Page 34 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Son
I should lie. Should give him the same careful answer I've given everyone for two years—that I remember nothing before waking in these woods. But something about the vulnerability in his voice, the way he's looking at me like I might break at any moment, makes honesty spill out instead.
"No memories," I admit quietly. "But... feelings. Like there's this whole other life just out of reach, and sometimes when I'm with you, it feels like trying to remember a dream." My voice drops to barely above a whisper. "Like something important that I've lost."
His silver-blue eyes darken, searching my face with an intensity that should probably frighten me. Instead, it makes heat pool low in my belly, makes me want to step closer instead of backing away.
"What kind of feelings?" The question is barely audible.
"Like I'm supposed to know you," I breathe. "Like this—" I gesture vaguely between us, "—should make sense."
Something shifts in his expression then, some carefully maintained control beginning to slip. He reaches up slowly, giving me time to pull away, and brushes a strand of hair back from my face. His fingers are warm against my skin, callused in a way that speaks of skilled work with his hands.
I should step back. Should remember Lake, remember all the reasons why this is complicated and dangerous and wrong. Instead, I find myself leaning into his touch, my eyes fluttering closed as his thumb traces the line of my cheekbone.
"Kaleen." My name again, rougher this time.
When I open my eyes, he's closer. Close enough that I can see the flecks of silver in his blue irises, close enough that his breath warms my skin. He's watching me with something that looks like hunger held carefully in check, waiting for permission I don't know how to give but desperately want to.
"What about this?" He shifts just a touch closer. "Does this make sense, too?"
I nod, my throat tight, my body trembling with want in a way I have never felt before.
Slowly, so slowly I could stop him at any moment, he leans forward. His hand slides to cup the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, and then his lips brush against mine.
The kiss is gentle at first. Questioning. But when I don't pull away—when I can't pull away because something inside me is screamingyes, this, finally—it deepens into something honest and hungry and right in a way that makes my knees weak.
And then somethingclicks.
Not memory, exactly, but recognition. Like my body remembers what my mind has forgotten. Like every part of me has been waiting for this moment without knowing why. Heat floods through me, swift and overwhelming, and my hands shake as I grip the front of his shirt to keep myself upright.
When we finally break apart, I'm breathing hard and my whole world feels different. Tilted. Like I've been walking around with one foot in the wrong life and finally found my balance.
Domiel's forehead rests against mine, his breathing unsteady. "I should go," he murmurs, but his hands haven't released me.
I nod, not trusting my voice. Not trusting myself not to ask him to stay.
When he finally steps back, the loss of his warmth feels like a physical ache. But as I watch him disappear into the darknessbeyond my doorway, my hands are still shaking. Not from fear or uncertainty, but from the bone-deep knowledge that for the first time in two years, I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
19
DOMIEL
Iwatch Braylon's face scrunch in concentration as he tries to coax another wisp of light from his fingertips. His silver eyes—so much like mine, yet warmed by the amber rings he inherited from his mother—narrow with the particular intensity only an eighteen-month-old can muster when the world refuses to bend to his will.
"Like this, little one." I cup my hands and let silver light pool between my palms, steady and bright. "Feel it first, then shape it."
He mimics my posture with the serious dedication that never fails to make my chest tight with pride. A few sparks dance across his small fingers before flickering out, and he huffs in frustration.
"Again," he demands, the word clear despite his age. Everything about Braylon develops faster than it should—his speech, his magic, his understanding. Half-xaphan children always do, but watching it happen to my son fills me with wonder and protective fear in equal measure.
I can feel Kaleen before I see her. It's something I've never been able to explain, this awareness of her presence that settlesinto my bones like warmth from a hearthfire. When I turn, she's walking toward us with that careful grace I remember from before—back when she used to move through my estate like she belonged there, which she did. Which she always will, even if she doesn't remember yet.
The evening light catches the gold in her chestnut hair, and I have to force myself not to stare too openly. She still hasn't regained the confident boldness she used to wear like armor, but there's something different lately. The way she looks at me has shifted from wary confusion to something softer. Something that makes hope twist dangerous and sharp beneath my ribs.
I know she's still afraid. Still uncertain about all the things she can't remember but somehow feels echoing in the spaces between her thoughts. But I canfeelher reaching for me—even if she doesn't realize it yet. In the way she unconsciously steps closer when we talk. How her breathing changes when our hands accidentally brush. The small moments when her guard drops and I catch glimpses of the woman who used to challenge me with sharp wit and kiss me breathless against my workroom door.
Lake's been scarce lately. I rarely see him around anymore, and when I do, he keeps his distance with the particular tension of a man who knows he's losing something but doesn't know how to fight for it. Good. I won't pretend to feel sorry for him when what's happening here is as inevitable as sunrise. Kaleen was never his, even when she thought she was.
"Mama!" Braylon's delighted shriek cuts through my thoughts as he launches himself toward Kaleen. She scoops him up with practiced ease, and the picture they make together—her warm brown skin against his lighter bronze, both of them laughing—hits me like a physical blow.
