Page 27 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Son (Demon Daddies #7)

I force myself to stay put, watching as our son disappears into the hollow with delighted giggles echoing back to us. The sound makes something deep in my chest unclench—he's happy here, safe and loved and free to explore his world without fear.

"How did you find this place?" I ask, settling beside her on a fallen log that makes a natural bench.

"Wandering, mostly." Her voice carries that distant quality it gets when she skirts too close to the edges of her missing memories. "The first few weeks after... after I got here, I couldn't sleep much. I'd walk the woods at night until I was tired enough to rest without dreams."

Without dreams of me, she doesn't say, but I hear it anyway. I wonder if she knows how often I ended those same months staring at the ceiling of our bedroom in Soimur, wings spread across the space where she should have been, counting the hours until I could resume searching.

Braylon emerges from the hollow with a triumphant "Papa! Mama! Look!" clutching what appears to be a perfectly ordinary stone but holds it like he's discovered treasure.

"Very nice, little one," I tell him seriously, because his finds are always worth celebrating. "Is it smooth?"

He nods vigorously and toddles over to press it into my palm for inspection. The stone is indeed smooth, worn by countless seasons of rain and wind until it fits perfectly against my thumb. "This is a good one," I pronounce. "Very smooth indeed."

Kaleen laughs—real laughter, bright and unguarded—and the sound hits me with the force of recognition so strong it's almost physical pain.

That laugh. I've heard it echo through our kitchen in Soimur, seen it light up her face when she found me cursing at a particularly stubborn ward matrix, felt it vibrate against my chest when she'd curl against me after we'd made love.

"He has quite the collection now," she says, watching Braylon examine his stone with scientific intensity. "Smooth ones, speckled ones, ones with interesting shapes. He lines them up by his bed every night before sleep."

The domestic detail catches me off-guard with its sweetness. Our son, methodically arranging his treasures like a tiny curator building his own museum of wonder.

"Like his father," I murmur without thinking, remembering my own childhood obsession with collecting runestones and crystal fragments.

Kaleen glances at me with raised eyebrows. "Was that what you collected as a child?"

"Stones with magical properties. My mother despaired of my room—every surface covered with rocks I was convinced held some secret power." I smile at the memory. "Most of them were just pretty quartz, but I found a few genuine pieces. Drove my tutors crazy trying to classify them properly."

"And did they? Hold secret power?"

"Some did. Not much, but enough to make the searching worthwhile." I watch Braylon toddle toward another interesting specimen. "The tiniest spark of magic can be significant if you know how to recognize it."

Something in my tone makes her study my face more carefully. "You're not talking about stones anymore."

I'm not. I'm talking about moments like this, when she forgets to maintain her careful distance and lets me see glimpses of who she really is underneath the cautious stranger she's become.

The way she tilts her head when she's thinking.

How she unconsciously mirrors Braylon's expressions of concentration.

The grace in her movements even when she's just walking through the woods.

"No," I admit quietly. "I'm not."

Our eyes hold for a heartbeat longer than casual conversation warrants. Then Braylon needs help climbing over a fallen branch, and the moment passes into something easier—the shared task of guiding our child through his exploration.

Later, back at the cottage, we work together in the kitchen while Braylon plays with wooden blocks on the floor nearby.

Kaleen moves around me with unconscious familiarity now, reaching for spices when I'm chopping vegetables, handing me the pot I need before I ask for it.

It's choreography we learned in another life, muscle memory that survived when conscious memory failed.

"Mind the brimbark," she says, nudging my elbow gently when I get too enthusiastic with my knife work. "Unless you like your stew with splinters."

"I've cooked before," I protest mildly, but I adjust my technique. The truth is, I rarely cooked in Soimur—we had servants for such things, and my focus was always on my work. But here, in this small kitchen with its simple tools and worn counters, cooking feels like meditation. Like coming home.

She hums under her breath as she tends the fire, something wordless and probably unconscious. It's another memory that hits me sideways—she used to do that while working in our garden, completely absorbed in her tasks and unaware of the small music she made.

"Mama sing!" Braylon announces from the floor, looking up from his blocks with bright expectation.

"Was I singing?" Kaleen asks, pausing with her wooden spoon halfway to her mouth for tasting.

"Humming," I correct gently. "You do it when you're content."

She blinks at me with surprise, as if she's just discovered something about herself she hadn't known. "I do?"

"Always have," I say, then catch myself before I can elaborate.

Before I can tell her about Saturday mornings in our kitchen when she'd make tea and hum while planning her day, or how that sound was often the first thing I'd hear when waking—Kaleen in the garden below our bedroom, already dressed and tending to new growth while the rest of the world still slept.

But instead of the wariness I expect, she just nods thoughtfully. "I'll have to pay attention to that."

After dinner, we sit in the front room while Braylon plays at our feet, building towers with his blocks only to knock them down with delighted shrieks. The fire crackles softly in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the walls and warming the cottage against the evening chill.

Kaleen has claimed the worn armchair that clearly belongs to her, but she's pulled it closer to where I sit on the small sofa.

Close enough that when she extends her feet toward the fire, her ankle nearly brushes my leg.

She's relaxed in a way I haven't seen before—shoulders loose, guard completely down, that faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

She's beautiful like this. Not the ethereal, untouchable beauty that first caught my attention in Soimur, but something warmer and more immediate.

The golden firelight catches the amber flecks in her eyes and turns her skin to honey.

Her hair has escaped its braid in soft wisps that frame her face, and when she laughs at Braylon's architectural efforts, her whole face transforms.

This is what I've been fighting to get back to—not just her presence, but this ease between us. This simple pleasure in each other's company without agenda or expectation. The comfortable silence punctuated by our son's happy babbling and the quiet sounds of a home at peace.

"Tower!" Braylon declares, pointing at his latest creation with obvious pride.

"Very tall," Kaleen agrees solemnly. "The tallest yet."

He beams at the praise, then immediately sets about knocking it down again.

The crash of blocks makes him giggle with pure joy, and watching him, I feel something I haven't experienced in two years—complete, uncomplicated happiness.

My family, together in our own small bubble of warmth and light. Everything else can wait.