Page 23 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Son (Demon Daddies #7)

"The knight gathered starlight in his hands," I read quietly, "and wove it into armor that would protect all the people he loved most."

When I glance up, Kaleen has stopped her quiet movements.

She stands near the kitchen area, dish towel forgotten in her hands, watching us with an expression that makes my breath catch.

There's something unguarded in her face—longing mixed with wonder, like she's seeing something she didn't know she wanted until this moment.

The firelight catches the gold threads in her chestnut hair, and I have to fight the urge to reach for her.

To pull her into this circle of warmth and safety and make it complete.

She looks softened by the gentle light, younger somehow, and I catch a glimpse of how she might have been before life taught her to armor herself in competence and careful distance.

Braylon's breathing evens out completely, and I close the book with careful movements. His small fingers remain fisted in my shirt, even in sleep trusting that I won't let him fall. The weight of that trust, the simple faith of it, makes something fierce and protective rise in my chest.

"He's getting so big," Kaleen whispers, finally moving closer. She perches on the arm of my chair, near enough that her warmth radiates against my side. "Sometimes I look at him and can't believe..."

She trails off, but I know what she's not saying. Can't believe this beautiful, impossible child is hers. Can't believe she created something so perfect from circumstances she can't even remember. Can't believe how naturally love came, even without the foundation of memory to build it on.

"He's extraordinary," I murmur, meaning it completely. "Just like his mother."

She ducks her head at that, color rising in her cheeks. But she doesn't pull away when I shift slightly, making room for her to lean closer. Instead, she reaches out to brush a strand of dark hair from Braylon's forehead, her touch gentle and sure.

"I should put him to bed," she says, but makes no immediate move to take him from my arms.

"In a moment." The words come out rougher than intended, weighted with reluctance to break this perfect tableau. "Let me just..."

I don't finish the sentence, but she seems to understand.

This is the first time since I found her that we've felt like a family—not fragments trying to reassemble, but something whole and right and exactly as it should be.

I want to memorize every detail: the way the firelight plays across her face, how Braylon's small hand curls against my chest, the scent of her skin when she leans close enough to share my air.

Finally, when Braylon shifts and mumbles in his sleep, she stands and carefully lifts him from my arms. Her movements are practiced, maternal, and watching her carry our son toward the small bedroom makes my chest tight with emotions I can barely name.

I stand as well, suddenly uncertain now that the spell of the evening is breaking.

The cottage feels smaller with the three of us moving about, more intimate, and I'm hyperaware of every sound—the whisper of her feet on the wooden floor, the soft murmur of her voice as she settles Braylon in his bed, the quiet creak of floorboards as she returns to the main room.

"Thank you," she says when she emerges, voice barely above a whisper. "For dinner, for the story, for..." She gestures helplessly, and I understand. For being patient. For not demanding more than she can give. For letting this happen slowly, naturally, without the weight of a past she can't access.

"Thank you for inviting me." I step closer, drawn by something in her expression that looks almost like yearning. "It's been..."

"Perfect," she finishes softly, and the word hangs between us like a promise.

We stand there for a moment, neither moving toward the door nor away from each other.

The fire has burned low, casting everything in warm amber light that makes her skin glow like precious metal.

I can see the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat, the way her lips part slightly as if she's about to say something important.

Instead, I step closer. Close enough to see the darker flecks of gold in her brown eyes, to catch the faint intake of her breath when I lift my hand to her face.

"Kaleen," I say, her name a question and a plea and a declaration all at once. And she nods, like she knows what I'm asking.

When I lean down to kiss her goodnight—the same careful, respectful brush of lips I offered before—something shifts. Instead of the brief contact I expect, she steps closer. Her hands come up to rest against my chest, and when I start to pull back, she follows.

The kiss deepens, becomes something real and hungry and full of promise.

She tastes like the meadowmint tea she served with dinner and something sweeter—something that's purely her.

Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt, holding me close, and when a soft sound escapes her throat, I feel it like lightning in my blood.

This isn't the careful politeness of recent days or the tentative exploration of someone trying to remember. This is want —immediate and undeniable and directed at me. At who I am now, in this moment, not who I might have been in a life she can't recall.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Her forehead rests against mine, and her eyes are darker than I've seen them since I found her again.

"I don't understand what's happening," she whispers, voice shaky with honesty. "But I…I like being around you Domiel."

The words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the breath from my lungs. After two years of searching, of hoping, of fearing I'd lost her forever, this feels like resurrection. Like the first real breath after drowning.

For the first time since I found her again, this doesn't feel like an echo of what we used to be. This feels like a beginning.