Page 17 of Demon Daddy’s Secret Twins (Demon Daddies #2)

17

LOXLEY

T he morning sun filters through my treehouse windows, casting long shadows across the floor. Another day. Another week. Three of them now, to be exact, since Mazan left.

I pace the length of my home, my fingers absently tracing the smooth wooden walls. The routine is familiar - wake up, tell myself I don't care, fail at not caring, repeat. My shoes click against the hardwood as I move from window to window, scanning the sky for massive midnight-blue wings.

Nothing. Just like yesterday. And the day before.

"He's busy." The words taste hollow. "The King probably has him doing something important."

My reflection catches in the window - auburn braids messy from running my hands through them too many times, golden-brown eyes dark with lack of sleep. I turn away, unable to face the truth written across my face.

The bed remains perfectly made, hardly touched since that night. Since I let him in - really let him in. His scent still clings to the sheets, a reminder I can't bring myself to wash away.

Three weeks. Twenty-one days of nothing.

I grab my pack, needing to escape these walls that feel like they're closing in. The familiar path to the waterfall beckons. At least there, the rushing water might drown out the voice in my head that keeps whispering, I told you so.

My fingers brush the scar along my ribs as I walk - a reminder of why I don't do this. Why I don't let people close. Those golden lines that trace his obsidian skin, the way his copper-red eyes had looked at me like I was something precious - it had all felt so real.

The jungle path offers no answers, just the quiet rustle of leaves and the distant crash of waves. Each step takes me further from the village, from watchful eyes that might notice how I scan the horizon every few minutes.

"You're an idiot," I mutter, kicking a stone off the path. "What did you expect? That one demon would be different?"

But he had been different. Patient. Gentle. Until he wasn't here at all.

The waterfall comes into view, its steady roar a welcome distraction. I settle onto my usual rock, legs dangling over the crystal-clear pool below. The mist cools my skin, but does nothing for the burning in my chest.

Someone must know something. Lamain or June would. All I’d have to do is ask. The words sit heavy on my tongue, but I swallow them back down. Speaking makes it real. Questions make it real.

My fingers work through my braids, unraveling them only to start again. The repetitive motion helps, gives my hands something to do besides shake. Three weeks ago, these same fingers traced those golden lines on his skin, watched them glow beneath my touch. Now they just feel empty.

A group of villagers passes on the nearby path. I catch fragments of their conversation - something about supply runs and demons. My body tenses, ready to spring up and demand answers, but I force myself to stay still. To keep my eyes fixed on the water below.

The scar along my ribs aches, a phantom pain that always flares when I'm stressed. I press my palm against it, remembering how he'd traced it that night, how his touch had been so careful, so unlike anything I'd known before.

"Stop it," I whisper, but the words are lost in the waterfall's crash.

My treehouse feels more like a cage with each passing day. The village grows smaller, suffocating. Every flash of movement in the sky makes my heart leap, only to crash when it's just another bird. But I don't ask. I can't ask.

Because if I ask, someone might tell me he's not coming back. They might say he's done what every other person in my life has done. That he used me and abandoned me. That I was nothing but a body, a source of entertainment, something to be discarded after he was done. And as long as I don't hear those words, I can pretend this silence is temporary. That there's a reason. That I haven't made the same mistake again, letting someone close enough to break what little of me is left.

The path winds deeper into the jungle, each step automatic after months of walking this same route. My fingers trail along familiar tree trunks, their rough bark grounding me in the present. But my eyes keep drifting to the empty space beside me, to where he should be.

The first time Mazan joined me on this walk, his massive frame made the path feel smaller. Now the jungle stretches endless and vast around me, too big, too quiet. Each rustle of leaves sends my head snapping around, hoping to catch a glimpse of obsidian skin or copper-red eyes.

I kick off my boots, letting my feet sink into the cool sand as the path opens to the beach. The ocean stretches before me, endless blue meeting endless sky. Perfect for spotting incoming visitors. Perfect for torturing myself with false hope.

"This is what you wanted," I remind myself, voice sharp against the gentle lap of waves. "To be alone. Safe."

But safe feels hollow now. The solitude that once wrapped around me like a shield now cuts like the collar I wore in chains. My hand finds the scar along my ribs - a reminder of why I should know better. Of why letting anyone close is dangerous.

The beach stretches empty in both directions. No massive wings blocking the sun. No quiet footsteps matching mine in the sand. Just me and the waves and the screaming silence in my head.

I used to love these walks. They were my escape, my chance to breathe without the weight of others' eyes and expectations. Now each step feels like running from something I can't name. The very isolation I crafted so carefully has become its own kind of prison.

A bird calls overhead and my heart lurches before I can stop it. Not him. It's never him. The disappointment tastes bitter, familiar. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold together the pieces he somehow made whole without my permission.

The wind whips my loose braids across my face. I don't bother fixing them. What's the point? There's no one here to see me fall apart.

The ocean blurs as tears threaten to spill. I blink them back, refusing to give in to this weakness. My nails dig into my palms until they leave crescent marks - anything to focus on besides the hollow ache in my chest.

"You knew better." The words come out raw, scraping my throat. "You've always known better."

The memories flash unbidden - his gentle touch, those patient eyes, the way he never pushed when I flinched. All lies. They had to be lies. Just like every other false kindness I'd been shown before.

I sink to my knees in the sand, pressing my forehead to them as my body curls inward. The position is familiar - how many times had I hidden like this in dark corners, trying to make myself smaller, invisible? The scar along my ribs burns, a reminder of what trust brings.

My fingers trace patterns in the sand, anything to keep them from shaking. Three weeks. Twenty-one days of silence that scream louder than any rejection. Each sunrise without those midnight-blue wings dims something inside me that I didn't even know could still break.

The village feels too close suddenly, even from here. Too many eyes that might see through my carefully constructed walls. Too many whispers that might carry truth I'm not ready to hear. I retreat further down the beach, where the jungle grows thick and wild, where no one can witness how stupid I've been.

A laugh bubbles up - bitter, broken. Of course he's gone. Everyone leaves. That's the one truth I can count on. I was a fool to think a demon would be different, to let myself believe those copper-red eyes saw something worth staying for.

My chest constricts, each breath shorter than the last. The walls I've built so carefully over the years crack and crumble, leaving me exposed. Raw. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold the pieces together, but they slip through my fingers like sand.