Page 9 of The Minotaur's Milkmaid
A whimper escapes my lips.
I try again, firmer this time, desperate for relief. But my hands are clumsy, unpracticed, and all I manage is a few pitiful drops into the bowl. Frustration burns behind my eyes, and they fill with tears.
I flick a glance toward the fire.
Dakar’s back is turned, his shoulders flexing as he stirs the stew. Good.I don’t want him to see me like this.
I try again, pressing below my nipple the way the village women taught me, but the angle’s wrong and all I get is a sharpzingof pain. A thin stream arcs into the bowl and then stops.Damn it.
Another peek at Dakar.
He’s chopping herbs now. His forearms are corded, muscles moving as he uses the knife. I imagine those hands, rough from sword work, deft from skinning game, squeezing…
No.I bite my lip.Focus Maeve.
My next attempt goes worse. My thumb slips, and milk sprays my thigh instead of the bowl. I’mdripping, my nipples aching, but I don’t know what to do.
I see Dakar moving in my peripheral vision. He’s wiping his hands on a cloth. A scar down his jaw tightens as he tastes the stew.
Stop staring at him.
His tongue flicks over his bottom lip, and my breaststhrob, a fresh bead welling at my left nipple. It rolls down shamefully before I can catch it.
There’s something seriously wrong inside me.
A hot tear slips down my cheek. Then another. I drop my hands into my lap, defeated. My chest shakes, my shoulders curving inward as I try to stop myself from crying. I’m exhausted, humiliated, and still so painfully full.
I sniffle quietly, hoping he won’t notice, but the soft clop of hooves across stone pauses.
I swipe at my cheeks too late. The scent of roasted meat and wild herbs hits me, and I realize how hungry I am.
“Maeve?”
I clutch his tunic over my breasts, curling tighter into the nest of furs, and turn my face away. “I’m fine,” I mumble, though the thick catch in my voice betrays me.
His heavy steps approach, and I hear him set the carved wooden bowl down on a flat stone. The warm, savory scent drifts closer, and my stomach grumbles. But all I can feel is the throbbing ache in my breasts, the damp cling of his too-large tunic where my milk has soaked through, and the sting of fresh tears at the corners of my eyes.
“I know you're crying,” Dakar says. He doesn’t move any closer. He doesn’t sound angry, or annoyed, just…worried?
I cover my face with my hands. “It’s nothing,” I answer miserably. “I’m just…I’m sore. It hurts. And your tunic’s soaked.”
There’s a long silence. I expect him to scoff or mock me, to tell me it’s not his problem.
Instead, I feel movement beside me, and when I peek between my fingers, he's seated next to me in the furs. His amber eyes are searching my face. Not leering at my chest or body.
“You should’ve said something,” he chides me softly. “You don’t have to hide your pain.”
I swallow hard, avoiding eye contact. “Why are you being nice to me?”
His jaw tightens. “Because you’re mine now. And I protect what belongs to me.”
The wordminemakes my skin prickle. I don’t know if it should terrify me or comfort me. Maybe both.
When I don’t respond, he reaches out slowly, like he doesn't want to frighten me, and brushes a tear from my cheek with the back of one calloused knuckle.
“I know you don’t trust me yet,” he murmurs. “But I won’t hurt you. Not ever.”
His words make me begin weeping in earnest. How could I ever trust a beast that burned down my home? Who took me away from—
