Page 16 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Son
The realization hits me like ice water. My son—this beautiful, perfect child—has the beginnings of wings. Which means his father was xaphan. Which means I was with…a xaphan? But humans are neverwithxaphan.
I'm clearly not the only one thinking that, but Marnai's weathered hand finds my shoulder, her grip firm and reassuring. "Rest now," she says quietly. "What matters is that you're both healthy."
But I see the questions in their eyes, the assumptions forming like storm clouds. They think I was some nobleman's plaything, discarded when I became inconvenient. Or a human woman who ran from her xaphan master when pregnancy made her burden instead of pleasure.
They're probably right. The alternative—that I loved someone, that I was loved in return—feels too fragile to hope for. Too much like the dreams that haunt my sleep, full of silver-blue eyes and gentle touches and names that feel more real than my own reflection.
I pull my son closer, marveling at his tiny features, the way his fingers curve around my thumb with surprising strength. Whatever brought me to Veylowe, whatever circumstances led to his conception, this moment is mine. This love is real, even if nothing else makes sense.
The women busy themselves with the practical matters of afterbirth and recovery, their voices a comforting murmur in the background. None of them ask the questions I can see brewing behind their careful expressions. They simply accept what is—a mother and child who need care, protection, belonging.
In Veylowe, sometimes that's enough.
Three weeks into motherhood,I discover that Braylon has inherited more than just his father's eyes. He possesses anuncanny ability to sense my growing desperation and respond with increasingly frantic wails that pierce through Veylowe's morning quiet like a blade.
Today's expedition to the village market was supposed to be simple—purchase some dried dreelk and zynthra for soup, maybe let the other mothers admire my son's unusual beauty while pretending not to notice their whispered speculation about his parentage. Instead, I'm standing beside the well in the village center, bouncing a red-faced, screaming infant whose cries could wake the dead.
"Shh, little one," I murmur, shifting him to my other shoulder for the dozenth time. His tiny body is rigid with fury, his silver-blue eyes squeezed shut as he expresses his displeasure with this cold, bright world. "Please, Braylon. What do you need?"
The other villagers give us a wide berth, their sympathetic but helpless glances doing nothing to ease the knot of frustration building in my chest. I've tried feeding him, changing his wrappings, singing the lullabies Brisa taught me. Nothing works. The crying just escalates, bouncing off the stone cottages and echoing through the narrow streets like an accusation.
My arms ache from holding him. My head throbs with exhaustion. The persistent fog of memory loss that's plagued me since my arrival in Veylowe seems thicker when I'm this tired, making even simple decisions feel overwhelming. Should I go home? Try walking him around the village again? Admit defeat and seek help from one of the older mothers?
"I could help."
The voice is gentle, steady, and completely unexpected. I turn to find Lake Thorne approaching with the careful, unhurried movements of someone accustomed to skittish creatures. He's broad-shouldered and solid in the way that suggests real work rather than posturing, his sandy brown hair tousled by themorning breeze. Freckles dust his fair skin like scattered stars, and his mossy green eyes hold a kindness that doesn't demand anything in return.
I know Lake by reputation—Jorren's eldest son, the one who fixes broken cart wheels and delivers firewood to the elderly without being asked. He's quiet, reliable, the type of man who shows up when needed and disappears when the crisis passes. But I've barely spoken to him beyond polite nods at the market.
"I don't know what's wrong with him," I admit, my voice cracking with exhaustion. "He's been fed, he's clean, he's warm. But he won't stop crying."
Lake steps closer, his calloused hands steady as he reaches for Braylon. "May I?"
I hesitate for a heartbeat—some primitive maternal instinct warning against letting anyone else hold my child. But desperation wins over caution, and I carefully transfer Braylon to Lake's arms.
The change is immediate and startling. Lake cradles my son against his chest with the easy confidence of someone who's soothed countless upset children. His large hands support Braylon's head and back perfectly, and he begins a gentle swaying motion that's more rhythm than rocking.
"There now," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, rumbling frequency that seems to cut through Braylon's hysteria. "Easy, little man. Nobody's going anywhere."
Braylon's cries stutter, then gradually subside to hiccupping whimpers. His tiny fists uncurl, and those startling silver-blue eyes blink open to stare up at Lake's face with the solemn attention of a scholar studying ancient texts.
"How did you—?" I start, then stop, too amazed to finish the question.
Lake's mouth quirks in a small smile. "Sometimes they just need a different voice. Different heartbeat." He continues thegentle swaying, and I watch my son's face relax into the peaceful expression I've been desperately trying to achieve for the past hour. "I've got four younger siblings. Learned early that there's no shame in tag-teaming a fussy baby."
Relief floods through me so completely that my knees nearly buckle. For weeks, I've felt like I'm failing at the most basic maternal instincts, that my missing memories have somehow stripped away the knowledge I need to care for my own child. Watching Lake calm Braylon with such effortless skill should make me feel inadequate. Instead, it feels like salvation.
"He likes you," I observe, noting how Braylon's gaze tracks Lake's movements with unusual focus.
"Smart kid. Knows quality when he sees it." Lake's deadpan delivery makes me laugh despite my exhaustion. "Want to try walking him around the square? Sometimes the movement helps settle them when they're overstimulated."
We fall into step together, Lake maintaining that gentle sway as we circle the village well. Braylon remains blissfully quiet, his small head tucked against Lake's shoulder like he's found the perfect resting spot. Other villagers nod approvingly as we pass—the sight of a crying baby being soothed always earns goodwill in a place like Veylowe.
"You're good at this," I tell Lake, meaning it. There's something deeply reassuring about his presence, the way he handles my son with casual expertise while asking nothing in return.
He shrugs, a flush of pink creeping up his neck. "Just practice. You're doing fine, Kaleen. The first few months are hard for everyone."
The way he says it—without pity or judgment, just matter-of-fact acceptance—makes something tight in my chest loosen. I've grown so accustomed to the weight of others' curiosity about mypast, their careful questions and meaningful glances, that Lake's simple kindness feels revolutionary.
