Page 24 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Son (Demon Daddies #7)

KALEEN

T he morning air carries the scent of damp earth and growing things as I make my way back from the garden, my basket heavy with fresh dreelk and early zynthra shoots.

The familiar weight of routine should comfort me, but there's something different about today—a restless energy that's been building since last night, since that kiss that felt like waking up from a dream I didn't know I was having.

Braylon left with Domiel after breakfast, chattering excitedly about learning to make his light-sparks dance—or at least I think that's what he was saying. His vocabulary is more limited than the amount he talks.

Watching them together—my son's small hand clasped trustingly in those long, elegant fingers—had made my chest tight with an emotion I couldn't name. Not quite memory, but something deeper. Something that felt like recognition at a level below conscious thought.

I'm still lost in that feeling when I round the corner toward my cottage and see him.

Lake stands near my front door, a quiet silhouette against the backdrop of morning shadows. His sandy brown hair catches the filtered sunlight, and there's something in his posture—the way his shoulders are set, the careful stillness of his hands—that makes my stomach drop with sudden dread.

He looks up when he hears my footsteps, and the expression on his freckled face is gentle but resolute. Like someone who's reached a difficult decision and found peace with it, even if it hurts.

"Kaleen." His voice carries that particular quiet I've come to associate with serious conversations. "Can we talk?"

My gut churns, a sick twist of guilt and anticipation that makes me want to turn and walk back toward the garden. But I've never been one to run from difficult things, even when I can't remember learning that particular brand of courage.

"Yes." The word comes out steadier than I feel. "Of course."

I lead him inside, setting my basket on the small kitchen counter with movements that feel too precise, too controlled. The cottage seems smaller with both of us in it, the air thick with unspoken truths that we've both been carefully avoiding for weeks now.

Lake settles into the chair by the window—not his usual spot by the fire, I realize with a pang. He's already creating distance, preparing for whatever this conversation needs to be.

"How's Braylon doing?" he asks first, because of course he does. Even now, even in this moment that feels like an ending, he's thinking of my son. Of the child he's helped raise for more than a year, who calls him by name and reaches for him when nightmares strike.

"He's good." I perch on the edge of the other chair, hands clasped in my lap. "Growing so fast. Learning new things every day."

Lake nods, a small smile flickering across his features. "He's a bright one. Always has been." A pause. "And having Domiel around? How's that been for you?"

The question hangs in the air between us like a blade, sharp and unavoidable.

I can feel his mossy green eyes on my face, steady and patient, but I can't bring myself to meet them.

Instead, I stare at my hands—at the calluses that speak of work and survival, at the faint tan lines where my gold bracelet usually sits.

"It's been..." I start, then stop. How do you explain that being near someone feels like coming home to a place you never knew you'd left? That every conversation, every shared glance, every moment spent in the same space as Domiel feels like puzzle pieces sliding into alignment?

"Different," I finally manage. "Good different. For Braylon, I mean. He deserves to know his father."

The words feel inadequate, a careful sidestepping of the real truth. But Lake has always been able to read between the lines where I'm concerned. He leans back in his chair, something shifting in his expression that might be resignation or relief.

"And for you?" His voice remains gentle, but there's steel underneath—not angry steel, but the kind that comes from facing hard truths head-on. "What does it mean for you, Kaleen?"

I finally look up at him then, taking in the familiar planes of his face. The scatter of freckles across his nose, the way his hair never quite behaves no matter how many times he combs it back. The quiet strength that's been my anchor for so long, steady and reliable as sunrise.

Lake's a good man. Better than good—he's kind and patient and devoted in a way that should make any woman grateful. He showed up when I had nothing, helped me build a life from scattered pieces, never asked for more than I could give even when I knew he wanted to.

But looking at him now, I can't escape the truth that's been building in my chest like pressure behind a dam. Being with Lake has always felt like settling. Like choosing safety over something wilder and more dangerous and infinitely more right.

"Is this the end? For us, I mean?" he asks quietly, and the simple directness of it nearly undoes me. No accusations, no demands for explanations I can't give. Just the question we've both been dancing around since Domiel walked back into my life.

The guilt hits me like a physical blow. This man loved me when I was broken and lost, helped me become someone who could love my son fiercely and build a home from nothing. He deserved better than to watch me slowly pull away as someone else claimed space in my heart I didn't even know was empty.

"I didn't mean for it to go this way," I whisper, throat tight with unshed tears. "I never wanted to hurt you, Lake. You've been so good to me, to Braylon. You were there when?—"

"When you had nothing," he finishes gently. "I know. And I don't regret any of it, Kaleen. Not one day, not one moment."

He stands then, moving to the window to look out at the village beyond. His broad shoulders are relaxed, but there's something final in his posture that makes my chest ache.

"I always felt like I never had all of you," he says without turning around. "Like there was another piece of you somewhere out there, something I couldn't touch or understand. I told myself it was just the memories you'd lost, that maybe in time..."

He trails off, shaking his head. When he turns back to face me, his mossy green eyes are clear and sad but not bitter.

"I'm glad you found it," he says simply. "Whatever that missing piece was. You deserve to be whole."

The words hit me harder than anger would have. Harder than accusations or demands for explanation. Because they're generous and true and everything I should have expected from someone who knows me well enough to love the broken parts without trying to fix them.

"Lake—"

"It's alright." He moves toward the door, pausing only to look back at me one more time. "Take care of yourself, Kaleen. And take care of that boy. He's lucky to have you."

Then he's gone, leaving me alone in the sudden quiet of my cottage with the weight of endings and beginnings pressing against my ribs like something alive.

I should feel guilty. Should feel the sharp bite of loss for a good man and a stable life. And part of me does—a sad, tender part that will always be grateful for what Lake gave me when I needed it most.

But underneath the guilt, underneath the sadness, there's something else rising in my chest. Something that feels dangerously like relief.

Like freedom.

Like the first real breath I've taken in longer than I can remember.