Page 2 of Demon Daddy's Secret Twins

My hand finds my scar again, an unconscious gesture of self-soothing. His gaze follows the movement, something flickering in those molten eyes before his expression smooths back to careful neutrality. Even that reaction feels measured, like every response is filtered through the lens of giving me space.

I shouldn't find comfort in his presence. Shouldn't let my guard drop, even slightly. But as I gather my things to leave, I catch myself glancing up at his perch, almost disappointed when I see he's already melted back into the shadows of the canopy.

That night, sleep claims me easier than usual. Instead of fighting against memories, my mind drifts to copper-red eyes and midnight wings.

“What are you doing here?” I murmur.

The dream unfolds differently than my usual terrors. No hands grabbing, no shadows consuming. Instead, I stand by the waterfall, mist cooling my skin. He descends from his perch, each movement precise and controlled. But my heart doesn't race. My muscles don't lock.

And he doesn’t answer. I wonder what his voice would sound like. Would it be a deep rumble? Would it soothe or scare me? I’m not sure.

His obsidian skin catches the filtered sunlight, those strange golden lines pulsing softly. He keeps his wings tucked close, making himself smaller despite his towering height. Even in dreams, he maintains that careful distance.

But then he takes a step forward. Another. Each movement telegraphed, giving me time to retreat. I don't. My feet stay rooted as he approaches, those molten eyes fixed on mine.

No demands. No sudden movements. Just that same patient presence that's become familiar on my morning walks.

He stops an arm's length away. Close enough to touch, but he doesn't reach for me. Doesn't try to cage me in. Just stands there, letting me choose.

I wake with a start, sunlight streaming through my window. My hand isn't pressed against my scar. My chest isn't tight with panic. For the first time in years, I've slept through the night without screaming myself awake.

The realization hits hard. My fingers trace my cheeks, finding them dry instead of tear-stained. No phantom hands ghosting across my skin. No echoes of past pain.

I sit up, wrapping my arms around my knees. The dream lingers - not with the usual sick dread, but with something...different. Something that makes my chest ache in a way I don't want to examine too closely.

2

MAZAN

Istep out into the jungle of Aurelius silently, my wings folding against my back as I scan the dense canopy. The weekly supply run from Galmoleth weighs heavy in my pack, but my attention fixes on the figure moving through the winding path ahead.

Loxley.

It took too many attempts to get Lamain, once a great Prince of Galmoleth and now the demon that rules this island sanctuary, to tell me her name. I’ve yet to use it, though. I don’t want to push her - especially when he reminded me that all the people here are recovering from something. I assume she’s been through a lot, especially someone with her beauty living on Protheka.

I’m quick in dropping my pack off with June. She smiles at me brightly as I hand over the supplies. “Right on time as always.”

I nod, already looking toward the jungle path. “I’ll be back to ask what you need before next time.”

June only gives me a knowing grin, but I don’t answer. Not as I follow the way Loxley went, wanting to catch up to her without scaring her.

She walks with precise steps, each movement calculated. Her auburn braids catch the filtered sunlight as she glances over her shoulder - again. The tenth time in as many minutes. Her golden-brown eyes dart in my direction for a fraction of a second before they’re gone. She never looks directly at me, which only encourages me not to push her.

I maintain my distance, though every instinct screams to close the gap between us. To shield her from whatever shadows haunt her steps. An unfamiliar urge for a demon - we're meant to inspire fear, not soothe it away.

Her pace slows, just enough that I notice. Testing. Waiting. The path curves ahead through a cluster of massive tree trunks, and she hesitates at the bend. I could catch up in three strides, but I don't. The gold lines etched in my obsidian skin pulse with unspent magic as I force myself to remain still.

She's like a wounded jungle cat - beautiful, dangerous, and ready to bolt at the slightest wrong move. The way she holds herself speaks of old hurts, deeper than the physical. I've seen enough battles to recognize when someone carries invisible scars.

My wings twitch with the urge to wrap around her, to create a dark sanctuary where nothing can touch her. The thought startles me - demons don't protect. We conquer. We destroy. And yet...

She checks over her shoulder once more, those fierce eyes lingering on me longer this time. But still not looking quiteatme. Something in my chest tightens. For the first time in years, I find myself wanting to earn trust rather than demand it.

But I have to break through this barrier between us to do that.

I move a little closer, closer than I’ve ever dared, but still leaving her with plenty of room. Loxley's fingers twist in the loose fabric of her shirt. Her stance shifts - ready to run, but she stays. Those golden-brown eyes track every minute movement of my wings, my hands.

"I'm Mazan." I lower myself to one knee, reducing my height. The gesture feels foreign - demons don't bow to humans. But something about her demands a different approach.

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