Page 28 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Son
"Look, Mama!" Braylon's voice carries across the yard, bright with excitement. He holds up one of the blocks, his small fingers struggling with its weight. "Magic!"
It's not magic—at least, not the kind that sparks and burns. But when Domiel arranges the blocks in a specific pattern,they seem to hum with some inner energy that makes the air shimmer slightly. Braylon claps his hands together, those silver eyes with their amber rings reflecting pure delight.
The sound of his laughter does something dangerous to my chest. Makes it tight and warm in a way that has nothing to do with the morning sun.
Domiel's mouth curves into something that might generously be called a smile, though it's softer than anything I've seen from him before. Gentler. The sharp edges that seem carved into his features blur when he looks at our son, as if Braylon's joy has the power to reshape even the hardest lines of his face.
"Your turn," Domiel says, his voice pitched low but carrying clearly in the still air. He nudges another block toward Braylon with one long finger. "Can you put it here?"
Braylon's face scrunches in concentration as he studies the pattern. His tongue pokes out slightly—a habit that makes my heart clench because I know, somehow, that it means he's thinking hard. After a moment of careful deliberation, he places the block with the focused precision of someone far older than eighteen months.
The blocks pulse once with gentle light, and Braylon squeals with triumph, launching himself at Domiel with the fearless affection that defines everything about my son's approach to the world.
Domiel catches him easily, those powerful arms closing around Braylon's small frame with a care that borders on reverence. For a moment, they're perfectly still—father and son silhouetted against the morning light, dark gold heads pressed together, and something in my chest fractures just a little.
This should feel familiar. Should feel like coming home instead of watching strangers discover each other.
But it doesn't. And the guilt of that sits heavy in my throat like swallowed stones.
"Again!" Braylon demands, wriggling in Domiel's arms until he's set back on his feet. "More!"
"Patience," Domiel murmurs, but he's already reaching for another set of blocks. The word carries an accent I can't place, vowels shaped by a language that isn't quite human. "The best magic requires patience."
There's something in his tone—a depth that suggests he's speaking from hard-won experience. As if patience is something he's had to learn rather than something that came naturally.
Braylon considers this with the gravity of someone weighing profound wisdom. Then he nods solemnly. "Patience," he repeats, the word massacred by his little tone.
But Domiel just nods. "That's right. It means we wait. We don't rush."
They settle back into their quiet work, and I find myself studying the way Domiel moves. Everything about him is controlled, measured—from the precise placement of his hands to the deliberate cadence of his words. But underneath that careful composure, there's something almost hungry in the way he watches Braylon. As if he's trying to memorize every expression, every gesture, every fleeting moment of connection.
Like a man who's afraid it might all disappear again.
The thought hits me harder than it should. Makes me wonder what kind of life he's lived that would make him hold even joy so carefully, as if it's something that might be stolen away without warning.
Lake appears at my elbow, his presence solid and comforting as he settles onto the step beside me. His arm slides around my shoulders in a gesture so familiar it barely registers, though I notice the way Domiel's head turns sharply at the movement. The way those silver-blue eyes track Lake's every touch with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
"He's good with him," Lake says quietly, his voice carefully neutral.
I nod, not trusting my voice. Because he is good with Braylon—patient where I sometimes lose my temper, calm where I worry, confident in ways that seem to settle something restless in our son's spirit.
"Mama, Lake, look!" Braylon's voice cuts through the strange tension threading between the three adults. He's pointing at the blocks, which now pulse with steady, gentle light in a pattern that looks almost like a heartbeat. "Pretty!"
It's obvious Domiel doesn't like how excited Braylon is to see Lake. I see his shoulders tense, see something sharp and pained flash across his features before that careful mask slides back into place. But his hands don't falter as he helps Braylon arrange the next set of blocks, his voice steady when he praises our son's careful work.
Lake's arm tightens around me, a subtle reminder of where my loyalties are supposed to lie. But all I can focus on is the way Domiel's jaw clenches when Braylon uses that title, the way his silver rings catch the light as his hands curl once into fists before deliberately relaxing.
This man—this stranger who claims I once belonged to him—is breaking apart by inches, and some traitorous part of me wants to comfort him.
I want to smooth the sharp lines from his face and tell him that everything will be all right, even though I have no right to make such promises. No memory of ever having the power to heal whatever wounds he carries.
But watching him with Braylon, seeing the careful tenderness in every gesture, the reverent way he says our son's name—it stirs something in me that feels old and deep and frighteningly certain.
Something that whispers this is right, this is how it should be, even as my rational mind insists it can't be true.
Because if it were true, if this beautiful, broken man really was the missing piece of my shattered memories, then what does that make the life I've built here?
What does that make the quiet contentment I've found with Lake, the simple peace of a world where nobody expects more than I can give?
