Page 26 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Son (Demon Daddies #7)

DOMIEL

I establish a routine without announcing it, the way water finds its path through stone—inevitable but unhurried.

Each evening, as the sun begins its descent behind the village's modest rooftops, I find myself at Kaleen's door.

Not asking for an invitation, not pushing for promises I know she's not ready to make. Just... present.

The first few nights, she hesitates before opening the door wider, her amber eyes searching my face as if looking for some hidden agenda.

But I keep my hands loose at my sides, my expression carefully neutral, and wait for her to decide.

Each time, after a moment that stretches like pulled wire, she steps back.

"Stay for dinner?" she asks on the fourth night, and the words come out almost casual. But I catch the slight tremor in her voice, the way her fingers worry at the fabric of her skirt.

"If you'll have me," I reply simply, because anything more would be pressure she doesn't need.

The cottage feels smaller with my presence filling it, my wings automatically folding tight against my back to avoid knocking over the carefully arranged simplicity of her life here.

Everything is functional, clean, worn smooth by use but cared for with quiet pride.

It's so different from the ethereal luxury of my estate in Soimur, yet somehow it suits her just as well—this stripped-down honesty, this focus on what matters.

Braylon toddles over immediately, his small hands reaching up toward me with the complete trust that still catches me off-guard every time.

"Papa! Up!"

The word hits me like it always does—a fierce claiming that goes straight to some primitive part of my brain.

I lift him easily, settling him against my hip as he babbles something that might be about his day or the wooden toy clutched in his fist. His vocabulary is still limited, maybe fifteen words on a good day, but he communicates with his whole body—pointing, tugging, making little sounds of delight when I understand what he wants.

Kaleen moves around the kitchen with practiced efficiency, but I notice how she steals glances at us when she thinks I'm not looking. There's something almost hungry in her expression, like she's memorizing the sight of father and son together.

"The table needs fixing," she mentions after we've eaten her simple but perfect stew—dreelk and tuskram with herbs that remind me of Sunday mornings in another life. "One of the legs is wobbly."

It's not really an invitation, but it's not not an invitation either. "I can look at it," I offer, keeping my tone carefully neutral.

The table is more than wobbly—it's barely holding together, held in place by strategic positioning and what appears to be sheer stubbornness. I run my hands over the worn wood, cataloging the damage. The joints have worked loose over time, and one leg has a crack running nearly its full length.

"This needs more than a quick fix," I tell her, already calculating what materials I'll need. "But I can reinforce it properly. Make it solid again."

She nods, then seems to catch herself. "I can pay?—"

"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended, edged with an offense I can't quite hide. Does she really think I'd take payment for something like this? For the simple pleasure of fixing something she uses every day, of making her life a little easier?

Her eyes widen slightly at my tone, and I force myself to soften. "It's not about payment, Kaleen. It's just... let me do this. Please."

Something shifts in her expression—not quite trust, but maybe the beginning of it. She nods again, this time without the careful distance she's been maintaining.

I return the next evening with proper wood glue and reinforcement brackets, tools that feel familiar and comforting in my hands. Braylon "helps" by handing me screws and getting underfoot, chattering in his limited vocabulary about everything and nothing.

"Hammer!" he announces proudly when I pick up the tool, one of his newer words.

"That's right. Good eye."

Kaleen sits nearby, mending a shirt by lamplight, but I can feel her attention on me as I work. There's something hypnotic about the familiar rhythm of repair work—measuring, cutting, fitting pieces together until they form something stronger than they were alone.

"You're good at this," she observes when I flip the table right-side up and test its stability. Rock solid now, built to last another decade at least.

"Practice," I say simply, though we both know it's more than that. This kind of precision, this attention to detail—it doesn't come from casual experience.

Over the following weeks, I find other things that need fixing. A loose board on the front step that could trip someone in the dark. A window that sticks when she tries to open it for air. The garden gate that hangs crooked and scrapes the ground.

