Page 4 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Son (Demon Daddies #7)

KALEEN

T he late afternoon sun slants through the workshop windows, casting long shadows across the stone floor as I arrange Domiel's scattered papers into neat stacks.

Ink stains mar several sheets where his stylus has dripped, and empty teacups sit abandoned between rolls of parchment like ceramic sentinels guarding his work.

He's been gone since before dawn, riding back to the Vaelthorne estate to attempt another solution to his stabilizer matrix problem.

I've spent the day trying to occupy myself with household tasks, but my thoughts keep drifting to mountain roads and quarries, to the tension that's been radiating from his shoulders like heat from forge-heated metal.

The sound of zarryn hooves on cobblestone draws my attention to the window.

Domiel guides his mount through the gates with mechanical precision, his posture telling the story before I even see his face.

His shoulders curve inward like he's protecting himself from an invisible blow, and his head tilts at that particular angle that means he's been staring at calculations until his neck seized.

I set down the stack of papers and move toward the main entrance, reaching it just as he pushes through the door.

Dark gold hair escapes from its metal clasps in disheveled waves, and there are fresh ink stains on his fingers that climb halfway up his forearms. The sharp angles of his face look carved from exhaustion, silver-blue eyes dulled with the particular frustration that comes from battering against an immovable problem.

"Any progress?" I keep my voice light, though we both know the answer from the way he moves.

"None." He sheds his riding cloak with jerky movements, hanging it on the hook beside the door without his usual care.

"The alternate anchor configuration might work, but it's inelegant.

Risky. The kind of solution that gets reviewed by the architectural council and deemed 'adequate but concerning. '"

I watch him scrub ink-stained hands through his hair, leaving faint smudges along his temple. The scar there catches the light, a thin white line that speaks of old accidents and hard-learned lessons. "Come sit. You look ready to collapse."

"I need to review the binding calculations again. There has to be something I'm missing, some way to?—"

"Domiel." I step into his path, close enough that he has to stop moving or collide with me. "Sit. Five minutes won't destroy your deadline."

For a moment, I think he'll argue. His jaw works like he's chewing words too sharp to speak aloud. Then the fight goes out of him all at once, shoulders sagging as he allows me to guide him to the low couch near the window.

He sinks into the cushions with a sound that's part sigh, part groan.

I settle beside him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin, and begin working the knots from his shoulders with practiced fingers.

He melts under my touch, head falling forward to give me better access to the tension gathered at the base of his neck.

"We've lost a day," I say quietly, kneading at a particularly stubborn knot. "Tomorrow will be two. How much time do we have before this becomes impossible instead of just difficult?"

His muscles tense again under my hands. "We?"

"Don't." I press harder, earning a sharp intake of breath. "Don't pretend this is just your problem when we both know I'm the only viable solution."

"I looked into other options today." His voice carries the weight of defeat.

"Asked every courier service in the city, contacted the transport guilds.

Nobody can guarantee a round trip to Kaerion and back in less than five days.

Most are quoting seven to ten. And that was the few that could go—most untrustworthy since the others are already bought. "

I continue working at his shoulders, giving him space to arrive at the conclusion we both know is inevitable. The silence stretches between us, filled only by the distant sounds of the city and his gradually steadying breathing.

"There's another option." The words come reluctantly, like he's pulling them from somewhere deep and painful. "I could request an extension on the Vaelthorne contract. Explain the supply complications, negotiate new terms."

My hands still on his shoulders. "But?"

"But Lady Vaelthorne specifically chose my services because I don't miss deadlines.

It's the foundation of my reputation in Soimur.

" He sits up slightly, turning to meet my eyes.

"If I request an extension on a project this significant, word will spread.

Other families will start questioning my reliability. "

And then I remember something he seems to have forgotten. "Not only that, but don't you have your renewal meeting with the city?"

His expression grows grimmer. "Day after tomorrow. My ethereal architecture license comes up for review every three years. And they examine not just my technical competency, but my professional standing. Client satisfaction surveys, completion records, testimonials from the families I've served."

I understand now why this deadline has him wound tighter than a crossbow string.

It's not just about one contract, no matter how lucrative.

It's about everything he's built here, the reputation that allows him to choose his projects and command the fees that keep this estate running.

The work that gives him purpose and identity beyond his birth and breeding.

"The alternative is going yourself?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"I could leave immediately after the renewal meeting. Push the zarryn hard, make the round trip in four days if the weather holds." He rubs his palms against his knees, a nervous gesture that tells me exactly how much he dislikes this plan. "It would still be cutting it close, but possible."

"Except you'd be exhausted, working with materials you've never personally selected, and binding the final matrix with barely any margin for error." I shift to face him fully, studying the sharp planes of his face in the slanted afternoon light. "That's not elegant either. That's desperate."

