Page 30 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Son
Because Domiel… He feels like home.
16
KALEEN
The first time I linger, it's purely practical. Braylon has fallen asleep against Domiel's shoulder while they worked on some intricate wooden puzzle that hums with gentle magic, and I can't bring myself to wake him. The afternoon light slants through the trees at the edge of the village, catching the gold threads in both their hair and making them look like they're carved from the same precious metal.
"He's tired himself out," Domiel murmurs, his voice pitched low to avoid disturbing our son. His large hand rests protectively on Braylon's back, those long fingers spanning nearly the entire width of his small torso. "The magic work takes concentration. More than most children his age can sustain."
I settle onto the grass beside them, close enough that I catch the faint scent of stone dust and something indefinably warm that seems to cling to Domiel's skin. "He's always been focused when something catches his interest. Almost stubborn about it."
Something flickers across Domiel's features—surprise, maybe, or recognition. "Where do you think he gets that from?"
The question could be innocent, but there's weight behind it. An implication that he knows the answer, knows me well enoughto see my own traits reflected in our son. I find myself studying his profile as he gazes down at Braylon, noting the sharp line of his jaw, the way his silver-blue eyes soften when they rest on our child.
"I don't know," I admit quietly. "There's a lot about myself I don't know."
Domiel's gaze shifts to me then, and the intensity of it makes my breath catch. Those pale eyes seem to see straight through every careful wall I've built around my missing memories. "You were always like that. Once you decided something was worth your attention, you pursued it with single-minded determination. It's one of the things that—" He stops abruptly, jaw clenching as if he's bitten back words he didn't mean to speak.
"One of the things that what?"
But he just shakes his head, attention returning to Braylon's sleeping form. "It doesn't matter. That was before."
The dismissal stings more than it should. Makes me want to push, to demand answers to questions I'm not sure I'm ready to hear. But something in his expression—a careful blankness that feels deliberately constructed—warns me off.
So instead, I ask about the puzzle pieces scattered around us, about the magic that makes them respond to Braylon's touch. Domiel explains with the patience of a natural teacher, his hands moving as he describes how young xaphan children learn to channel their abilities through focused play. His voice is rich and precise, shaped by that faint accent that does strange things to my nerves.
When Braylon finally stirs, blinking sleepy silver eyes in the golden afternoon light, I realize we've been talking for over an hour. The conversation flows so easily between us that I forget to guard my words, forget to maintain the careful distance I've been trying to preserve.
It becomes a pattern after that. Each day, when I come to collect Braylon, I find reasons to stay. Just for a few minutes at first. Then longer. Domiel never pushes, never suggests I linger, but he doesn't seem surprised when I settle beside them on the grass or accept his quiet invitations to walk while Braylon explores.
"Tell me about the village," he says one evening as we stroll along the edge of the forest. Braylon has discovered a patch of late-blooming aracin blossoms and is carefully examining each one with the intense focus that marks all his explorations. "What's it like, living here?"
I find myself describing Veylowe in ways I never have before—not just the practical details of daily life, but the deeper rhythms that govern our small community. The way everyone knows everyone else's business but pretends not to. How the baker's wife always has too many loaves and distributes them to families with more children than income. The quiet contentment of a place where nothing much changes and most people prefer it that way.
"It sounds peaceful," Domiel says, and there's something almost wistful in his voice. "Safe."
"It is." I glance at him, noting the way his wings shift restlessly behind him even when the rest of his body remains perfectly still. "Is that... not something you're used to?"
His mouth curves in what might charitably be called a smile, though it's edged with something too sharp to be humor. "Peace is a luxury most of my kind can't afford. There's always a deadline, always another project that needs completing before the magical matrices destabilize or some noble family decides their ethereal architect isn't meeting expectations."
The words are delivered with casual precision, but I catch the undercurrent of exhaustion beneath them. The bone-deepweariness of someone who's spent years carrying burdens too heavy for any one person to bear.
Without thinking, I reach out and touch his arm. His skin is warm beneath the fine fabric of his shirt, solid and real in a way that makes something deep in my chest flutter to life. "That sounds lonely."
Domiel goes very still under my touch, those silver-blue eyes fixing on my face with an intensity that steals my breath. For a moment, the careful mask he wears slips, revealing something raw and hungry and desperately hopeful.
"It was," he says quietly. "Until it wasn't."
The words hang between us like a confession, heavy with meanings I can't quite grasp. My hand is still on his arm, and I can feel his pulse beneath my fingertips—steady, strong, slightly too fast. The late sunlight catches the gold threads in his dark hair, and I have the strangest urge to brush them back from his face.
The thought is so unexpected, so completely inappropriate given my relationship with Lake, that I snatch my hand back as if burned. Heat floods my cheeks, and I quickly turn my attention back to Braylon, who's now attempting to coax one of the aracin blossoms to follow him like a pet.
But I can still feel Domiel watching me, can sense the weight of his attention like a physical thing. And when I risk a glance in his direction, the careful emptiness has returned to his features, though something still burns behind his eyes.
The walk back to the cottage feels both too long and not nearly long enough. I find myself cataloguing small details about Domiel that I've somehow failed to notice before—the way he adjusts his pace to match mine without seeming to think about it, how his wings curve slightly forward when he laughs at something Braylon does, the unconscious elegance of his movements even when he's just walking across uneven ground.
Lake is waiting when we return, his broad frame silhouetted in the cottage doorway. His smile is warm when he greets us, but I catch the way his green eyes track from me to Domiel and back again. The way they linger on the space between us, as if he's trying to measure some invisible distance that might tell him whether his fears are justified.
