Page 5 of Demon Daddy’s Secret Twins (Demon Daddies #2)

5

LOXLEY

T he storm howls outside my treehouse window, rain pelting against the glass in angry sheets. Lightning splits the dark sky, illuminating the twisted branches of the massive trees surrounding my home. I curl deeper into the window seat, wrapping my arms around my knees as thunder rattles the walls.

Supply day. The thought sits heavy in my chest. Mazan should have been here hours ago, and I wonder if he will drop it and go. He’s told me he portals here so I doubt the storm will change his scheduled days.

I shouldn’t care. In fact, the only reason I do is because I’m stuck inside. At least that’s what I tell myself.

My daily walks through the jungle paths have become a ritual - a way to breathe, to remember I'm free. But today, nature has other plans. The paths will be flooded, branches scattered everywhere. The waterfall I visit each morning will be a raging torrent by now.

Another crack of thunder makes me flinch. I press my forehead against the cool glass, watching raindrops race down the pane. My fingers trace the jagged scar along my ribs - an old habit when I'm unsettled.

"Stupid," I mutter to myself. "It's just one day."

But it's not just that. These past months, my carefully constructed walls have developed hairline cracks. Mazan's steady presence, his quiet strength - it's become something I look forward to. The way he keeps his distance without making me feel trapped. How he always announces himself before getting too close. And actually talking to someone has been nice.

I close my eyes, remembering the slight glow of those golden lines across his obsidian skin when he uses magic to unload supplies. The way his copper-red eyes catch the light. How his massive wings fold so carefully against his back, making himself smaller despite his intimidating height.

The storm rages harder, and I pull my knees closer. Tomorrow, the jungle paths will be different - altered by wind and rain. But they'll still be there. Like Mazan will be here next week, patient and unchanging.

My chest tightens at the thought. When did I start counting on anyone's presence? When did I start missing someone?

The rain lasts through the night, leaving in the early morning. I find myself restless as the sun finally rises, and I’m eager to get out of the house.

Not that he’ll be there. Not that I want him to.

Morning light filters through damp leaves as I pick my way along the muddy path. The storm has left its mark - fallen branches and scattered debris everywhere. But the familiar route still calls to me, drawing me forward despite the mess.

I freeze mid-step. There, beneath the twisted canopy of branches, stands Mazan. His massive form is unmistakable, those navy-blue wings folded carefully against his back. He's examining a fallen tree, his copper-red eyes focused as golden lines shimmer across his obsidian skin. With a slight gesture, he lifts the massive trunk and moves it aside, clearing the path.

My heart pounds. Usually, I wait for him to speak first - our unspoken arrangement. But yesterday's absence sits heavy in my mind, and before I can stop myself?—

"The storm kept you away." My voice sounds smaller than intended, but I don't flinch when his gaze meets mine.

His movements still, careful and measured like always. Those molten eyes study me, and I see the slight shift in his expression - surprise, maybe even pleasure at my initiative.

"Lamain doesn’t like doing deliveries in the rain." His deep voice carries easily across the space between us. "Since he usually distributes them after.”

I take a step closer, noting how he remains perfectly still. Like always, he lets me set the distance, lets me choose how near I want to be. The realization makes my chest tight.

"I thought..." I swallow, forcing the words out. "I thought you wouldn’t be here until next week.”

The golden lines across his skin pulse softly. "Are you disappointed I’m here now?"

"No," I whisper, swallowing hard. I’m not sure how to convey what I feel. Not really. I’m not the best at articulating my emotions when I’ve spent so long shoving them down.

His horns catch the morning light as he tilts his head, studying me with that patient intensity that's become so familiar. He doesn't push, doesn't demand more than I'm willing to give. Just waits, steady and present, like he always has been.

I shift my weight, bare feet sinking into the damp earth. The morning air feels thick after the storm, heavy with moisture and unspoken words.

"Why are you here?" The question slips out before I can stop it. I gesture at the path so he doesn’t answer with he had a delivery. We both know that’s not what I meant.

Mazan remains motionless, those copper-red eyes fixed on me. Not predatory - never predatory - but intense in a way that makes my skin prickle.

"The path needed clearing." He gestures to the fallen tree he just moved.

"No." I wrap my arms around myself, hating how vulnerable I feel. "Why are you really here? Why do you—" My throat tightens. "Why do you keep trying to be near me?"

The golden lines across his obsidian skin pulse brighter for a moment. He takes a careful step forward, then stops when I tense.

"Because you interest me." His deep voice is soft, measured. "Because you're stronger than you know."

My laugh comes out sharp, brittle. "Strong? I can barely—" I cut myself off, fingers finding the scar beneath my shirt. "I can't even handle someone standing too close."

"Yet here you are," he says. "Speaking to a demon. Most humans would run."

Fear coils in my stomach, cold and familiar. Not of him - and that terrifies me more than anything. Trust is a weapon. I learned that lesson in blood and pain, carved into my skin by those who claimed to care.

"I don't understand." My voice cracks. "I'm not— I can't—" The words tangle in my throat. How do I explain that every gentle gesture, every patient silence makes it harder to keep my walls up? That his steady presence has become both comfort and terror?

His wings shift slightly, catching the morning light. "You don't have to understand. You don't have to trust me." Another careful step forward. "I'll still be here."

Tears burn behind my eyes. I want to believe him. Want to trust the quiet strength in his voice, the way he never pushes, never demands. But fear runs deep, and trust - trust feels like falling without knowing what waits below.

The morning breeze rustles through the leaves, carrying the fresh scent of rain-soaked earth. I shift my weight, trying to process his words, his presence, the way he makes everything both simpler and more complicated.

"Did you know that I would explore the island whenever I came to drop off the supplies? I actually started doing it for Volezimir a few years ago. And when I would come here, I’d walk around and take in the beauty.” He pauses, those golden lines across his skin pulsing softly. "And then I found this path those months ago. I found myself drawn to coming here, to the waterfall.”

My fingers trace the edge of my scar through my shirt. Walking has always been my escape, my way to breathe when the walls feel too close. The urge to escape from his words plagues me, but I stay rooted.

I didn’t realize he’d been delivering the supplies for so long. Though how would I have? I met him mere weeks after I was rescued and brought here. And I was nothing but a shell of myself then. I’m barely more now.

"One morning, I saw you." His words are careful, measured. "You moved through these paths like you belonged here. Like you understood their secrets." He gestures to a tangle of vines I always duck under. "You never break the branches. Never disturb more than necessary."

Heat creeps up my neck. I've seen him watching sometimes, from the corner of my eye. But hearing him say it?—

"The island..." He takes another slow step forward, stopping when I tense. "It feels different now that you're here. Brighter. More alive." His massive wings shift slightly. "I don't want anything from you, Loxley. Just... friendship. Nothing more."

The word 'friendship' hits like a physical blow. Men always want more. Always take more. The dark elves taught me that lesson with whips and chains and?—

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the memories back.

Mazan remains still, patient. When I open my eyes again, he's watching me with that steady gaze that never demands, never pushes.

I should walk away. Should run back to my treehouse and lock the door. Instead, I stand frozen, caught between fear and something else - something that feels dangerously like hope.

The silence stretches between us, filled with morning bird calls and distant waves. I don't answer him. Can't answer him. But I don't leave either, and somehow, that feels like the biggest step I've taken in years.