Page 27 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Son
Kaleen ushers us both outside, and I feel unnecessarily nervous as she tilts her head toward him.
"Braylon," Kaleen's voice is soft but clear, drawing his attention. "I want you to meet someone."
His silver gaze swings to me, and I see my own eyes reflected in miniature. For a moment, he simply stares, his head tilted in that curious way children have when they're processing something new. Then, without warning, he reaches out one small hand toward me.
"Wings," he says, the word clear despite his young age.
"Yes," I manage, my voice rougher than I intended. "I have wings."
Kaleen glances at me, something unreadable in her expression. "This is Domiel, sweetheart. He's... he's your..."
She falters, and I see her struggle with how to explain something she doesn't fully understand herself. But Braylon doesn't seem to need the explanation. He's still reaching for me, those silver eyes bright with curiosity rather than fear.
"Down!"
Kaleen hesitates, looking to me for confirmation. When I nod, she sets him gently on his feet. He stands there for a moment, studying me with an intensity that's both heartbreaking and humbling. Then, as if some invisible thread pulls him forward, he takes one step toward me. Then another.
I drop to my knees without thinking, bringing myself down to his level. My hands shake as I rest them on my thighs, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid to do anything that might break this fragile moment.
Braylon walks straight into my arms.
The trust in that simple gesture cracks something open in my chest that's been frozen for two years. He's so small, so perfect, fitting against me like he's always belonged there. His downy wings flutter against my palms as I carefully, reverently, close my arms around him.
"Hello, little one," I whisper against the soft gold of his hair.
He pulls back just enough to look at my face, those familiar eyes studying me with solemn attention. Then, with the matter-of-fact acceptance that only children possess, he settles more firmly against my chest.
For the first time in two years, I feel something that isn't hope or grief or desperate longing.
I feel joy.
Pure, uncomplicated joy at holding my son in my arms. At breathing in the sweet scent of his hair, feeling the solid warmth of his small body, watching those silver eyes—my eyes—brighten with curiosity rather than fear.
"Hi," he says, his voice muffled against my shirt.
I can't help the way his tiny voice twists me up.
I glance up at Kaleen, who's watching us with an expression I can't entirely read. Pain, maybe. Or recognition struggling against the blank spaces in her memory.
Braylon shifts in my arms, his small hand coming up to trace one of the silver rings on my finger. "Pretty," he murmurs, then looks back at my face with those too-perceptive eyes. "Play?"
The question hits me like a physical blow. How do I explain to a child that I've spent two years searching for him? That I'd rather die than leave him again?
"I'd love to play with you," I say carefully, glancing at Kaleen for permission I'm not sure I have any right to ask for. Or she has any to deny.
Braylon follows my gaze, then looks back at me with the serious expression of someone making an important decision. "Mama?" His voice carries the particular tone children use when they're about to ask for something they want very badly. "Play?"
And my heart fucking soars when she nods.
15
KALEEN
Afew days pass in a careful dance of boundaries and tentative trust. Domiel doesn't push—doesn't demand more time than I'm willing to give, doesn't ask questions I can't answer. He simply shows up each morning at the edge of the village, patient as stone, waiting for whatever scraps of his son's life I'm prepared to share.
And Braylon... Braylon takes to him like he's been waiting his whole short life for this particular person to appear.
I watch them now from the cottage doorstep, my hands wrapped around a cooling cup of meadowmint tea that's gone bitter from neglect. They're crouched together beside the old stump that serves as Braylon's favorite climbing challenge, their dark gold heads bent over something Domiel is showing him. Small blocks of wood, I think, carved with symbols I don't recognize but that make Braylon's eyes widen with fascination.
