Page 45 of Demon Daddy's Secret Twins

LOXLEY

Ipace the length of my treehouse, the worn wooden floors creaking beneath my feet. Through the open windows, ocean breezes carry in the fresh scent of salt water, making me think of Mazan and the boys at the beach right now. And how I’m not with them.

My fingers trace the edge of the kitchen counter, remembering how I'd cursed his name for years. How I'd built walls around my heart, convinced he'd used me and left. All that anger, that pain - and he'd been suffering too, trapped and tortured while I nursed my bitterness.

The basket beneath my sink catches my eye. Before I can second-guess myself, I pull it out and start filling it with fresh fruit that I've gathered from across the island. I add some freshly baked bread and dried meat, enough for all of us.

"Stop being a coward," I mutter to myself, braiding back my hair with trembling fingers. Every instinct screams to stay in my safe haven, to keep my distance. But I've done enough damage with distance.

I don’t want to miss any more time.

I grip the basket handle tight enough my knuckles pale. The walk down to the beach feels endless, my heart thundering with each step down the wooden walkways connecting the treehouses.

The woven basket weighs heavy in my arms as I navigate the twisting jungle path toward the beach. I’m hoping they’ll want to have lunch with me, that maybe we could do this as a…family. The word still catches me off guard.

Branches and vines part before me, revealing glimpses of white sand through the dense foliage. My heart pounds against my ribs, each beat a reminder of the distance I created. The distance I deserve.

A warm breeze carries the salt-tinged air, rustling through my loose braids. I pause, fingers tightening around the basket handle. Mazan's hurt still burns fresh in my mind - the way his copper-red eyes had darkened when he learned about the twins. His sons. Our sons.

Three years of keeping that secret weighs heavier than any basket could. I understand his anger, his betrayal. How many times had he earned my trust, piece by broken piece, only for me to hide something so fundamental from him?

The basket trembles in my grip. Trust. Such a simple word for something so complicated. Mazan had shown infinite patience with my walls, my fears, my scars. He never pushed, never demanded. And how did I repay that patience? By keeping his children from him.

My chest aches. I want to bridge this gap between us, to earn back what I destroyed. But trust, once shattered, isn't easily rebuilt. I know that better than most.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself. They need lunch, and I need to face what I've done. One step at a time. One truth at a time. Maybe then, I can rebuild what I broke.

The beach stretches empty before me, pristine white sand unmarred by footprints. No dark wings casting shadows across the shore. No children's laughter carried on the breeze. My throat constricts.

The basket slips from my fingers, hitting the sand with a dull thud. Fruit spills across the ground as I spin in place, scanning the coastline. Nothing. No one.

"Sorien?" My voice cracks. "Kaelar?"

The waves crash against the shore, drowning out my calls. Ice spreads through my veins, familiar and bitter. Dark memories surface - chains, pain, betrayal. The scars along my ribs burn.

No. This isn't the same. Mazan wouldn't?—

But he left before.

My hands shake as I press them against my temples. That was different. He was taken. Captured. He explained everything when he returned. The three years of torture at the hands of the xaphan. The escape. The search to find me again.

He wouldn’t do this.

I force air into my lungs. Think. Where else would they go? The waterfall? The tide pools?

I sprint across the sand, my feet sinking with each desperate step. The few islanders lounging on the beach shake their heads before I can even ask. No one has seen them. No dark wings. No children's laughter. Nothing.

My heart pounds against my chest like a caged animal. The familiar weight of panic claws up my throat, threatening to choke me. I force it down. I can't fall apart. Not now. Not when they need me.

"Have you seen—" The words die as another group of beachgoers waves me off.

The sun beats down, harsh and unforgiving. Sweat trickles down my neck, soaking into my shirt. I pause, hands on myknees, trying to catch my breath. Think. Where else? The marketplace? The jungle paths?

My fingers trace the scar along my ribs - an old habit when fear takes hold. The rough tissue grounds me, reminds me I've survived worse. But this isn't about me. This is about two little boys who trust me to keep them safe. Who look at me with eyes that mirror their father's.

"Loxley?" A voice calls from the tree line.

I whirl around, hope rising - but it's just one of the villagers. My shoulders slump.

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