Page 40 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Son
The first few nights, she hesitates before opening the door wider, her amber eyes searching my face as if looking for some hidden agenda. But I keep my hands loose at my sides, my expression carefully neutral, and wait for her to decide. Each time, after a moment that stretches like pulled wire, she steps back.
"Stay for dinner?" she asks on the fourth night, and the words come out almost casual. But I catch the slight tremor in her voice, the way her fingers worry at the fabric of her skirt.
"If you'll have me," I reply simply, because anything more would be pressure she doesn't need.
The cottage feels smaller with my presence filling it, my wings automatically folding tight against my back to avoid knocking over the carefully arranged simplicity of her life here.Everything is functional, clean, worn smooth by use but cared for with quiet pride. It's so different from the ethereal luxury of my estate in Soimur, yet somehow it suits her just as well—this stripped-down honesty, this focus on what matters.
Braylon toddles over immediately, his small hands reaching up toward me with the complete trust that still catches me off-guard every time.
"Papa! Up!"
The word hits me like it always does—a fierce claiming that goes straight to some primitive part of my brain. I lift him easily, settling him against my hip as he babbles something that might be about his day or the wooden toy clutched in his fist. His vocabulary is still limited, maybe fifteen words on a good day, but he communicates with his whole body—pointing, tugging, making little sounds of delight when I understand what he wants.
Kaleen moves around the kitchen with practiced efficiency, but I notice how she steals glances at us when she thinks I'm not looking. There's something almost hungry in her expression, like she's memorizing the sight of father and son together.
"The table needs fixing," she mentions after we've eaten her simple but perfect stew—dreelk and tuskram with herbs that remind me of Sunday mornings in another life. "One of the legs is wobbly."
It's not really an invitation, but it's not not an invitation either. "I can look at it," I offer, keeping my tone carefully neutral.
The table is more than wobbly—it's barely holding together, held in place by strategic positioning and what appears to be sheer stubbornness. I run my hands over the worn wood, cataloging the damage. The joints have worked loose over time, and one leg has a crack running nearly its full length.
"This needs more than a quick fix," I tell her, already calculating what materials I'll need. "But I can reinforce it properly. Make it solid again."
She nods, then seems to catch herself. "I can pay?—"
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended, edged with an offense I can't quite hide. Does she really think I'd take payment for something like this? For the simple pleasure of fixing something she uses every day, of making her life a little easier?
Her eyes widen slightly at my tone, and I force myself to soften. "It's not about payment, Kaleen. It's just... let me do this. Please."
Something shifts in her expression—not quite trust, but maybe the beginning of it. She nods again, this time without the careful distance she's been maintaining.
I return the next evening with proper wood glue and reinforcement brackets, tools that feel familiar and comforting in my hands. Braylon "helps" by handing me screws and getting underfoot, chattering in his limited vocabulary about everything and nothing.
"Hammer!" he announces proudly when I pick up the tool, one of his newer words.
"That's right. Good eye."
Kaleen sits nearby, mending a shirt by lamplight, but I can feel her attention on me as I work. There's something hypnotic about the familiar rhythm of repair work—measuring, cutting, fitting pieces together until they form something stronger than they were alone.
"You're good at this," she observes when I flip the table right-side up and test its stability. Rock solid now, built to last another decade at least.
"Practice," I say simply, though we both know it's more than that. This kind of precision, this attention to detail—it doesn't come from casual experience.
Over the following weeks, I find other things that need fixing. A loose board on the front step that could trip someone in the dark. A window that sticks when she tries to open it for air. The garden gate that hangs crooked and scrapes the ground.
Each repair gives me a reason to stay a little longer, to exist in her space without asking for more than she's willing to give. And slowly—so slowly I'm not sure she notices it happening—Kaleen begins to relax around me.
It starts with small things. She stops tensing when I move too close. She asks me to reach something from a high shelf instead of struggling with a chair. She laughs at something I say—really laughs, not the polite amusement she's been offering—and the sound hits me like sunlight after winter.
"Tell him about the thalivern garden," she says one evening after dinner, settling back in her chair with the contentment of someone who's had a good meal and pleasant company. "He keeps pointing at them and making excited noises."
Braylon is indeed pointing at an illustration in one of the few books he owns, his face bright with curiosity. "Fly! Fly!"
I gather him onto my lap, feeling the solid weight of him against my chest. "Those are thalivern," I tell him, pointing at the colorful wings in the drawing. "They live in special gardens where everything smells like flowers and sunshine."
His eyes go wide with the wonder that only small children can manage. "Pretty!" He loves that word.
"Very pretty. There's a garden in Soimur where thousands of them live. The flowers are as tall as Papa, and when the thalivern fly, they look like rainbows dancing in the air."
