polite and when genuine interest sparks behind her carefully neutral mask.

Today, when she settles beside me on the grass, there's no hesitation in the movement. No careful calculation of distance. Her shoulder brushes mine as she reaches past me to hand Braylon one of the wooden puzzle pieces, and she doesn't immediately pull away.

"You've been practicing," she observes, watching our son manipulate the glowing blocks with increasing confidence. Her voice carries that warm approval I remember from before—the tone she used when she was genuinely impressed rather than simply making conversation.

"He learns quickly." I adjust my position so Braylon can lean more comfortably against my chest, and catch the way Kaleen's gaze lingers on the easy intimacy of the gesture.

"His magical sensitivity is remarkable for his age.

Most xaphan children don't show this level of control until they're at least three. "

The pride in my voice is unmistakable, and I see her lips curve in response. Not the careful smile she offers when she's being diplomatic, but something softer. More real.

"He gets his stubbornness from somewhere," she says, and there's teasing warmth beneath the words that makes my chest tight with memory.

You say that like it's a bad thing, I want to tell her. You say that like you don't remember how your own determination could move mountains when you set your mind to something.

But I've learned to swallow those responses, to let her rediscover pieces of herself without the weight of my expectations pressing down on her shoulders.

Instead, I content myself with the steady rhythm of Braylon's breathing against my ribs and the increasingly frequent moments when Kaleen forgets to maintain her careful distance.

The next morning, I wake before dawn with a plan forming in my mind.

The village baker opens his shop early, and I remember how Kaleen used to break into genuine smiles over fresh bread still warm from the oven.

It's a small thing, insignificant in the grand scheme of everything we've lost and everything I'm trying to rebuild.

But I've learned that small things matter when you're walking on ground that could shatter at any moment.

The bread is still steaming when I find her at our usual meeting spot, Braylon already absorbed in arranging yesterday's puzzle pieces in new configurations.

She looks up as I approach, and I catch the flash of curiosity that crosses her features when she notices the cloth-wrapped bundle in my hands.

"Morning bread," I explain, settling beside them with deliberate casualness. "I asked the baker to add nimond beans to the dough. Gives it a subtle sweetness."

I unwrap the loaf carefully, the scent of warm grain and honey filling the space between us. Kaleen's eyes widen slightly, and for a moment her breathing catches in a way that suggests recognition without understanding.

"That smells incredible." She accepts the piece I tear off for her, and when she takes that first bite, her expression shifts into something close to bliss. "God, when was the last time I had bread like this?"

The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications neither of us addresses directly. Because the answer is two years ago, when she used to steal warm rolls from my kitchen while I worked and leave crumbs scattered across my drafting table like edible prayers.

Instead of answering, I tear off another piece and hand it to Braylon, who immediately begins methodically removing all the crusts before eating the soft center. The familiar gesture makes my throat tight—I've seen Kaleen do the same. With those honey cakes she loves.

"He has very specific preferences," I murmur, and catch Kaleen watching our interaction with something that might be longing.

"He always has. Even as a baby, he knew exactly what he wanted and would fuss until he got it." She pauses, her gaze growing distant. "Sometimes I wonder if that's instinctive or if it's something he inherited."

The words are carefully neutral, but I hear the question underneath them.

The quiet plea for information about the pieces of her life she can't retrieve on her own.

And I want to tell her everything—how she used to rearrange my entire workshop when something bothered her, how she never settled for approximations when precision was possible, how her exacting standards made everything better, including me.

But direct answers make her retreat into careful politeness, so instead I let my actions speak. Like the stone I slip from my pocket three days later—a piece of white quartz shot through with veins of silver that catches light like captured starfire.

I found it in the cliffsides above the village, and something about its perfect clarity reminded me of the way she used to examine raw materials at the syndicate, her fingers somehow sensing flaws and strengths that even magical assessment missed.

"Thought you might appreciate this." I place it on the grass between us, close enough that she can reach it without having to ask. "The formation is unusual. See how the silver traces follow natural fracture lines but never actually break the crystal's integrity?"

Kaleen picks up the stone with careful fingers, turning it to catch the afternoon light. Her touch is reverent in a way that speaks to knowledge she doesn't consciously remember, and I watch color rise in her cheeks as she traces the silver veins with her thumb.

"It's beautiful." Her voice has gone soft with wonder. "The way the metal seems to strengthen the crystal instead of weakening it... I've never seen anything like this."

You have, I want to tell her. You've seen dozens of pieces like this, sorted through hundreds of stones with exactly that same expression of concentrated appreciation. You taught me that the most beautiful materials are the ones that seem contradictory but actually achieve perfect balance.

Instead, I watch her examine the quartz with growing fascination, cataloguing every shift in her expression like a man collecting treasures. When she finally looks up at me, her amber eyes are bright with genuine pleasure.

"Thank you. I don't know why, but holding it feels..." She trails off, shaking her head as if trying to capture thoughts that slip away like smoke.

"Familiar?" I suggest gently.

"Yes." The word comes out breathless, almost surprised. "How did you know?"

Because I know you , I think. Because I remember exactly how your hands move when you're examining something that speaks to your soul. Because two years of separation haven't erased a single detail of who you are when you think no one is watching.

Out loud, I simply say, "Lucky guess."

She keeps the stone, turning it over in her palm as we talk and watch Braylon practice his fledgling magic.

And when she thinks I'm not looking, I catch her holding it up to the light with that same expression of quiet reverence I remember from before.

Like she's rediscovering a part of herself she didn't know was missing.

The next week brings a dozen similar moments—small gestures that chip away at the walls between us without ever demanding more than she's ready to give.

I bring her meadowmint tea when the afternoon grows cold, remembering how she used to claim it helped her think more clearly.

I share observations about Braylon's development that make her laugh in spite of herself.

I keep my voice low and my movements careful, letting her set the pace of every interaction while I memorize each incremental shift toward something that resembles trust.

And gradually, I begin to see glimpses of the woman I fell in love with.

In the way she argues with me about Braylon's education, forgetting to be diplomatic when passion overtakes caution.

In the unconscious grace of her movements when she thinks no one is watching.

In the warmth that creeps into her voice when she's genuinely amused rather than just being polite.

But it's the quiet moments that undo me completely.

When she settles close enough that I can catch the scent of her hair, still the same mixture of sunlight and something indefinably sweet that used to drive me to distraction.

When she laughs at something Braylon does and the sound is so familiar it makes my chest ache with recognition.

When she watches me lift our son onto my shoulders and her expression softens into something that might be approval, or admiration, or the faint beginning of something deeper.

Those moments, I hoard them. Because they're proof that whatever else has been stripped away, the fundamental connection between us remains. Bruised and buried and tangled with complications, but still there. Still real.

Still worth fighting for, no matter how long the battle takes.