Page 49 of Nanny for the Minotaur

Kai maintains his distance, jaw set in that stubborn way that reminds me so much of his father. But when I open my other arm, he breaks. The book tumbles to the covers as he presses against my side, his lanky frame shaking with silent sobs.

"Who's going to help me with the herb garden?" Mira hiccups against my dress. "Who's going to make Papa smile at breakfast?"

My throat burns. I stroke her fur, remembering countless mornings teaching her which plants were safe to touch, which needed gentle hands. "You will, sweet one. You know all the important herbs now."

"It's not the same." Kai's voice cracks. He tries to wipe his eyes discreetly, still attempting to maintain his composure even as tears streak through his black fur. "You make everything better."

Movement catches my eye. Theron fills the doorway, his massive frame blocking most of the hallway light. His expression remains shadowed, but I catch the way his hands clench at his sides, the slight forward tilt of his horns betraying his distress.

But he doesn't want me to stay. So, I can't. Not when this is all I can be for them - and my heart can't take it. Not when there's too much pressure from the other merchants and Theron won't withstand it.

This will have to be goodbye.

I hold his children closer, breathing in the scent of the rirzed herb soap we made together last week. Mira's sobs gradually quiet into hiccups, then into the deep breathing of exhaustion. Even Kai's rigid posture softens as sleep claims him, though his fingers remain twisted in my skirt.

With both children finally asleep, I ease away carefully, tucking blankets around them. My fingers linger on Mira's cheek, brushing away the tear tracks matting her silver fur. Theron has disappeared from the doorway, leaving me alone with the weight of goodbye pressing against my ribs.

The house creaks familiar notes as I make my way through shadowed halls. My hand trails along the banister, worn smooth from countless trips up and down. Here's where I caught Mira when her legs gave out during those first tentative steps. The polished wood still bears a tiny scratch from where her hoof slipped. I'd held her while she cried, not from pain but frustration, until she was ready to try again.

The library door stands ajar, lamplight spilling across the threshold. I step inside, inhaling the comforting scent of leather bindings and parchment. The oversized armchair near thewindow – Kai's favorite spot – still holds the indent where we'd squeeze together, pouring over books about distant lands. He'd point to illustrations with careful fingers, asking questions that revealed a mind as curious as it was gentle.

My herb basket sits forgotten by the kitchen hearth, half-full from this morning's gathering. The copper pots overhead reflect fractured lamplight, dancing like the tears I refuse to let fall. Every drawer holds a memory – teaching Mira to sort dried flowers, showing Kai how to measure spices. Even the burn mark on the counter tells a story, from the day Theron tried to help with dinner and we ended up laughing so hard we forgot about the bread in the oven.

I pause at his study door, my fingers hovering over the carved wood. Behind this door, I watched him work late into the night, bringing him tea he'd forget to drink. Here's where I first noticed how his shoulders tensed when he was worried, how his voice softened when speaking of his children. Where I learned that behind his gruff exterior beat a heart vast enough to love fiercely, protect completely.

Each step feels heavier than the last as I make my final rounds. Three months of life have seeped into these walls, turning a job into something achingly close to home. But home isn't mine to claim, no matter how perfectly my heart fits here.

25

THERON

Igrip the edge of my desk, the polished wood creaking under my fingers as Lyra's voice filters through the study door. The sound of her gentle goodbyes to my children tears at something deep in my chest.

"I'll visit soon, I promise. I'll need to keep an eye on you to make sure that everything goes well." Her words, meant to comfort my daughters, slice through me instead.

My reflection in the window shows exactly what I am - a coward. Seven feet of muscle and pride, hiding in my study while the tiny human who turned my world upside down walks away. The gray clouds outside mirror the storm in my gut.

"But why can't you stay?" Mira's small voice breaks. "Papa doesn't want you to go either. I heard him-"

I slam my fist against the desk. The silver rings on my horns catch the dim morning light as I bow my head. Every instinct screams at me to wrench open that door, to stop her. But what right do I have? I'm the one who drove her away with my temper, my inability to handle these feelings that threaten to consume me.

Besides, why would she want me? She's a great healer. She doesn't need to be held back by a beast like me, a widow and the two children he doesn't even know how to let in.

I was nothing more than a distraction, a release for her. And I know that.

"Your father..." Lyra's voice catches. "Your father needs someone more suitable. Someone who won't complicate things."

The lie in her words tastes bitter even from here. Suitable. As if any of the highborn minotaur ladies Marcus keeps parading past me could hold a candle to her fire, her determination, the way she stands up to me despite barely reaching my chest.

Footsteps approach my door. My breath catches. But they pass by, heading toward the main entrance. The sound of her boots on the floors grows fainter with each step.

I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window. Outside, the first drops of rain begin to fall, distorting my view of the courtyard where her small figure will soon appear, walking away from everything I'm too much of a coward to admit I want.

The rain picks up, drumming against the window pane. Each drop mirrors the pounding in my chest as memories flood back - Cassandra's ice-blue eyes narrowed in contempt as I dared suggest she hold our newborn son. The way she turned away, declaring a merchant's hands weren't fit to touch her noble flesh.

My fingers dig into the wooden windowsill. The scars are still there, carved deep - not just in the wood, but in my soul. Every cutting remark about my common blood, every time she rejected our children's attempts at affection. Even in death, she haunts these halls.

I catch my reflection again - broad shoulders hunched, amber eyes haunted. The silver rings in my horns mark me as what I am - a merchant. No matter how much gold I earn, how many trade routes I establish, I'll never be good enough for the likes of Marcus and his ilk.

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