Page 25 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Son
Let him look. Let him understand that I'm not going anywhere.
After several minutes, he disappears back inside, but I catch the deliberate way he secures the door, the extra attention he pays to the window latches. He knows I'm out here. Knows I'm a threat to the life he's built with my woman and my son.
He's not wrong.
Hours pass. The rain tapers off to a fine mist, then stops altogether, leaving the night air crisp and clean. Stars emerge between the breaking clouds, and the village settles into sleep around me. One by one, the cottage windows go dark until only a single lamp glows in what I assume is Kaleen's bedroom.
I imagine her in there, brushing out that beautiful chestnut hair I used to love running my fingers through. Changing into whatever she wears to sleep now—probably something practical and worn, nothing like the silk nightgowns I used to buy her. Does she still sleep on her left side? Still steal all the blankets in her sleep?
Does she dream of me the way I've dreamed of her every night for two years?
The bedroom light flickers and goes out, plunging the cottage into complete darkness. But I don't move from my vigil. Can't move when every breath brings me the faint scent of woodsmoke from her chimney, when every shift of the wind carries whispers of the life happening just beyond my reach.
Dawn feels like a lifetime away, but I'll wait. I've gotten good at waiting these past two years. Good at patience born of desperation, at hope that refuses to die no matter how much evidence suggests it should.
I found them. Against all odds, against every rational expectation, I found my family.
Now I just need to figure out how to get them back.
The morning lightcuts through the mist like a blade, illuminating the village below as it stirs to life. I haven't moved from my position beneath the tree, my clothes still damp from the night's rain, my body stiff from hours of motionless watching. But the discomfort means nothing when I see her cottage door open and Kaleen emerge.
She moves with the same fluid grace I remember, her chestnut hair caught in a loose braid that swings against her shoulder blades. The morning sun catches the gold threads woven through the brown, and for a moment, I forget to breathe. She's wearing a simple green dress that brings out the amber flecks in her eyes, practical boots that suggest a life of honest work.
She glances up the hillside once—a quick, nervous sweep that makes my chest tighten—before heading toward the village center. I watch until she disappears between the buildings, her silhouette swallowed by the maze of stone cottages and morning shadows.
The human took Braylon somewhere earlier, and that has been slowly driving me mad, too.
My hands clench against the tree bark as I force myself to remain still, to wait. Every instinct screams to follow her, to corner her somewhere private and demand answers to the thousands of questions burning through my mind. But startling her in public, surrounded by villagers who clearly consider her one of their own, would only make things worse.
So I wait. Watch the smoke curl from chimneys, listen to the distant sounds of a village waking up. Children's laughter carries on the morning breeze, and I wonder if one of those voices belongs to my son. If he's playing somewhere below while I sit here like a stalker, afraid to claim what should have been mine all along.
An hour passes. Maybe two. Then I see her returning, alone as I'd hoped. She moves more slowly now, a basket balanced on her hip, her head slightly bowed as if lost in thought. Or perhaps troubled by memories she can't quite grasp.
I wait until she's nearly at her cottage door before I stand, stepping out from beneath the tree's sheltering branches. The movement sends a cascade of water droplets from the leaves above, and the sound makes her freeze mid-step.
She turns slowly, and I see the exact moment recognition hits—not of me, but of the inevitability she's been trying to avoid. Her shoulders square, chin lifting with that familiar stubborn tilt that used to drive me crazy during our arguments about her safety.
"I need to talk to you." My voice carries easily across the distance between us, rougher than I intended. Two years of calling her name into empty spaces has worn it raw.
Kaleen sets the basket down on her doorstep, her movements careful and deliberate. When she straightens, her amber eyes meet mine with a steadiness that makes my throat tight. "I figured as much. You've been up there all night."
"You knew?"
"Lake saw you." She crosses her arms over her chest, the gesture both defensive and achingly familiar. "Hard to miss a xaphan with wings brooding on a hillside."
The casual way she says the human's name—Lake—makes my jaw clench. But I force myself to focus on what matters. "I want to know about my son."
Something flickers across her face at that—pain, maybe, or confusion. She glances toward the cottage, and I catch the subtle movement of a curtain in one of the windows. Someone's watching us.
"His name is Braylon." Her voice softens, and the love in it hits me like a physical blow. "He's eighteen months old. Learnsnew words every day, though most of them are questions. 'What's that? Why? Where?'" A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "He never stops moving unless he's asleep."
"What else?" The words scrape out of me, desperate and raw.
She tilts her head, studying me with those warm amber eyes that used to see straight through every wall I'd ever built. "He likes stories. Especially ones about flying creatures. He laughs when I make the sound effects for thalivern wings." Her arms uncross, hands falling to her sides. "He's gentle with small things—insects, flowers, the village cats. But he's fearless about climbing and jumping and getting into places he shouldn't."
My vision blurs slightly. I can picture him—this brave, curious boy who carries pieces of both of us in his bones. "Does he... does he ask about his father?"
The question hangs between us like broken glass. Kaleen's eyes drop to the ground, and when she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper. "I'm sure he thinks Lake is."
