Page 42 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Son
Something in my tone makes her study my face more carefully. "You're not talking about stones anymore."
I'm not. I'm talking about moments like this, when she forgets to maintain her careful distance and lets me see glimpses of who she really is underneath the cautious stranger she's become. The way she tilts her head when she's thinking. How she unconsciously mirrors Braylon's expressions of concentration. The grace in her movements even when she's just walking through the woods.
"No," I admit quietly. "I'm not."
Our eyes hold for a heartbeat longer than casual conversation warrants. Then Braylon needs help climbing over a fallenbranch, and the moment passes into something easier—the shared task of guiding our child through his exploration.
Later, back at the cottage, we work together in the kitchen while Braylon plays with wooden blocks on the floor nearby. Kaleen moves around me with unconscious familiarity now, reaching for spices when I'm chopping vegetables, handing me the pot I need before I ask for it. It's choreography we learned in another life, muscle memory that survived when conscious memory failed.
"Mind the brimbark," she says, nudging my elbow gently when I get too enthusiastic with my knife work. "Unless you like your stew with splinters."
"I've cooked before," I protest mildly, but I adjust my technique. The truth is, I rarely cooked in Soimur—we had servants for such things, and my focus was always on my work. But here, in this small kitchen with its simple tools and worn counters, cooking feels like meditation. Like coming home.
She hums under her breath as she tends the fire, something wordless and probably unconscious. It's another memory that hits me sideways—she used to do that while working in our garden, completely absorbed in her tasks and unaware of the small music she made.
"Mama sing!" Braylon announces from the floor, looking up from his blocks with bright expectation.
"Was I singing?" Kaleen asks, pausing with her wooden spoon halfway to her mouth for tasting.
"Humming," I correct gently. "You do it when you're content."
She blinks at me with surprise, as if she's just discovered something about herself she hadn't known. "I do?"
"Always have," I say, then catch myself before I can elaborate. Before I can tell her about Saturday mornings in our kitchen when she'd make tea and hum while planning her day,or how that sound was often the first thing I'd hear when waking—Kaleen in the garden below our bedroom, already dressed and tending to new growth while the rest of the world still slept.
But instead of the wariness I expect, she just nods thoughtfully. "I'll have to pay attention to that."
After dinner, we sit in the front room while Braylon plays at our feet, building towers with his blocks only to knock them down with delighted shrieks. The fire crackles softly in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the walls and warming the cottage against the evening chill.
Kaleen has claimed the worn armchair that clearly belongs to her, but she's pulled it closer to where I sit on the small sofa. Close enough that when she extends her feet toward the fire, her ankle nearly brushes my leg. She's relaxed in a way I haven't seen before—shoulders loose, guard completely down, that faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
She's beautiful like this. Not the ethereal, untouchable beauty that first caught my attention in Soimur, but something warmer and more immediate. The golden firelight catches the amber flecks in her eyes and turns her skin to honey. Her hair has escaped its braid in soft wisps that frame her face, and when she laughs at Braylon's architectural efforts, her whole face transforms.
This is what I've been fighting to get back to—not just her presence, but this ease between us. This simple pleasure in each other's company without agenda or expectation. The comfortable silence punctuated by our son's happy babbling and the quiet sounds of a home at peace.
"Tower!" Braylon declares, pointing at his latest creation with obvious pride.
"Very tall," Kaleen agrees solemnly. "The tallest yet."
He beams at the praise, then immediately sets about knocking it down again. The crash of blocks makes him gigglewith pure joy, and watching him, I feel something I haven't experienced in two years—complete, uncomplicated happiness. My family, together in our own small bubble of warmth and light. Everything else can wait.
23
KALEEN
The days blur together in the most wonderful way, each one bleeding seamlessly into the next until I can't remember what evenings felt like before Domiel filled them. My cottage has never felt so alive—Braylon's delighted shrieks echoing off the walls as his father teaches him to stack blocks in impossible configurations, the low rumble of Domiel's voice explaining things with the same patience whether he's addressing our eighteen-month-old or me.
"Papa, look!" Braylon toddles over with his arms full of his precious stone collection, dumping them at Domiel's feet like an offering. "Pretty!"
"Very pretty," Domiel agrees, settling cross-legged on the floor with fluid grace that makes his wings adjust automatically for balance. He examines each stone with the same serious attention he'd give to precious gems. "This one has gold flecks. And this one—feel how smooth it is."
Watching them together does something to me that I can't quite name. Braylon chatters away in that half-language only he understands, pointing and babbling while Domiel responds as if every word makes perfect sense. There's something sonatural about the way they fit together—the careful way Domiel modulates his voice for small ears, how he anticipates when Braylon needs help before our son even realizes it himself.
"Da-da-da-ba-pa!" Braylon announces, patting Domiel's knee emphatically.
"Is that so?" Domiel's mouth twitches with suppressed laughter. "That sounds very important."
I find myself studying them from across the room, memorizing the sight of father and son absorbed in each other's company. There's something warming in my chest that I didn't even realize had gone cold—like a hearth fire being rekindled after years of ash. This is what family looks like, I think. This easy companionship, this unquestioned belonging.
