Page 31 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Son
"Good day?" he asks as I hand Braylon over for his evening bath.
"Yes." The word comes out slightly breathless, though I can't say why. "Braylon's been practicing with those wooden blocks again. He's getting remarkably good at arranging them."
Lake nods, but his attention has already shifted to Domiel, who hovers at the edge of our small garden with the careful stillness of someone who knows he's not entirely welcome but isn't quite ready to leave.
"You're not staying for dinner?" Lake's question is politely neutral, but there's steel underneath it. A quiet reminder of boundaries, of who belongs here and who doesn't.
Domiel's silver rings catch the light as his hands clench once at his sides. "No. I should return to my inn."
He turns to go, then pauses, his gaze finding mine across the small space that suddenly feels vast. "Tomorrow?"
The single word is a question, a request, a prayer all at once. And despite every rational reason I should maintain distance, despite Lake's growing concern and the voice in my head that whispers I'm playing with fire, I hear myself answer.
"Tomorrow."
The night brings dreams that leave me gasping awake in the pre-dawn darkness, my heart hammering against my ribs and Lake's arm heavy across my waist. But for once, the man who haunts my sleep isn't faceless. I see flashes of silver-blue eyes bright with laughter, catch fragments of a voice I recognize saying words I can't quite remember.
You're magnificent when you're angry, you know that?
Come here.
I love the way you think.
The memories—if that's what they are—feel like stepping into someone else's story. But they're vivid enough to make my skin burn, real enough that I find myself reaching across the bed for someone who isn't there before I remember where I am. Who I'm supposed to be with.
Lake stirs beside me, his breathing deep and even. We've been sharing a bed for over a year, but lately, he's been finding reasons to stay later at his family's farm. Helping with repairs that could wait, tending to livestock that his brothers manage perfectly well without him. The space between us in the narrow bed feels deliberate now, careful in a way it never has before.
I slip from beneath his arm and pad silently to the window, pulling the curtain aside to peer out at the sleeping village. Somewhere out there, Domiel lies awake in his rented room at the inn. I wonder if he dreams too, if the fragments of memory that torment me visit him with equal persistence.
The thought makes my chest tight with something that might be longing.
By morning, Lake has already left for his family's farm, a hastily scrawled note the only evidence he was here at all. The emptiness of the cottage feels different now—less like solitude and more like abandonment. Braylon chatters through breakfast, his excitement about seeing his father again so obvious I can't help but smile.
But underneath his joy, I'm aware of my own anticipation building like storm pressure in my bones. The thought of seeing Domiel again, of settling beside him on the grass and letting conversation flow between us like water finding its level... It makes me walk faster than usual toward our meeting place.
When I see him waiting under the old tree at the village's edge, something in my chest unclenches. He's arranged the wooden blocks in a new pattern, one that pulses with soft blue-white light, and Braylon abandons my hand to run toward him with delighted squeals.
"Papa! Magic!"
Domiel sweeps him up with easy strength, and I catch the flash of genuine happiness that transforms his serious features. It's like watching the sun break through storm clouds—sudden, brilliant, and unexpectedly beautiful.
"Good morning," he says to me, his voice carrying that faint accent that does impossible things to my equilibrium. "Sleep well?"
The question is innocent enough, but something in his tone suggests he already knows the answer. That he, too, spent the night wrestling with dreams and half-remembered pieces of a story neither of us can quite recall.
"Well enough." The lie comes easily, but I catch him watching me with those too-perceptive eyes as if he can see straight through to the truth.
And maybe he can. Because when I settle onto the grass beside them, close enough that our knees almost touch, he doesn't look surprised. Just quietly pleased, like a man who's been hoping for something he was afraid to ask for.
I tell myself it's just for Braylon's sake. That my son deserves to know his father, to have whatever stability this strange situation can provide.
But when Domiel laughs at something I say—really laughs, not the careful approximation he usually offers—I catch myself brushing a strand of hair behind my ear and smiling in a way that has nothing to do with maternal duty.
And for the first time since he appeared in Veylowe, I don't try to stop myself.
17
DOMIEL
