Page 39 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Son
She nods, but there's a hesitation in the movement that tells me it's more hope than certainty. "It was right," she says, and her voice grows stronger as she says it. "It was time. I think... I think we both knew it."
The honesty in those words—the willingness to acknowledge what we've all been carefully dancing around for weeks—sends another wave of satisfaction through me. But I tamp it down, force myself to remain still and patient even though everyinstinct I possess is screaming at me to claim this moment, to press my advantage while her defenses are down.
Not yet. Not when she's looking at me like someone who's just taken a step toward a cliff edge and isn't sure if she's about to fly or fall.
"Good," I say simply, because anything more would be too much pressure, too much too fast. "You deserve to be happy, Kaleen."
Something shifts in her expression then—surprise, maybe, or gratitude that I'm not pushing for more than she's ready to give. The careful distance she's been maintaining wavers, just slightly, like a wall with a hairline crack that might spread given the right pressure.
But I won't be the one to apply that pressure. Not today. Today is for letting her process, for giving her the space to realize that ending things with Lake wasn't a mistake—it was the first step toward something that could be extraordinary.
Braylon turns then, trying to express something I can't understand as he crashes into the space between us. The moment fractures, but that's alright. There will be other moments. Other opportunities to show her that choosing me—choosing us—isn't a risk she's taking alone.
"Ready to go home?" she asks our son, and the word 'home' carries a weight that makes me wonder if she's starting to question exactly where that might be.
"Let me walk you," I offer, and she, thankfully, doesn't turn me down.
I fall into step beside them as we make our way back toward the village, keeping my movements casual even though every nerve ending is hypersensitive to her presence. The way she breathes, the rhythm of her footsteps, the occasional brush of her arm against mine when the path narrows—all of it registerswith the intensity of someone who's been starved and is finally being offered sustenance.
The walk back to her cottage passes in comfortable near-silence, Braylon chattering occasionally and pointing about, us talking to him like we understand more than three words. Kaleen responds with appropriate murmurs, but I can feel her attention drifting, processing whatever internal shift has occurred since this morning.
When we reach her front door, she sets Braylon down and he rushes inside to pick up toys. But Kaleen hovers in the doorway, where she can still see him as she turns to face me with an expression I can't quite read. There's gratitude there, and something that might be affection. But underneath it all is that same careful uncertainty, the look of someone standing at the edge of something vast and unknown.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "For today. For being patient with him. With... everything."
The words are simple enough, but they carry layers of meaning that make my chest tight. She's thanking me for more than just the afternoon spent teaching our son to weave light. She's thanking me for not pushing, for not demanding answers to questions she's still figuring out how to ask.
But patience has its limits, and mine are stretched thin by the way the evening light catches the gold flecks in her eyes, by the soft curve of her mouth that I remember with perfect clarity despite two years of separation.
I step closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to look at me. Close enough that I can see the way her pupils dilate slightly, the way her breathing shifts just a fraction faster.
"Kaleen," I murmur, her name a rough prayer on my lips. It's how I always ask her, mostly because whispering her name is so natural to me. To say it to her and not yell it in anguish is such a relief I can't stop.
She doesn't step back. Doesn't look away. If anything, she seems to lean into my presence, like a flower turning toward sunlight.
I cup her face in my hands, thumbs tracing the elegant lines of her cheekbones, and watch her eyes flutter closed at the contact. She's so beautiful it makes my chest ache—not just the external beauty that first caught my attention, but the strength and warmth and fierce devotion that makes her who she is.
When I kiss her, it's with the reverence of someone handling something precious and fragile. Soft at first, barely more than a whisper of contact, giving her every opportunity to pull away if she wants to.
But she doesn't pull away. Instead, she melts into me with a soft sound that might be relief or surrender or simple recognition. Her hands come up to rest against my chest, not pushing me away but anchoring herself as she kisses me back with a sweetness that makes my knees threaten to buckle.
This is the third time I've kissed her since finding her again. The third time I've felt that spark of connection that goes deeper than memory or desire—something fundamental and unshakeable that tells me this woman was meant to be mine.
When we finally break apart, she's breathing hard, her amber eyes dark with something that might be want or fear or both. For a moment, we just stand there in the growing dusk, foreheads nearly touching, sharing the same space and the same air.
She doesn't invite me in. I don't ask her to. Some things can't be rushed, no matter how much I want to gather her against me and never let her go again.
But as I step back, as I bid her goodnight and force myself to walk away instead of claiming this moment the way every instinct demands, I carry with me the memory of how she kissed me back. The way she leaned into my touch like she was coming home.
It's enough. For now, it's enough.
But not for long.
22
DOMIEL
Iestablish a routine without announcing it, the way water finds its path through stone—inevitable but unhurried. Each evening, as the sun begins its descent behind the village's modest rooftops, I find myself at Kaleen's door. Not asking for an invitation, not pushing for promises I know she's not ready to make. Just... present.
