Page 6 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Son (Demon Daddies #7)

DOMIEL

M orning light streams through the high windows of our room, casting golden reflections off the polished stone floor.

The crystal matrices I embedded in the walls catch the early sun and fracture it into dancing prisms that scatter across the ceiling.

Usually, the sight brings me satisfaction—evidence of precise engineering married to beauty. Today, it feels like mockery.

Kaleen moves through the space with practiced efficiency, her bare feet silent on the warm stone.

She's already dressed in sturdy travel clothes: dark leather boots that lace to mid-calf, fitted brown trousers that won't catch in a saddle, and a deep green tunic that brings out the gold flecks in her amber eyes.

The sight of her packed and ready makes something cold settle in my stomach.

I remain sprawled across our bed, sheets tangled around my waist, watching her with the desperate focus of a man trying to memorize every detail.

The way her thick chestnut hair catches the light as she bends to check her satchel.

The unconscious grace in her movements as she folds spare clothes with quick, economical motions.

The determined set of her jaw that tells me arguing further would be pointless.

"You don't have to watch me pack like I'm heading to my execution," she says without looking up, but I catch the slight smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Don't I?" The words come out rougher than intended. I scrub a hand through my loose hair, trying to shake off the weight of foreboding that's settled on my chest like a stone. "Because that's exactly what this feels like."

She straightens, fixing me with that steady amber gaze that's gotten us through every crisis we've faced together. "It's three days, Dom. I've survived worse than mountain roads and quarry masters."

The casual reference to her past—to the years of indenture I couldn't protect her from—sends a fresh spike of anger through me.

Not at her, never at her, but at the circumstances that taught her such resilience in the first place.

At myself for being in a position where I have to rely on that hard-won strength.

"Come here," I say, extending one hand toward her.

She approaches the bed with that particular combination of wariness and affection she reserves for my more protective moments. When she's close enough, I catch her wrist and pull her down onto the mattress beside me, ignoring her small sound of protest.

"Dom, I need to?—"

"Check the map for the fifth time? Adjust your supplies again?

" I gather her against my chest, burying my face in the warm curve of her neck.

She still smells like the soap we shared last night, mixed with something that's purely her—warm skin and determination and the faint sweetness that clings to her hair. "The sun's barely up. You have time."

Her body relaxes into mine despite her protests, familiar curves fitting against my harder angles like we were designed for each other. Maybe we were. Maybe the gods took pity on a lonely ethereal architect and sent him a woman who could see past gilded wings to the man beneath.

"I've memorized every detail of that route," she murmurs against my shoulder.

"Two days north through Kaerion's mountain passes, then I'll go straight to the quarry.

I'll have the moonshard lattice by evening on the second day and be back here before sunset on the third.

I won't stay anywhere longer than I need to. "

The methodical recitation should reassure me. Instead, it emphasizes how far she'll be traveling, how many things could go wrong, how many hours I'll spend wondering if she's safe while trapped in meetings I can't escape.

I tighten my arms around her, pressing my lips to the pulse point below her ear. "I hate every part of this plan except the part where you come home to me."

"That's the only part that matters." Her fingers trace patterns across my bare chest, touch gentle but grounding. "Everything else is just details."

She shifts to look at me, propping herself up on one elbow. The movement causes her hair to fall in silky waves over her shoulder, and I can't resist threading my fingers through the dark strands. Her expression grows serious as she studies my face.

"You're scared," she observes, no judgment in her tone. Just fact.

"Terrified," I admit. There's no point in lying to her.

She reads me too well, knows all the ways I try to hide vulnerability behind logic and control.

"I've built my entire life around creating safe spaces, protecting what matters most. And now the thing that matters most to me wants to ride into unknown territory where I can't watch over her. "

"Dom." Her palm cups my jaw, thumb stroking over the scar at my temple. "Fear isn't going to change what needs to happen. But trust might make it bearable."

The words hit deeper than any argument could. Because she's right, as she always is about these things. This isn't about the quarry or the deadline or even the moonshard lattice. This is about trust—trusting her competence, her judgment, her promise to return.

"I do trust you," I say quietly. "It's everything else I don't trust."

She leans down to brush her lips against mine, the kiss soft and reassuring. "Then trust that I'm too stubborn to let 'everything else' keep me from coming home to you."

The kiss lingers between us, sweet and achingly familiar, before she pulls away with obvious reluctance.

Her amber eyes hold mine for a long moment, and I see my own reluctance reflected there—the same desperate desire to freeze this moment, to keep her safe in the circle of my arms where nothing can touch her.

But duty calls, as it always does.

She slides from the bed with fluid grace, and I force myself to release her though every instinct screams against it. The loss of her warmth feels like a physical blow, cold air rushing in to fill the space where she belonged.

"I should get moving if I want to reach Silverbrook before dark," she says, shouldering her travel pack.

The leather is well-worn but sturdy, packed with supplies we selected together last night when I could get my hands off of her—dried provisions, spare clothes, coin for lodging, and the sealed letter of authorization I'd written to ensure the quarry master would release the moonshard lattice to her.

I rise from the bed, not bothering with clothes as I follow her through our chambers.

The morning light streaming through the tall windows catches the subtle bronze of my skin, making it gleam like polished metal.