He flinches slightly at the word, but doesn't argue. Because we both know I'm right. The Domiel I know, the one who builds homes that stand for centuries and wards that never fail, doesn't work desperate. He works with precision and patience and absolute confidence in every component.

"Domiel, let me go for you." I hate seeing him this overworked.

"Kaleen—"

"I can identify quality moonshard better than most of your regular couriers. You've seen me sort crystal matrices, handle volatile runestone. I know what to look for, how to test for structural flaws and resonance inconsistencies."

I watch him process this, see the war between logic and protection playing across his features. His hands clench and unclench against his knees, ink stains dark against his bronze skin.

"Two days there. Buy the lattice. And I'll turn around and come right back." I keep my voice steady, practical. "I could leave at first light tomorrow and return by evening on the third day at that rate. You'd have your binding lattice with a day to spare before you desperately need it."

"The roads?—"

"Are well-traveled during daylight hours, especially during construction season.

I'm not planning to camp in the wilderness or take shortcuts through bandit territory.

" I lean closer, close enough to see the gold flecks scattered through his silver-blue eyes.

"This isn't a dangerous rescue mission, Domiel. It's a business trip."

He's quiet for a long moment, staring past my shoulder at something I can't see. When he looks at me again, there's a vulnerability in his expression that makes my chest tight.

"I've never been apart from you for three days," he admits quietly. "Not since you chose to stay."

The words hit deeper than I expected. Because he's right.

In all the months since he bought my contract and I decided to remain, we've built a life that rarely requires separation.

His work keeps him in the city, my world has become centered around this estate and him.

The longest we've been apart is a single night when he was required to attend a formal dinner I couldn't accompany him to.

"I'll miss you too." I reach for his hands, threading my fingers through his despite the ink stains. "But I'll come back. This isn't me leaving, it's me helping you solve a problem so we can continue building what we have here."

His thumb traces over my knuckles, following the line of the delicate gold bracelet that covers old scars. "If something happened to you..."

"Nothing will happen to me." I squeeze his hands. "I'm good at this, remember? Taking care of business, managing difficult situations, coming home safe at the end of the day." I lift his hand to my lips, pressing a soft kiss to his ink-stained knuckles. "You can't leave, Domiel. We both know it."

He knows I'm right. I can see it in the way his shoulders settle, the reluctant acceptance that flickers across his features.

Domiel built his career on reliability, on being the ethereal architect who never compromises, never cuts corners, never puts clients in the position of wondering if their investment was wise.

"I'll be careful," I continue, keeping my voice steady and sure.

"No unnecessary risks, no shortcuts through questionable territory.

Straight roads during daylight hours, established inns at night.

I'll test every piece of lattice before I buy it, negotiate a fair price, and come home with exactly what you need. "

His free hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing across my skin with that particular gentleness he reserves for quiet moments between us. "And if the quarry master tries to overcharge you? If the weather turns? If?—"

"Then I handle it." I lean into his touch, letting him see the confidence in my eyes. "The same way I handled supply negotiations for the syndicate, the same way I managed volatile shipments and difficult clients before you ever knew my name. This is what I'm good at, remember?"

The fight goes out of him all at once, that internal war between logic and protection finally resolving into reluctant acceptance. His wings shift restlessly behind him, white and gray feathers catching the light from the window.

"I don't have a choice, do I?" The words come out rough, tinged with frustration that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with circumstances beyond his control.

I shake my head slowly. "No. You don't."

For a moment, we just look at each other. The late afternoon sun streams through the windows, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. I can see the exact moment he stops fighting the inevitable, the precise instant when his shoulders relax and his breathing deepens.

Then he's kissing me.

Not the gentle, questioning kiss of uncertainty, but the fierce, claiming kiss of a man who needs to mark this moment, to seal something between us before letting go.

His mouth moves against mine with hungry precision, one hand tangled in my hair while the other spans my waist. I taste the salt of his frustration, the sweetness of surrender, the dark edge of possession that always lurks beneath his careful control.

A surprised squeal escapes me as he breaks the kiss just long enough to sweep me up in his arms. The world tilts sideways as he lifts me like I weigh nothing, powerful arms supporting my back and knees while his wings spread slightly for balance.

"Domiel!" I laugh despite the breathless way my heart pounds, arms looping around his neck as he carries me from the sitting room. "What are you?—"

"Making the most of tonight." His voice carries that low, rough quality that sends heat spiraling through my chest. "Since you're so determined to leave me tomorrow."

The familiar hallways blur past as he navigates toward our bedroom with sure steps, muscles shifting under his shirt with each stride.

I can feel the controlled strength in the way he holds me, the careful balance between gentleness and power that's so essentially him.

His scent surrounds me—ink and stone dust and something indefinably warm that I've never been able to name.

"I'm coming back," I remind him, though my voice comes out breathier than intended.

"I know." He nudges our bedroom door open with his shoulder, carrying me across the threshold like I'm something precious to be protected. "But that doesn't mean I have to like letting you go."