Page 21 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Son (Demon Daddies #7)
KALEEN
I feel split down the middle these days, like I'm two different women trying to inhabit the same skin.
There's the Kaleen who learned to survive in Veylowe—careful, grateful, making do with what little she could remember.
And then there's this other woman, the one who stirs restlessly beneath my ribs whenever Domiel looks at me with those silver-blue eyes that seem to see straight through to my bones.
Lake notices the change, I think. He's been spending more nights at his parents' house lately, claiming his father needs help or that his mother asked him to fix something. Excuses that we both know aren't quite lies but aren't quite truth either.
"I should head back," he says tonight, already reaching for his coat before we've even finished our quiet dinner. His mossy green eyes don't quite meet mine. "Early morning tomorrow."
I don't ask him to stay. The words that used to come easily— you don't have to go, it's still early —stick in my throat like stones.
Because the truth is, I'm relieved when he leaves.
Relieved not to feel his careful concern pressing against my shoulders like a weight I can't carry anymore.
I don't even remember the last time he slept next to me.
"Give your parents my regards," I tell him instead, and he nods without looking back.
After he's gone, I sit in my small kitchen and wonder when everything shifted. When Lake's steady presence began to feel like an ill-fitting coat instead of the warm comfort it used to be. When I started counting the hours until I could see Domiel again without feeling guilty about it.
The next evening, I find myself walking toward their usual spot before I've consciously decided to go.
Braylon spots me first and comes running with his arms outstretched, chattering about the new magic trick Domiel taught him today.
Something about making light dance between his fingers like captured thalivern.
"Show her," Domiel says, and there's pride in his voice that makes my chest warm. He settles onto the grass beside me as Braylon concentrates, his small face scrunched with effort until tiny points of silver light begin to flicker around his hands.
"That's incredible," I breathe, and Braylon beams with the particular joy that only comes from impressing the people you love most.
Domiel watches our son with such careful attention, such genuine delight, that I find myself studying the sharp line of his profile. The way his dark gold hair catches the evening light. The unconscious grace in how he moves, even sitting still.
"He's getting stronger," Domiel murmurs, and when he turns to look at me, something passes between us. Something warm and electric that makes me forget to breathe properly.
We stay until the sun begins to set, talking about everything and nothing.
Domiel tells me stories about ethereal architecture that make me lean forward despite myself, fascinated by concepts I shouldn't understand but somehow do.
He makes me laugh—really laugh, the kind that starts deep in my belly and bubbles up until my whole body shakes with it.
I can't remember the last time Lake made me laugh like that. The thought arrives unbidden and makes guilt twist in my stomach.
When Braylon's eyelids start to droop, Domiel glances at the darkening sky. "Let me walk you home."
It's not a question, exactly, but his voice is careful. Respectful of whatever boundaries I might need to maintain. I should probably say no. Should probably gather Braylon myself and make polite excuses about being perfectly capable of walking the short distance to my cottage alone.
Instead, I hear myself saying, "I'd like that."
Domiel scoops up our sleepy son with practiced ease, settling him against his broad chest. Braylon's small fingers curl into his father's shirt, and something about the picture they make together—dark gold head bent protectively over brown curls—makes my throat tight with emotion I can't name.
We walk slowly, in no hurry to break the spell of evening quiet between us.
The village is settling into night around us, windows glowing with warm lamplight and the scent of dinnertime fires drifting on the cool air.
Domiel's wing occasionally brushes my shoulder as we navigate the narrow path, and each accidental touch sends little shivers racing down my spine.
At my door, I expect him to hand off Braylon and leave. Instead, he waits while I push the door open, then follows me inside without invitation. Like he belongs here. Like this small, simple cottage could somehow contain someone as extraordinary as him.
I watch him carry our son to the small bedroom, moving with quiet confidence through my space.
He lays Braylon down with infinite gentleness, smoothing the covers and murmuring something too soft for me to catch.
When he turns back to me, his expression is tender in a way that makes my pulse stumble.
We walk back toward the front door together, but he stops just inside the threshold. The space between us feels charged suddenly, heavy with unspoken words.
"Kaleen," he says softly, and my name on his lips sounds like a prayer. "Do you have any of your old memories? Anything at all?"
I should lie. Should give him the same careful answer I've given everyone for two years—that I remember nothing before waking in these woods. But something about the vulnerability in his voice, the way he's looking at me like I might break at any moment, makes honesty spill out instead.
"No memories," I admit quietly. "But... feelings. Like there's this whole other life just out of reach, and sometimes when I'm with you, it feels like trying to remember a dream." My voice drops to barely above a whisper. "Like something important that I've lost."
His silver-blue eyes darken, searching my face with an intensity that should probably frighten me. Instead, it makes heat pool low in my belly, makes me want to step closer instead of backing away.
"What kind of feelings?" The question is barely audible.
"Like I'm supposed to know you," I breathe. "Like this—" I gesture vaguely between us, "—should make sense."
Something shifts in his expression then, some carefully maintained control beginning to slip. He reaches up slowly, giving me time to pull away, and brushes a strand of hair back from my face. His fingers are warm against my skin, callused in a way that speaks of skilled work with his hands.
I should step back. Should remember Lake, remember all the reasons why this is complicated and dangerous and wrong. Instead, I find myself leaning into his touch, my eyes fluttering closed as his thumb traces the line of my cheekbone.
"Kaleen." My name again, rougher this time.
When I open my eyes, he's closer. Close enough that I can see the flecks of silver in his blue irises, close enough that his breath warms my skin. He's watching me with something that looks like hunger held carefully in check, waiting for permission I don't know how to give but desperately want to.
"What about this?" He shifts just a touch closer. "Does this make sense, too?"
I nod, my throat tight, my body trembling with want in a way I have never felt before.
Slowly, so slowly I could stop him at any moment, he leans forward. His hand slides to cup the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, and then his lips brush against mine.
The kiss is gentle at first. Questioning. But when I don't pull away—when I can't pull away because something inside me is screaming yes, this, finally —it deepens into something honest and hungry and right in a way that makes my knees weak.
And then something clicks .
Not memory, exactly, but recognition. Like my body remembers what my mind has forgotten. Like every part of me has been waiting for this moment without knowing why. Heat floods through me, swift and overwhelming, and my hands shake as I grip the front of his shirt to keep myself upright.
When we finally break apart, I'm breathing hard and my whole world feels different. Tilted. Like I've been walking around with one foot in the wrong life and finally found my balance.
Domiel's forehead rests against mine, his breathing unsteady. "I should go," he murmurs, but his hands haven't released me.
I nod, not trusting my voice. Not trusting myself not to ask him to stay.
When he finally steps back, the loss of his warmth feels like a physical ache.
But as I watch him disappear into the darkness beyond my doorway, my hands are still shaking.
Not from fear or uncertainty, but from the bone-deep knowledge that for the first time in two years, I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.