Page 32 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Son (Demon Daddies #7)

Kaleen sits forward, her amber eyes taking in every detail.

The fountain in the center courtyard still runs, its water dancing over carved runes that pulse with soft blue light.

The climbing vines I trained along the eastern wall have grown wild in my absence, their silver-edged leaves creating patterns I never planned but somehow love.

"It's beautiful," she breathes, and something tight in my chest finally loosens.

Braylon presses his face to the carriage window, babbling excitedly at the sight of so much space to explore. When I help them down from the carriage, he immediately totters toward the fountain, drawn by the musical splash of water.

But it's Kaleen who captures my attention.

She stands in the courtyard, turning slowly to take it all in.

Her expression isn't one of recognition—that flicker of remembrance I've been hoping for doesn't come.

Instead, there's something deeper. Peace.

Like she's finally found a place where she can breathe fully.

"Show me," she says simply, and I understand she means everything.

I lead them through the heavy doors into the main hall.

The space soars overhead, supported by stone arches that seem to grow from the walls themselves.

Tapestries in deep blues and silvers hang between tall windows, and the runic symbols I've carved into the doorframes still glow faintly—protective wards that have kept this place safe in my absence.

Kaleen moves through the halls like she's walking through a half-remembered dream. Her fingers trail along the stone walls, brushing over carvings I made years ago. She pauses at a window seat I built specifically for her, her head tilting as if she's listening to something I can't hear.

"This feels..." she starts, then stops, searching for words.

"Right?" I suggest.

She nods, that radiant smile spreading across her face. "Right."

The kitchen makes her laugh—a sound that fills every corner with warmth. The massive hearth dominates one wall, with iron hooks for hanging pots and shelves lined with preserved herbs. A long table sits in the center, scarred from years of use and marked with ring stains from countless mugs of tea.

"You cook?" she asks, amusement dancing in her eyes.

"Badly," I admit. "You always took pity on me and made sure I didn't starve. You loved to cook in here."

She runs her hands over the table's surface, and I watch her face for any sign of memory. Nothing comes, but she doesn't seem troubled by its absence.

Braylon explores with the fearless enthusiasm of a toddler, his small hands reaching for everything within grasp. I follow behind him, moving anything breakable to higher shelves and making mental notes of rooms that will need childproofing.

But it's when I lead them to the garden that Kaleen truly comes alive.

The space spreads out behind the house in carefully planned chaos—herb beds that flow into flower gardens, fruit trees heavy with late-season offerings, and stone paths that wind between raised planters.

Wild roses climb the garden walls, their blooms deep red against the gray stone.

A small grove of silver-leafed trees creates shade near the back wall, their branches hung with crystal chimes that sing softly in the mountain breeze.

Kaleen moves into the space like she's entering a sanctuary.

She touches everything—the velvet petals of aracin blossoms, the rough bark of the fruit trees, the smooth stones that edge the herb beds.

When she reaches the grove where we've made love under starlight more times than I can count, she stops and closes her eyes.

"This is my favorite place," she says with absolute certainty, though she can't possibly remember why.

"Mine too," I murmur, watching as she settles onto the stone bench I carved from a single piece of mountain granite.

Braylon toddles after a thalivern, its four iridescent wings catching the light as it dances between the flowers. His delighted squeals echo off the garden walls, a sound this place has been missing for too long.

That evening, I show Kaleen the room I've kept exactly as she left it.

Her clothes still hang in the wardrobe—silk dresses in jewel tones, practical work clothes, delicate undergarments that make my hands shake to touch.

The jewelry I've given her over the years lies carefully arranged in a wooden box on the dressing table: rings with protective sigils, a necklace of blue-fire stones, the gold cuff she wore to cover her indentured brand.

She examines each piece with wonder, holding a pair of silver earrings up to the light. "You kept everything."

"I couldn't bear to change anything. This place felt like a tomb without you."

She turns to face me fully, the earrings still dangling from her fingers. "Well, I'm here now. We both are."

The words hit me like absolution.

Later, after I've put Braylon to bed in the nursery I prepared for him years ago and never got to use, Kaleen and I sit before the great hearth in the main hall.

The fire crackles between us, throwing dancing shadows on the stone walls.

She's curled against my side, her head on my shoulder, like she's done it a thousand times before.

"Tell me about us," she says softly. "The things we did here."

So I tell her about the morning she got lost in the herb garden, insisting for hours that the paths had moved overnight and the whole place was haunted by mischievous spirits. How she finally emerged, twigs in her hair and dirt on her dress, completely convinced she'd discovered some ancient magic.

"You made me walk every path with you to prove they hadn't changed," I say, stroking her chestnut hair. "Took us three hours to map the entire garden."

Braylon sits on the thick rug at our feet, playing with wooden blocks and listening with wide, fascinated eyes. He doesn't understand the words, but he seems to sense the importance of these stories, these pieces of a life that shaped who he is.

I tell her about the time she decided to reorganize my library and accidentally triggered a protection ward that turned all the books blue for a week.

About the winter evening we discovered we both sang horribly but danced beautifully, spinning around the main hall until we collapsed laughing on the stone floor.

With each story, she settles deeper against my side. Not with recognition, but with rightness. Like these tales are becoming hers again not through memory but through choice.

"I like who I was with you," she says eventually, her voice drowsy and content.

"You're still her," I murmur into her hair. "Just... different. Better, maybe."

She tilts her head to look at me, those amber eyes serious in the firelight. "How can I be better without my memories?"

"Because you chose this. Chose us. Before, you stayed because you had nowhere else to go. Even if you did love me, that was still part of it. Now you're here because it's where you want to be."

Her smile blooms slow and brilliant. "Then this is exactly where I'm meant to be."

Outside, the mountain wind whispers through the crystal chimes, and for the first time in two years, my home feels complete.

And I will never let it go again.