Page 16 of The Minotaur's Little Peach
The color drains from her face, and her hands fly to cover her mouth as a broken sound escapes her throat. She can't even get the words out as sobs wrack her body.
"He's—" The word is muffled by her palms, but the devastation behind it is crystal clear. "He's gone. He's gone, and he was supposed to be here. He was supposed to meet his son."
The tears come hard and fast, shaking her entire frame with the force of grief that's obviously still too fresh, too raw. Something that I feel hit me squarely in the chest, and yet, I can't give into it. I'm on my feet before I realize I'm moving, crossing to her with Taran still secure in my arms.
"I'm sorry." The words feel pathetically inadequate, but they're all I have. "I'm so damn sorry, Soreya."
She looks up at me through her tears, and the pain in her eyes nearly brings me to my knees. "You didn't know, did you?"
I shake my head, not trusting my voice. She lets out a sob that seems to come from somewhere deep in her chest, a sound of pure loss that makes my own eyes burn.
"I told him I was coming back and then never heard from him. I just assumed it was because of the baby." I force the words out. "When did he…"
"Six months ago. A criminal he was training had a concealed blade." The words hurt as she says them. "Korrun stopped him from hurting anyone else, but..."
She doesn't finish. She doesn't need to. I understand what happened, can fill in the blanks that she can't bear to speak out loud.
She doubles over then, grief hitting her because I've made her say it out loud. I want to comfort her, want to do something to ease the pain that's tearing her apart, but I don't know how. Don't know if I have the right, or if my presence is just making everything worse.
But I'm here. I'm her family now, whether she wants me or not. Even If I am grieving, I can't imagine what this must have been like for her.
I hate it took me so long to get here.
"I know this must be hard," I say, keeping my voice gentle. "I can see you're grieving, and I can't imagine what you're going through. But I'm here for my family now. For you and for him."
I look down at Taran, still sleeping peacefully despite his mother's tears. "I want to stay and help, if you'll let me. I know I'm not Korrun, but I'm all the family this little one has left on his father's side."
Soreya straightens slowly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Her gaze sweeps over me, taking in the resemblance that must be both comfort and torture. I wonder if looking at me hurts her, if seeing echoes of Korrun in my features is more pain than she can handle.
But when she speaks, her voice is steady despite the tears still tracking down her cheeks.
"It would be nice to have family close again." The words come out soft but certain. "To have someone else who knew him, who can tell Taran about his father when he's old enough to ask."
She doesn't say she trusts me. Doesn't promise that this arrangement will work or that she won't change her mind tomorrow. But she's giving me a chance, and that's more than I had any right to expect.
I settle back onto the sofa, adjusting Taran in my arms as his tiny fist curls against my chest. Being under the same roof gives me the opportunity to prove myself, to show her that I meant what I said about being here for my family.
I just hope I'm worthy of the trust she's placing in me, and the legacy my brother left behind.
8
SOREYA
The morning light filters through the kitchen window as I measure kaffo grounds into the pot, my movements automatic after days of establishing this routine. The familiar ritual grounds me—something concrete to focus on while the rest of my world still feels like it's shifting beneath my feet.
Daegan sits at the table behind me, Taran cradled against his broad chest with the kind of natural ease that shouldn't surprise me but does. His massive frame dwarfs the wooden chair, yet he holds my son with such careful attention that something twists in my chest every time I witness it. The gentle rumble of his voice carries across the kitchen as he murmurs to Taran about the weather, about the mynahs calling outside the window, about anything that comes to mind.
"Storm's rolling in from the coast," he says, his sea-glass green eyes tracking the darkening clouds through the glass. "Can smell it on the wind."
I nod without turning around, adding another pinch of grounds to the pot. Safe conversation. Weather is always safe. No emotional landmines hidden in discussions about rain patterns or wind direction.
The kaffo begins to brew, filling the kitchen with its rich, earthy scent. I pour myself a cup and settle across from him, maintaining the careful distance I've established over the past week. Close enough to reach for Taran if needed, far enough to keep the boundaries clear.
Daegan's gaze flicks to my face, then away just as quickly. He's been doing that since he arrived—studying me with the kind of intensity that makes my skin prickle, like he's trying to reconcile the woman sitting across from him with whatever version of me existed in Korrun's letters. I wonder what stories my husband told about me, what details he shared during those long nights when he wrote by lamplight at this very table.
The thought hits harder than expected, and I wrap my fingers around the warm ceramic mug to anchor myself. Grief has this way of ambushing me at the strangest moments—triggered by the scent of kaffo, the angle of morning light, the memory of Korrun's voice describing his day while I prepared our evening meal.
"He used to sit right there," I say before I can stop myself, nodding toward the chair where Daegan now sits. "Every morning, before going to the colosseum."
