Page 25 of Nanny for the Minotaur

My fingers catch on a thorn, and I welcome the sharp sting. Physical pain feels simpler than the ache in my chest, the weight of Mira'sMamastill echoing in my ears. I knew I was falling in love with these two children who deserve the world. I just hadn't realized they had been doing the same.

I sink onto the stone bench where I've sat with Theron from time to time, when some nights I can see his fear of failing his children come out. Now I understand that bone-deep terror of not being enough. What right does a human healer have to mother minotaur children? To love their father with an intensity that steals my breath?

The roses sway in the night breeze, their shadows dancing across the garden path. Like the flowers, my feelings have grown wild and unstoppable, taking root in every corner of my heart. I've poured myself into nurturing this family, knowing I might never truly belong. Yet here I am, crying in a moonlit garden, wanting nothing more than to be theirs completely.

A twig snaps behind me. Even after so many nights out here, the sound of his hoofsteps sends a shiver down my spine. I don't turn around, letting the tears fall freely as Theron's presence fills the garden. The silver rings in his horns catch moonlight as he moves closer, each step deliberate, giving me time to compose myself or flee.

I do neither.

His warmth radiates against my back before his arms wrap around me. No hesitation this time, no careful distance maintained. He pulls me against his chest, my head tucking perfectly beneath his chin. His black fur is soft against my tear-stained cheeks.

My hands grip his forearms, feeling the strength coiled beneath. He could break me without effort, this massivemerchant who commands respect in every room. Yet his touch remains gentle, almost reverent, as his fingers spread across my waist.

The roses sway around us, their perfume mingling with the herbs in my hair and the earthy scent that is uniquely Theron. His heart thunders against my back, matching the rapid flutter of my own. Neither of us speaks. We don't need to.

He draws me impossibly closer, and I give into the way I've been wanting him for the moment, sinking into his hold. The gesture speaks volumes - possession, protection, promise. Everything we've left unspoken these past years flows between us in this moonlit moment.

I feel the slight tremor in his massive frame, the way his breath catches when I lean fully into his embrace. For all his imposing presence and gruff exterior, Theron holds me like I'm something precious. Something he's afraid might slip away if he loosens his grip.

13

THERON

The moon hangs high outside my study window, but I can't focus on the trade agreements spread across my desk. All day, Lyra's presence has pulled at my attention like a lodestone. The way she played with the kids in the garden, making them laugh as they ran around together. How she'd organized the kitchen stores with quiet efficiency, bringing order to chaos. Even now, the memory of her copper braid catching sunlight as she hung herbs to dry makes my fingers twitch.

It's been a few days since Mira called her Mama, and while I can tell that it got to her - especially when I sat in the garden as she cried - I don't think she's taken it lightly. They mean just as much to her as she's come to mean to them.

With all my thoughts tied up in Lyra, I know sleep won't come. I push back from my desk and head downstairs instead, drawn by the warm glow spilling from the kitchen doorway. The wooden floors creak beneath my hooves – they always do, no matter how carefully I step.

Lyra stands at the counter, her hair falling in waves around her shoulders. She's shed her practical day dress for a simple nightgown, and something primitive in my chest growls at thesight of her so unguarded in my home. The curves of her shoulders catch the lamplight as she reaches for herbs hanging from the ceiling rafters.

"Can't sleep?" Her voice is hushed, mindful of the children upstairs.

"Too much on my mind." I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms. The kitchen feels smaller with both of us in it, though I tower over her slight frame.

She turns, a steaming cup in her hands. "Tea helps. Would you like some?"

I nod, watching as she pours a second cup. When she hands it to me, our fingers brush. The contact sends electricity racing up my arm. Her bright green eyes meet mine, flecks of gold catching in the lamplight. Neither of us moves. Neither of us looks away.

The cup trembles slightly in her grip. My thumb brushes against her knuckle, and her breath catches. The kitchen feels too warm, too close. Too intimate.

We settle at the kitchen table, the tea warming my hands. Lyra sits close enough that her scent – herbs and sunshine – mingles with the steam rising from our cups.

We've spent countless nights together in the garden, talking about little things. So I'm not surprised when she turns to me and says, "How did you and Cassandra meet?"

I wonder if she's trying to see if I miss my late wife - or if I'm just hoping she wants to know. "Our families planned our engagement. I met her at the party."

Lyra's face is shocked, and I can't help but laugh. It makes it easier for me to keep talking, for me to tell her something that I think she needs to hear.

So she knows that there is no one else I want but her.

"I never wanted an arranged marriage," I find myself saying. The words spill out before I can stop them. "But that's what was expected. Join two trading houses, secure both our futures."

Lyra's fingers curl around her cup. She doesn't interrupt, doesn't offer empty platitudes. Just listens.

"Cassandra came from old money, old traditions. The kind of family that traces their bloodline back generations." I take a long drink, letting the herbs soothe my throat. "Being married to a new merchant – even a successful one – was beneath her. I still had common blood."

"That must have been difficult." Lyra's voice carries no judgment, just quiet understanding.

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