Each repair gives me a reason to stay a little longer, to exist in her space without asking for more than she's willing to give. And slowly—so slowly I'm not sure she notices it happening—Kaleen begins to relax around me.

It starts with small things. She stops tensing when I move too close. She asks me to reach something from a high shelf instead of struggling with a chair. She laughs at something I say—really laughs, not the polite amusement she's been offering—and the sound hits me like sunlight after winter.

"Tell him about the thalivern garden," she says one evening after dinner, settling back in her chair with the contentment of someone who's had a good meal and pleasant company. "He keeps pointing at them and making excited noises."

Braylon is indeed pointing at an illustration in one of the few books he owns, his face bright with curiosity. "Fly! Fly!"

I gather him onto my lap, feeling the solid weight of him against my chest. "Those are thalivern," I tell him, pointing at the colorful wings in the drawing. "They live in special gardens where everything smells like flowers and sunshine."

His eyes go wide with the wonder that only small children can manage. "Pretty!" He loves that word.

"Very pretty. There's a garden in Soimur where thousands of them live. The flowers are as tall as Papa, and when the thalivern fly, they look like rainbows dancing in the air."

I describe the ethereal gardens I helped design years ago, where colored light pools in crystal fountains and the very air shimmers with magic.

Where thalivern feed on nectar that glows like starlight, their wings catching and refracting the ethereal illumination until the whole garden seems to pulse with gentle radiance.

Braylon listens with rapt attention, occasionally interjecting with "Wow!" or "More!" when I pause. But it's Kaleen's reaction that captures most of my focus.

She's leaning forward slightly, her amber eyes bright with something that might be recognition.

Not memory, exactly, but something deeper—a response to beauty that bypasses conscious thought and speaks directly to the soul.

It's the same expression she used to get when I described my work, back when we would lie in bed after making love and I would tell her about the projects I was designing.

"The flowers sing at sunset," I continue, watching her face. "Different notes depending on their color. Purple ones sound like bells, golden ones like flutes. When the wind blows through them, it's like listening to an entire orchestra made of light and petals."

Her breath catches slightly, so quietly I almost miss it. But I've spent months cataloguing every small shift in her expression, every tell that reveals what she's thinking. She likes this story. More than likes it—it resonates with something essential in her nature.

"Flowers!" Braylon announces, clapping his hands together. "Sing!"

"That's right, little one. They sing." I press a kiss to the top of his head, breathing in the sweet scent of his hair. "Maybe someday Papa will take you to see them."

The words slip out before I can stop them, heavier with implication than I intended. Kaleen's eyes meet mine over Braylon's head, and I see the question there—the careful hope she's trying not to let herself feel.

Someday. The word hangs between us like a bridge not quite built, like a promise not quite made. But for the first time since I found her again, it feels like a possibility rather than a dream.

The shift happens gradually, like morning light bleeding through the forest canopy. What began as careful visits becomes something more natural—the three of us moving together through the rhythms of daily life as if we've always been this way.

"There," Kaleen says, pointing toward a cluster of silver-barked trees deeper in the woods surrounding Veylowe. "Braylon loves the hollow tree. He pretends it's a cave."

We're walking the forest paths that wind behind her cottage, Braylon toddling between us with the determined concentration only an eighteen-month-old can manage.

His small legs work overtime to keep up, but he refuses any offer to be carried—too fascinated by every fallen branch and interesting rock to slow down.

The woods here are different from the ethereal groves near Soimur.

Wilder, older, with moss-thick trunks that seem to hold centuries of secrets.

Shafts of afternoon sunlight filter through the canopy in golden columns, illuminating dancing motes of pollen and the occasional flash of a lunox darting between the undergrowth.

"Cave!" Braylon shouts when he spots the hollow tree, his whole body vibrating with excitement. He makes a beeline for it, his unsteady gait making me want to hover protectively behind him. But Kaleen catches my arm with gentle fingers.

"He's fine," she says, and her touch sends warmth racing up my arm. "He's done this a dozen times."