Page 28 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Son (Demon Daddies #7)

KALEEN

T he days blur together in the most wonderful way, each one bleeding seamlessly into the next until I can't remember what evenings felt like before Domiel filled them.

My cottage has never felt so alive—Braylon's delighted shrieks echoing off the walls as his father teaches him to stack blocks in impossible configurations, the low rumble of Domiel's voice explaining things with the same patience whether he's addressing our eighteen-month-old or me.

"Papa, look!" Braylon toddles over with his arms full of his precious stone collection, dumping them at Domiel's feet like an offering. "Pretty!"

"Very pretty," Domiel agrees, settling cross-legged on the floor with fluid grace that makes his wings adjust automatically for balance. He examines each stone with the same serious attention he'd give to precious gems. "This one has gold flecks. And this one—feel how smooth it is."

Watching them together does something to me that I can't quite name.

Braylon chatters away in that half-language only he understands, pointing and babbling while Domiel responds as if every word makes perfect sense.

There's something so natural about the way they fit together—the careful way Domiel modulates his voice for small ears, how he anticipates when Braylon needs help before our son even realizes it himself.

"Da-da-da-ba-pa!" Braylon announces, patting Domiel's knee emphatically.

"Is that so?" Domiel's mouth twitches with suppressed laughter. "That sounds very important."

I find myself studying them from across the room, memorizing the sight of father and son absorbed in each other's company.

There's something warming in my chest that I didn't even realize had gone cold—like a hearth fire being rekindled after years of ash.

This is what family looks like, I think.

This easy companionship, this unquestioned belonging.

Domiel never pushes. That's what amazes me most about these weeks we've been spending together.

He simply... exists in my space, filling it with his quiet presence without demanding anything in return.

When I'm overwhelmed by something I can't remember, he doesn't press for details.

When Braylon gets cranky before naptime, Domiel simply lifts him and walks the cottage in slow circles until our son's breathing evens out against his shoulder.

He seems to know exactly when to step closer and when to give me room to breathe.

Like tonight, when I'm struggling with the heavy pot over the fire and he appears behind me without a word, his hands covering mine on the handle to help me lift it safely.

His chest brushes against my back for just a moment—warm and solid—before he steps away again.

"Careful," he murmurs, close enough that his breath stirs the escaped wisps of my hair. "It's heavier than it looks."

These little touches happen more frequently now.

His fingers brushing mine when we pass dishes at dinner, the weight of his palm settling briefly at the small of my back when I reach for something on a high shelf.

Each contact sends something like lightning crackling through me—unfamiliar and yet so absolutely right that it makes me wonder if my body remembers things my mind has forgotten.

Sometimes I catch myself leaning into those touches before I can stop myself.

Or lingering when his hand covers mine for just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

There's something building between us, some tension that isn't quite tension—more like the feeling of storm clouds gathering on a clear day, electricity in the air that promises rain.

"Was I always like this?" I ask one evening after Braylon has finally surrendered to sleep. We're sitting by the hearth, the fire crackling softly between us while outside the wind picks up. "Before... before I lost everything. Was I always so..."

I trail off, not sure how to finish. Cautious? Careful? Afraid of wanting too much?

Domiel considers the question with the thoughtfulness he brings to everything.

The firelight turns his hair to burnished gold and makes his eyes look almost silver.

"You were brave," he says finally. "Braver than you thought you were.

Strong enough to challenge me when I was being an ass, gentle enough to see beauty in broken things. "

"Broken things?"

His mouth curves in something that's not quite a smile. "Me, mostly."

I study his face, searching for some hint of what that means.

But Domiel has always been careful with his words around me, never saying more than he thinks I'm ready to hear.

It's maddening sometimes, this sense that there are entire conversations happening just beneath the surface of what we actually say to each other.

"It hurts," I admit quietly, surprised by my own honesty. "Not remembering. Feeling like there's this whole other person who lived in my body and made choices I can't access. Like I'm a stranger wearing someone else's life."

The admission hangs between us, heavier than I intended. I expect him to offer platitudes or try to fix it somehow—that seems like the kind of man he is, someone who solves problems with methodical precision.

Instead, he just looks at me with those impossibly bright silver-blue eyes, and something in his expression softens. "Maybe we can make new ones," he says simply.

The words hit me like a physical thing. Not a promise to help me recover what's lost, not false reassurance that my memories will return someday. Just... the possibility of beginning again. Of building something fresh from where we are right now.

"New memories?" I whisper.

"New everything, if that's what you want."

There's something in his voice—not quite hope, but not resignation either. Like he's offering me a choice without expecting any particular answer. Like whatever I decide will be enough for him, even if it's not what he's hoping for.

The fire pops and settles, sending sparks dancing up the chimney. Outside, the wind rattles the windows with October's promise of winter coming. But here in this small circle of warmth, with Domiel's patient presence filling the space across from me, everything feels possible.

I find myself leaning forward before I'm conscious of the decision. The space between us suddenly feels charged, like the air before lightning strikes. His eyes widen slightly as I close the distance, one hand bracing against his knee for balance.

"Kaleen," he breathes, my name a question and a prayer all at once. Just like he always does, and I've grown to love hearing the way he says my name.

I answer by pressing my lips to his.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative—me testing this new territory, seeing how it feels to take what I want instead of waiting for it to be offered. We've kissed before but never because I started it.

But the moment our mouths meet, something ignites. His lips are warm and taste faintly of the meadowmint tea we shared after dinner, and when he responds to my kiss with careful hunger, my entire body comes alive.

His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb stroking across my cheekbone with reverent gentleness.

There's something almost worshipful in the touch, like he's afraid I might disappear if he's not careful enough.

But I don't want careful anymore. I want this fire that's building in my chest, this rightness that goes deeper than memory.

I thread my fingers through his hair—softer than I expected, thick and warm—and feel him shudder against my mouth.

The small sound he makes sends heat spiraling through me, and I realize this is what I've been missing.

Not just touch, but this particular touch.

This man, this mouth, this chemistry that feels like coming home to something I never knew I'd lost.

And I'm done holding back.