Page 25 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Son (Demon Daddies #7)

DOMIEL

I spot her long before she reaches the clearing where Braylon and I have spent the afternoon working on light-weaving exercises.

She's walking slower than usual, her movements carrying a weight that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion.

Even from this distance, I can see the careful way she holds herself—like someone trying to appear normal while processing something that's knocked her off balance.

Braylon hasn't noticed yet. He's too focused on the tiny golden spark dancing between his cupped palms, his face scrunched in concentration as he tries to make it hold its shape without my guidance.

The sight of him—dark hair catching the late afternoon light, those unusual amber-ringed eyes so serious with effort—never fails to tighten something in my chest. My son. Our son.

But it's Kaleen who draws my attention now, the subtle wrongness in her demeanor setting every protective instinct I possess on high alert.

"Well done," I murmur to Braylon as his light-spark finally stabilizes into a perfect sphere. "Hold it steady now. Feel how the energy wants to flow."

He nods eagerly, but I'm already rising from where we've been sitting cross-legged in the grass, brushing dirt from my pants as I move to intercept Kaleen before she reaches us.

Whatever's put that distant look in her amber eyes, I want to know about it before she has to put on a brave face for our son.

"Mama!" Braylon calls out when he finally spots her, his concentration breaking. The light-spark flickers and dies, but he doesn't seem to care. He scrambles to his feet, already chattering about his magical progress as he runs toward her.

Kaleen catches him in a hug that looks normal enough on the surface, but I can see the way her shoulders tense, the slight delay before she settles into the embrace. Something's happened. Something significant enough to shake the careful equilibrium she's built around her life here.

"How did the lesson go?" she asks, and her voice sounds steady. Almost normal. But there's an undertone there—a fragility she's working to hide—that makes my jaw clench with the need to identify and eliminate whatever's caused it.

"Light!" Braylon announces proudly. "Light! Papa magic!"

Papa. The word hits me the same way it has every time he's said it over these past weeks—a fierce, possessive satisfaction that goes bone-deep. But today I'm too focused on the careful blankness in Kaleen's expression to fully savor it.

"We've been working on shaping the magic. He's doing very well," I supply, watching her.

"That's wonderful, sweetheart," she tells him, and the gentle warmth in her voice when she addresses Braylon is completely genuine. Whatever's troubling her, it has nothing to do with our son.

Braylon turns and starts playing with his magic again, and the silence that stretches between us is heavy with unspoken words. Kaleen's gaze watches our son, but I can tell her attention is elsewhere—turned inward to whatever conversation or realization has left her looking so carefully composed.

I move closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of gardens and honest work that always clings to her skin. Close enough to see the way she's holding her jaw, the subtle tension in the line of her neck.

"What happened?" The words come out rougher than I intended, edged with a protective fury I can't quite contain. If someone in this village has hurt her, has said something or done something to put that lost expression in her eyes...

She looks up at me then, and for a moment her careful composure cracks. I catch a glimpse of something raw and uncertain underneath—not pain, exactly, but the kind of vulnerability that comes from standing at a crossroads without a clear map forward.

"Nothing happened," she says automatically, then seems to catch herself. Her amber eyes dart away from mine, focusing on some point beyond my shoulder. "That's not... that's not true. Something did happen. This morning."

The words hang between us, tentative and loaded with meaning. I wait, every muscle in my body coiled with the effort of holding myself still when what I want to do is reach for her, pull her against my chest until whatever's troubling her bleeds away into nothing.

"Lake and I talked," she says finally, the words coming out in a rush like she's afraid she'll lose her nerve if she doesn't say them quickly. "We... things are over between us."

The words hit me like a physical blow—not of pain, but of fierce, overwhelming triumph.

The surge of satisfaction that rockets through me is so intense it's almost violent, a primal claiming that makes my hands flex with the need to touch her, to mark her as mine in ways that go far beyond the merely physical.

But underneath the triumph, threading through it like silver wire, is something softer. Something that recognizes the careful way she's holding herself, the slight tremor in her voice that speaks of someone who's just taken a leap without knowing where she'll land.

She's scared. Terrified, even, though she'd never admit it out loud. Afraid of losing the life she's built here, the security she's created for herself and Braylon. Afraid of making a mistake that could shatter the careful peace she's found in this quiet village.

And beneath all of that—something that makes my chest tight with a tenderness so fierce it borders on pain—she's afraid of wanting something she's not sure she deserves to have. Should have.

I understand that fear. Have lived with its twin for two years, the constant ache of wanting something that seemed forever out of reach.

But where my fear was born of loss, hers comes from the terrifying prospect of choosing something new.

Of stepping away from safety toward something that could either complete her or destroy the fragile foundation she's built.

