Page 31 of Nanny for the Minotaur

"The children are fast asleep," she says, her voice a soft melody in the quiet room. She moves closer, the scent of herbs and honey enveloping me. I set the glass down, reaching for her. My hands find her waist, pulling her to me. She comes willingly, her arms wrapping around my neck.

"Lyra, we need to talk about-" I start, but she silences me with a kiss. Her lips are soft, insistent, filled with a trust and love that steals my breath. My worries about Marcus, about the threats looming over us, fade under the pressure of her mouth, the sweet taste of her.

She deepens the kiss, her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of my neck. I growl low in my throat, lifting her off herfeet. Her legs wrap around my waist, her nightgown riding up, revealing smooth, creamy skin. I carry her to the thick rug before the fireplace, laying her down gently.

Her eyes, those bright green eyes flecked with gold, hold me captive. She reaches up, tracing the curve of my horn, the silver rings catching the firelight. I turn my head, kissing her palm, feeling the calluses from her work, the strength in her hands.

I trail kisses down her neck, her collarbone, my hands exploring her body. She arches into my touch, a soft gasp escaping her lips. Her response is honest, open, filled with a desire that matches my own. I tug at the neckline of her nightgown, exposing more of her skin, my mouth hungry for the taste of her.

She pulls at my shirt, her fingers fumbling with the buttons. I chuckle, a low rumble in my chest, and help her, shrugging out of the fabric. Her hands roam over my chest, tracing the muscles, the scars. Each touch is a brand, a claim. I belong to her, just as she belongs to me.

Our clothes disappear, piece by piece, until there's nothing between us but firelight and shadows. I kiss every inch of her, memorizing her body, the sounds she makes, the way she responds to my touch. She does the same, her hands and mouth exploring me, driving me to the brink.

When I finally sink into her, it's like coming home. Her body welcomes mine, her legs wrapping around me, urging me deeper. Our rhythm is slow, intense, each movement echoing the beat of our hearts. I watch her face, her eyes closed, her lips parted, her expression a mix of pleasure and wonder.

The firelight dances over our skin, casting us in a warm glow. The world outside the study fades away, leaving only us, only this moment. The pressure builds, our breaths coming faster, our hearts pounding in sync. When she cries out, her bodyconvulsing around mine, I follow her over the edge, my roar echoing through the room.

Tomorrow. I can deal with Marcus tomorrow.

16

LYRA

The morning sun bathes the marketplace in golden light as I adjust my herb-filled basket. My braid swings against my back, the healing herbs woven through it releasing their subtle fragrance with each step. The usual bustle of the market surrounds me - the clatter of hooves on cobblestones, the calls of merchants hawking their wares.

Something's different today. Old Gretta, the spice merchant who always saves her best cinnamon for my healing teas, ducks her head when I approach her stall. Her massive horns cast long shadows across her goods as she turns away.

"Gretta?" I step closer, reaching for my coin purse. "I needed to restock-"

"Sold out," she mumbles, though I can clearly see the fresh spices laid out before her.

Frowning, I move to the next stall. The herb merchant who typically jokes about my "tiny human hands" being perfect for sorting delicate dried flowers won't meet my eyes either. As I walk past a cluster of well-dressed minotaur ladies, their silk skirts rustling, I catch fragments of their conversation.

"...living in that house..."

"...just another of Blackhorn's servants..."

"...probably warming his bed..."

My cheeks burn, but I keep my chin high. The basket handle digs into my palm as I grip it tighter. A flash of steel-gray fur catches my eye - Marcus Steelhorn, his black horns gleaming with gold rings, stands near his usual gathering of merchants. His cold blue eyes meet mine for a moment, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk.

Two younger merchants near him watch me pass, their whispers carrying clearly. "Heard she's not even paid, just kept like any other human pet."

I stop at the next stall, my knuckles white around my basket handle. The merchant there, who'd sold me meqixste bark just last week with a friendly smile, now stares at his ledger as if it holds the secrets of the universe.

These people know me. They've seen me heal their children, tend their elderly, deliver their babies. Years of building trust and respect, and Marcus has poisoned it all with a few well-placed whispers.

The whispers follow me down the street like a toxic cloud. My last hope lies in Master Brimwell's apothecary - he's never cared about politics or gossip, only the quality of herbs and the knowledge of those who purchase them.

The bell chimes as I push open his door. The familiar scent of dried herbs and healing tinctures wraps around me, but something feels wrong. Master Brimwell's shoulders stiffen at the counter, his gray-furred bulk blocking access to his rarest herbs - the ones he usually lets me examine freely.

"I need snowblossom root," I say, keeping my voice steady.

"We don't serve your kind anymore." His words hit like a physical blow. "Find somewhere else."

"My kind?" My fingers dig into my basket. "I've bought herbs here for years. I saved your grandson when-"

"Times change." He won't meet my eyes. "Best you leave."

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