My wings remain folded tight against my back, silver-blue primaries tucked neatly beneath the gray-flecked coverts.

When I'm agitated, they have a tendency to flare, and the last thing I want is to make this harder for her by displaying my anxiety like a warning banner.

She pauses at the chamber door, turning back to face me with that steady confidence that first caught my attention in a dusty quarry yard. "Promise me something."

"Anything."

"Don't spend the next three days redesigning the wards out of nervous energy." Her mouth curves in a knowing smile. "I'd like to come home to a house that still remembers me."

The gentle teasing draws a reluctant smile from me despite the knot of tension in my chest. She knows me too well—knows that when I'm anxious, I tend to pour that energy into my work, sometimes to obsessive degrees.

The wards that protect our estate are already perfectly calibrated, but in my current state, I might tinker with them until they no longer recognize her magical signature.

"I'll try to resist the urge," I promise, catching her hand and bringing it to my lips.

Her knuckles are callused from years of hard work, each small scar a testament to her strength.

I press a kiss to each one, tasting salt and the faint mineral scent that clings to her skin from handling magical stone.

She allows the indulgence for a moment before gently extracting her hand. "Good. Now stop looking at me like I'm walking into the void. It's making me want to stay, and we both know I can't."

The words are meant to lighten the mood, but they land with the weight of truth. I can see the same reluctance in her eyes that's clawing at my insides, the same desire to forget duty and responsibility and remain wrapped in the safety of what we've built together.

But she's right. The Vaelthorne commission can't wait, and my licensing meeting is tomorrow afternoon.

If I miss it, months of work could be wasted, and our carefully constructed life could crumble.

The city council doesn't grant second chances to ethereal architects who fail to maintain their credentials.

After I tug on some clothes, I follow her through the hallway, past the sitting room with its precisely placed furniture and the dining area where we share quiet meals by lamplight.

Every surface bears some mark of my craft—protective sigils carved into doorframes, light crystals embedded in the walls, wards that keep the temperature perfectly balanced and unwanted influences at bay.

This house is a masterwork of magical engineering, but without her presence to give it meaning, it feels as cold and empty as a tomb.

The main door opens with a whisper of well-oiled hinges, revealing the courtyard beyond.

Morning mist clings to the carefully tended gardens where she grows herbs for cooking and healing.

The zarryn she's hired waits near the gate, silver coat gleaming in the early light, both tails switching with typical mountain-bred impatience.

The creature's temperamental nature shows in the way it sidesteps and tosses its shaggy head, but the handler maintains a firm grip on the lead rope.

I step out into the doorway, bare feet finding the warm stone of the threshold.

The morning air carries the scent of dew and growing things, mixed with the metallic tang that always lingers around zarryn.

My wings press more tightly against my back as I watch her approach the creature with easy confidence, speaking in low, soothing tones that calm its nervous energy.

She swings up onto the zarryn's back with practiced ease, settling into the saddle like she was born to it. The sight sends another spike of unease through me—she looks so small on the creature's broad back, so vulnerable despite her obvious competence.

"Three days," she calls out, gathering the reins in capable hands. "I'll be back before you know it."

She guides the zarryn away from the gate, but instead of turning immediately toward the road, she urges it into a slow walk that keeps her facing me.

That brilliant smile spreads across her face—the one that transforms her entire countenance from merely beautiful to absolutely radiant—and she raises one hand in a playful wave.

"Don't look so grim," she laughs, walking the zarryn backward down the path with the kind of easy skill that speaks to years of experience. "You'll give yourself premature gray streaks, and I happen to like your hair the color it is."

Despite everything, her teasing draws a genuine smile from me. She has that effect—an ability to find light even in my darkest moods, to pull me back from the edge of worry through sheer force of her presence.

I remain in the doorway, one hand gripping the stone frame hard enough that my knuckles show white. The sensation grounds me, keeps me from doing something foolish like demanding she take guards or insisting I abandon everything to ride with her.

She continues backing the zarryn away, never breaking eye contact, that smile never wavering.

The morning sun catches the rich brown of her hair where it escapes her braid, turning it to burnished copper.

Her green travel tunic brings out the warm undertones in her skin, and for a moment she looks like some woodland spirit sent to torment me with beauty I can see but not touch.

The distance between us grows with each step the zarryn takes, but she maintains that playful backward progress, determined to keep me in sight as long as possible. The gesture is so perfectly her—refusing to simply leave, instead drawing out our goodbye until the very last moment.

When she finally reaches the bend in the road, she blows me a kiss with theatrical flourish before turning the zarryn toward the mountain pass. I watch until her figure disappears beyond the line of trees, swallowed by shadow and distance, the sound of hoofbeats fading to silence.

The absence hits me like a physical blow. The carefully controlled unease I've been managing since we planned this trip erupts into something sharper, more desperate. It's as if half of my soul just rode away on a temperamental mountain creature, leaving me incomplete and aching.

I remain frozen in the doorway long after she's gone, staring at the empty road like I can will her back into sight through sheer force of longing.

The morning mist continues to rise from the gardens, and somewhere in the distance a black pitter calls to its mate.

Life goes on around me, but all I can focus on is the hollow space where her presence used to be.

Three days suddenly feels like an eternity.