"Are you alright?" I ask, and the words come out gentler than they have any right to. Not the demanding tone of someone who's just gotten what he wanted, but the careful question of someone who knows that victories can be as complicated as defeats.

She nods, but there's a hesitation in the movement that tells me it's more hope than certainty. "It was right," she says, and her voice grows stronger as she says it. "It was time. I think... I think we both knew it."

The honesty in those words—the willingness to acknowledge what we've all been carefully dancing around for weeks—sends another wave of satisfaction through me.

But I tamp it down, force myself to remain still and patient even though every instinct I possess is screaming at me to claim this moment, to press my advantage while her defenses are down.

Not yet. Not when she's looking at me like someone who's just taken a step toward a cliff edge and isn't sure if she's about to fly or fall.

"Good," I say simply, because anything more would be too much pressure, too much too fast. "You deserve to be happy, Kaleen."

Something shifts in her expression then—surprise, maybe, or gratitude that I'm not pushing for more than she's ready to give. The careful distance she's been maintaining wavers, just slightly, like a wall with a hairline crack that might spread given the right pressure.

But I won't be the one to apply that pressure. Not today. Today is for letting her process, for giving her the space to realize that ending things with Lake wasn't a mistake—it was the first step toward something that could be extraordinary.

Braylon turns then, trying to express something I can't understand as he crashes into the space between us. The moment fractures, but that's alright. There will be other moments. Other opportunities to show her that choosing me—choosing us—isn't a risk she's taking alone.

"Ready to go home?" she asks our son, and the word 'home' carries a weight that makes me wonder if she's starting to question exactly where that might be.

"Let me walk you," I offer, and she, thankfully, doesn't turn me down.

I fall into step beside them as we make our way back toward the village, keeping my movements casual even though every nerve ending is hypersensitive to her presence.

The way she breathes, the rhythm of her footsteps, the occasional brush of her arm against mine when the path narrows—all of it registers with the intensity of someone who's been starved and is finally being offered sustenance.

The walk back to her cottage passes in comfortable near-silence, Braylon chattering occasionally and pointing about, us talking to him like we understand more than three words.

Kaleen responds with appropriate murmurs, but I can feel her attention drifting, processing whatever internal shift has occurred since this morning.

When we reach her front door, she sets Braylon down and he rushes inside to pick up toys.

But Kaleen hovers in the doorway, where she can still see him as she turns to face me with an expression I can't quite read.

There's gratitude there, and something that might be affection.

But underneath it all is that same careful uncertainty, the look of someone standing at the edge of something vast and unknown.

"Thank you," she says quietly. "For today. For being patient with him. With... everything."

The words are simple enough, but they carry layers of meaning that make my chest tight. She's thanking me for more than just the afternoon spent teaching our son to weave light. She's thanking me for not pushing, for not demanding answers to questions she's still figuring out how to ask.

But patience has its limits, and mine are stretched thin by the way the evening light catches the gold flecks in her eyes, by the soft curve of her mouth that I remember with perfect clarity despite two years of separation.

I step closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to look at me. Close enough that I can see the way her pupils dilate slightly, the way her breathing shifts just a fraction faster.

"Kaleen," I murmur, her name a rough prayer on my lips. It's how I always ask her, mostly because whispering her name is so natural to me. To say it to her and not yell it in anguish is such a relief I can't stop.

She doesn't step back. Doesn't look away. If anything, she seems to lean into my presence, like a flower turning toward sunlight.

I cup her face in my hands, thumbs tracing the elegant lines of her cheekbones, and watch her eyes flutter closed at the contact.

She's so beautiful it makes my chest ache—not just the external beauty that first caught my attention, but the strength and warmth and fierce devotion that makes her who she is.

When I kiss her, it's with the reverence of someone handling something precious and fragile. Soft at first, barely more than a whisper of contact, giving her every opportunity to pull away if she wants to.

But she doesn't pull away. Instead, she melts into me with a soft sound that might be relief or surrender or simple recognition. Her hands come up to rest against my chest, not pushing me away but anchoring herself as she kisses me back with a sweetness that makes my knees threaten to buckle.

This is the third time I've kissed her since finding her again. The third time I've felt that spark of connection that goes deeper than memory or desire—something fundamental and unshakeable that tells me this woman was meant to be mine.

When we finally break apart, she's breathing hard, her amber eyes dark with something that might be want or fear or both. For a moment, we just stand there in the growing dusk, foreheads nearly touching, sharing the same space and the same air.

She doesn't invite me in. I don't ask her to. Some things can't be rushed, no matter how much I want to gather her against me and never let her go again.

But as I step back, as I bid her goodnight and force myself to walk away instead of claiming this moment the way every instinct demands, I carry with me the memory of how she kissed me back. The way she leaned into my touch like she was coming home.

It's enough. For now, it's enough.

But not for long.