Page 38 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Son
But underneath the guilt, underneath the sadness, there's something else rising in my chest. Something that feels dangerously like relief.
Like freedom.
Like the first real breath I've taken in longer than I can remember.
21
DOMIEL
Ispot her long before she reaches the clearing where Braylon and I have spent the afternoon working on light-weaving exercises. She's walking slower than usual, her movements carrying a weight that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion. Even from this distance, I can see the careful way she holds herself—like someone trying to appear normal while processing something that's knocked her off balance.
Braylon hasn't noticed yet. He's too focused on the tiny golden spark dancing between his cupped palms, his face scrunched in concentration as he tries to make it hold its shape without my guidance. The sight of him—dark hair catching the late afternoon light, those unusual amber-ringed eyes so serious with effort—never fails to tighten something in my chest. My son. Our son.
But it's Kaleen who draws my attention now, the subtle wrongness in her demeanor setting every protective instinct I possess on high alert.
"Well done," I murmur to Braylon as his light-spark finally stabilizes into a perfect sphere. "Hold it steady now. Feel how the energy wants to flow."
He nods eagerly, but I'm already rising from where we've been sitting cross-legged in the grass, brushing dirt from my pants as I move to intercept Kaleen before she reaches us. Whatever's put that distant look in her amber eyes, I want to know about it before she has to put on a brave face for our son.
"Mama!" Braylon calls out when he finally spots her, his concentration breaking. The light-spark flickers and dies, but he doesn't seem to care. He scrambles to his feet, already chattering about his magical progress as he runs toward her.
Kaleen catches him in a hug that looks normal enough on the surface, but I can see the way her shoulders tense, the slight delay before she settles into the embrace. Something's happened. Something significant enough to shake the careful equilibrium she's built around her life here.
"How did the lesson go?" she asks, and her voice sounds steady. Almost normal. But there's an undertone there—a fragility she's working to hide—that makes my jaw clench with the need to identify and eliminate whatever's caused it.
"Light!" Braylon announces proudly. "Light! Papa magic!"
Papa. The word hits me the same way it has every time he's said it over these past weeks—a fierce, possessive satisfaction that goes bone-deep. But today I'm too focused on the careful blankness in Kaleen's expression to fully savor it.
"We've been working on shaping the magic. He's doing very well," I supply, watching her.
"That's wonderful, sweetheart," she tells him, and the gentle warmth in her voice when she addresses Braylon is completely genuine. Whatever's troubling her, it has nothing to do with our son.
Braylon turns and starts playing with his magic again, and the silence that stretches between us is heavy with unspoken words. Kaleen's gaze watches our son, but I can tell herattention is elsewhere—turned inward to whatever conversation or realization has left her looking so carefully composed.
I move closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of gardens and honest work that always clings to her skin. Close enough to see the way she's holding her jaw, the subtle tension in the line of her neck.
"What happened?" The words come out rougher than I intended, edged with a protective fury I can't quite contain. If someone in this village has hurt her, has said something or done something to put that lost expression in her eyes...
She looks up at me then, and for a moment her careful composure cracks. I catch a glimpse of something raw and uncertain underneath—not pain, exactly, but the kind of vulnerability that comes from standing at a crossroads without a clear map forward.
"Nothing happened," she says automatically, then seems to catch herself. Her amber eyes dart away from mine, focusing on some point beyond my shoulder. "That's not... that's not true. Something did happen. This morning."
The words hang between us, tentative and loaded with meaning. I wait, every muscle in my body coiled with the effort of holding myself still when what I want to do is reach for her, pull her against my chest until whatever's troubling her bleeds away into nothing.
"Lake and I talked," she says finally, the words coming out in a rush like she's afraid she'll lose her nerve if she doesn't say them quickly. "We... things are over between us."
The words hit me like a physical blow—not of pain, but of fierce, overwhelming triumph. The surge of satisfaction that rockets through me is so intense it's almost violent, a primal claiming that makes my hands flex with the need to touch her, to mark her as mine in ways that go far beyond the merely physical.
But underneath the triumph, threading through it like silver wire, is something softer. Something that recognizes the careful way she's holding herself, the slight tremor in her voice that speaks of someone who's just taken a leap without knowing where she'll land.
She's scared. Terrified, even, though she'd never admit it out loud. Afraid of losing the life she's built here, the security she's created for herself and Braylon. Afraid of making a mistake that could shatter the careful peace she's found in this quiet village.
And beneath all of that—something that makes my chest tight with a tenderness so fierce it borders on pain—she's afraid of wanting something she's not sure she deserves to have. Should have.
I understand that fear. Have lived with its twin for two years, the constant ache of wanting something that seemed forever out of reach. But where my fear was born of loss, hers comes from the terrifying prospect of choosing something new. Of stepping away from safety toward something that could either complete her or destroy the fragile foundation she's built.
"Are you alright?" I ask, and the words come out gentler than they have any right to. Not the demanding tone of someone who's just gotten what he wanted, but the careful question of someone who knows that victories can be as complicated as defeats.
