Page 29 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Son
The questions circle in my mind like hungry carrion birds, picking at the edges of a certainty I thought was unshakeable. And all the while, Domiel and Braylon continue their careful work, building patterns of light and magic that seem far too much like the foundation for something I'm not sure I'm brave enough to want.
The cottage feels smallerthan usual after I retrieve Braylon from his evening with Domiel. My son is drowsy and pliant, his small body warm against my chest as I carry him inside, but his eyes stay fixed on the doorway as if he's already counting the hours until morning brings his father back.
Lake follows us in, his footsteps heavier than usual on the wooden floor. There's a tension in his shoulders that's been building for days—a tightness that speaks of words held back, patience wearing thin. He helps me navigate Braylon's bedtime routine with the practiced ease of someone who's done this countless times, but his usual gentle humor is absent. Instead, he moves through the motions with mechanical precision, his mossy green eyes distant and troubled.
Braylon fights sleep longer than usual, his small hands reaching toward the window as if he can summon Domiel back through sheer force of will. When I finally settle him in his smallbed, tucking the worn quilt around his shoulders, he whispers something that makes my chest tighten.
"Papa magic," he murmurs, his voice thick with approaching sleep. "Pretty lights."
We explained to him that Domiel was his papa, and he has clung to that word. Papa, Papa, Papa. It goes with almost every word he says now.
I smooth his dark hair back from his forehead, those familiar gold glints catching the lamplight. "Sleep now, little one."
But even as his breathing evens out, I catch Lake watching from the doorway, his expression unreadable in the flickering shadows. The silence stretches between us as we retreat to the main room, heavy with all the things neither of us wants to say.
Lake moves to the hearth, feeding logs to the dying fire with more force than necessary. The flames leap higher, casting dancing shadows across his broad frame and highlighting the tension in every line of his body. His sandy brown hair is more tousled than usual, as if he's been running his hands through it, and the freckles across his face stand out starkly against skin that's gone pale with worry.
"We need to talk," he says finally, his voice rougher than usual.
I settle into one of the two worn chairs by the fire, pulling my shawl tighter around my shoulders. The fabric is soft, familiar—something Lake's mother knitted for me during my first winter in Veylowe. A gesture of acceptance, of belonging. But tonight it feels like armor, a barrier between me and whatever conversation Lake has been building toward.
"I know what you're going to say."
He turns from the fire, those green eyes searching my face with an intensity that makes me want to look away. "Do you? Because I don't think you understand what's happening here, Kaleen. What's at risk."
His hands clench at his sides, the long scar down his forearm standing out white against his sun-bronzed skin. Lake isn't a man given to grand gestures or dramatic speeches—when he speaks, it's because he has something worth saying. But tonight, there's a desperation in his voice that I've never heard before.
"He's xaphan," Lake continues, the words coming faster now, as if he's afraid he'll lose his nerve. "Winged, magical, powerful. And you're just... you're letting him waltz back into your life like the past two years meant nothing."
I open my mouth to protest, but he holds up a hand, cutting me off.
"I've watched you with him, Kaleen. Seen the way you look at him when you think no one's paying attention. And I get it—he's Braylon's father, he's got that otherworldly thing going on that probably made your heart race back when you knew him. But what happens when he gets bored? When whatever business brought him here is finished and he decides to move on?"
Lake's voice cracks slightly on the last words, revealing the hurt beneath his anger. He sinks into the chair across from me, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his broad hands clasped so tightly his knuckles have gone white.
"You don't remember him, Kaleen. You don't remember why you were running when you ended up here. Maybe there's a good reason for that. Maybe your mind is protecting you from something you're better off forgetting."
The words hit me like physical blows, each one precisely aimed at the doubts I've been trying to ignore. Because he's right—I don't remember. Don't know what kind of relationship Domiel and I had, what drove me away from him in the first place. The few fragments of memory that stir when I look at him are frustratingly vague—impressions of warmth and safety that could just as easily be wishful thinking.
But even as my rational mind acknowledges the truth in Lake's concerns, something deeper rebels against his words. Something that recognizes the careful way Domiel moves around me, as if I'm made of spun glass. The reverence in his voice when he speaks my name. The way he looks at me sometimes—like I'm a miracle he never expected to see again.
"He hasn't tried to take Braylon," I say quietly. "Hasn't made any demands or threats. He just... wants to know his son."
Lake's laugh is bitter, humorless. "For now. But what about tomorrow? Next week? What happens when he decides that knowing isn't enough, that he wants custody? You think a human woman with no memories and no legal standing is going to be able to fight a xaphan lord for her child?"
The fear in his voice is genuine, born of love and protectiveness and a deep, abiding terror of loss. Lake has built his life around the quiet certainty of belonging somewhere, of being needed. The idea of that stability being ripped away is clearly torture for him.
But as I watch the firelight play across his familiar features—the broad, honest face that's been my anchor for two years—I can't shake the feeling that I'm the one who's drowning.
Because Lake is wrong about one thing. When I look at Domiel, it's not my heart that races with remembered attraction or the flutter of new fascination. It's something deeper, more fundamental. Something that whispershomein a voice I've been hearing in dreams for two years without understanding what it meant.
"I hear what you're saying," I tell him, my voice carefully measured. "And I understand why you're worried. But I can't make decisions based on fear of what might happen."
Lake's jaw tightens, his green eyes flashing with frustration. "Then make them based on what you know. You know me, Kaleen. You know I love you, love Braylon. You know I'd neverhurt either of you, never abandon you. Can you say the same about him?"
The question hangs between us like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. And the terrible truth is that I can't answer it—not with the certainty Lake needs, not with the logic he deserves.
Because what I know about Domiel could fit in a thimble. But what Ifeelwhen he's near... that's something else entirely. Something that makes the careful life I've built here feel suddenly fragile, like a house of cards waiting for the right wind to bring it all tumbling down.
