Page 10 of Demon Daddy's Secret Twins

Mazan's wings shift, the leathery membrane catching sunlight. His copper-red eyes remain fixed on the horizon, but I notice the slight tension in his jaw.

"My loyalty still lies with the King." His deep voice carries no hesitation. "I serve Asmodeus, as I always have."

I pull my knees closer to my chest, sand gritting between my toes. "But you help Lamain keep this place secret."

"I do." He turns those burning eyes to me. "Loyalty isn't always simple. I serve my King, but I also stand with Lamain and Volezimir. They've earned my trust."

The gold lines across his obsidian skin pulse faintly as he speaks, like liquid metal flowing beneath the surface.

"This island..." His massive frame shifts, wings adjusting to block more sun from my face. "It holds beauty I never witnessed on Galmoleth. The way light filters through leaves, how water shapes stone." His voice drops lower. "But I cannot abandon my duties. My word is my honor. So I travel between, keeping my promises."

My heart pounds against my ribs as he pauses. Those copper eyes lock onto mine, intense enough to steal my breath.

"And I return because you're here."

The words hang in the air between us. I can't look away from his face, the way those golden lines shimmer with each breath. My fingers dig into the sand, anchoring me against the surge of emotions I'm not ready to name.

"You don't have to-" I start.

"I know." His voice is quiet but certain. "I choose to."

The weight of his words settles in my chest, threatening to crack something I've kept carefully sealed. I clear my throat, gesturing at the waves. "The tide's pulling back now. We should head back before the path gets too hot."

Mazan doesn't press. He never does. He simply rises, sand cascading from his wings as they stretch and fold against his back. We walk in silence, but his words echo with each step.

Later, in my treehouse, I pace across wooden floors worn smooth by countless nights like this. Moonlight streams through the open windows, carrying the distant sound of waves. My fingers trace the familiar ridge of scar tissue along my ribs—a habit I can't break when my thoughts spiral.

I choose to.

Three simple words that won't let me rest. I've heard pretty words before, whispered promises that turned to ash. But Mazan... he speaks rarely, and only when his words carry weight.

My bed calls, but sleep feels impossible. I move to the window, letting the cool night air wash over my face. The jungle stretches below, alive with night sounds. I know that Mazan is already gone, but I swear I canfeelit, too. Like when he said the island feels more alive since I’ve come here.

What would it feel like to trust that I could rely on that? That he would always return? To believe someone's presence could be constant rather than temporary? My fingers clench around the windowsill.

I've built my life on certainties. The sun rises. Water flows downhill. Trust leads to pain. But Mazan moves through my defenses like they're mist, not with force but with steady patience. He doesn't demand trust - he simply offers it, again and again, without expectation.

My chest aches with possibilities I've denied myself for years. The thought of opening that door, of letting someone past my walls, makes my hands shake. But I can't stop thinking about the way his wing sheltered me from the sun, how he matches his stride to mine, the quiet certainty in his voice when he said he chooses to return.

I press my forehead against the cool wood of the window frame, exhaling slowly. Sleep won't come tonight, not with my mind full of copper-red eyes and midnight blue wings.

8

MAZAN

The jungle path winds ahead, dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy. I match my stride to Loxley's shorter steps, keeping a careful distance as we walk our familiar route to the waterfall. After months of these daily walks, I've learned to read the subtle shifts in her body language.

Where she once kept rigid space between us, today her shoulders stay relaxed even when our arms nearly touch. Her auburn braids sway loose against her back, no longer pulled tight and controlled. The change strikes something deep in my chest.

"Watch your step." I gesture to a root crossing the path.

She glides over it with practiced grace, her golden-brown eyes meeting mine for a brief moment. Months ago, that gaze would have skittered away instantly. Now it lingers, carrying a warmth that makes my wings twitch.

A branch snaps under my foot and she doesn't startle. Doesn't whirl to face the sound like she used to. Just continues walking, her fingers trailing along the leaves beside the path.

"The flowers are blooming early this season," she says, voice soft but steady. When she first started joining me on these walks,she'd speak in clipped whispers, if at all. It feels like each time I see her, she’s growing more and more confident every time I see her and a bit of pride blooms in my chest.

"They like the rain we've had." I keep my tone low, measured. The same way I always speak to her - the way I've learned won't make her flinch or retreat into herself.

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