Page 27 of The Minotaur's Little Peach
"Dae," I whisper, and his name sounds like permission even to my own ears.
He rises from his chair with that fluid grace, crossing the small space between us in two careful steps. When he kneels beside my chair, bringing us to eye level, the scent of him fills my awareness—salt air and warm skin, something essentially masculine that makes my breath catch.
"Tell me to stop," he says quietly, his hand hovering near my face without quite making contact. "If this isn't what you want, tell me to stop."
Instead of words, I lean into his almost-touch, my cheek finding his palm like a flower turning toward sunlight. His skin is warm and slightly rough from rope work, and the contact sends electricity racing along my nerves.
His thumb traces across my cheekbone, a feather-light caress that somehow feels more intimate than anything I've experienced in months. When did simple touch become so overwhelming? When did my body start craving contact so desperately that this gentle stroke feels like coming back to life?
"I should stop," he murmurs, but his hand remains against my face, his thumb continuing its slow exploration.
"Should and want are different things," I breathe, the words coming from some part of me that's tired of being careful, tired of measuring every feeling against grief and guilt.
His eyes search mine, looking for certainty I'm not sure I can give. But when he leans closer, drawn by something stronger than caution, I don't pull away. Instead, I tilt my face up, meeting him halfway.
The first brush of his lips against mine is tentative, questioning. Soft and warm and tasting faintly of kaffo andsomething uniquely him. For a heartbeat, we hover there in that space between decision and action, balanced on the edge of something that will change everything.
Then his mouth presses more firmly against mine, and thought becomes impossible.
The kiss deepens slowly, carefully, like he's afraid I might disappear if he moves too quickly. But I don't disappear. Instead, I find myself leaning into him, my hands finding the front of his shirt and gripping the fabric like an anchor. His lips are soft but insistent, coaxing responses from me that I'd forgotten I was capable of giving.
Heat blooms in my chest, spreading outward until my entire body feels alive in ways it hasn't since before Korrun died. When Daegan's tongue traces the seam of my lips, I part them without hesitation, desperate for more contact, more connection, more of whatever this feeling is that's driving the cold loneliness from my bones.
His free hand finds my waist, fingers spanning across my ribs as he pulls me closer. The chair arms become obstacles, barriers keeping us apart when all I want is to eliminate every inch of space between us. My hands slide up his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through the fabric, mapping the contours of muscle and the steady beat of his heart.
When I make a soft sound of need against his mouth, something changes in his response. The careful restraint gives way to hunger, his kiss becoming deeper, more demanding. His hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head to an angle that lets him claim my mouth more completely, and I melt into him like I'm made of something softer than flesh and bone.
My body remembers this—remembers wanting and being wanted, remembers the sweet ache of desire that starts low in my belly and radiates outward. It's been so long since anyone touched me with intent, since hands mapped my skin withreverence instead of necessity. Too long since I felt beautiful, desirable, alive in ways that go beyond simply breathing.
His palm slides from my waist to rest just below my ribs, thumb brushing against the underside of my breast through the fabric of my tunic. The contact is electric, shooting sensation straight through me and making me arch into his touch with a gasp that he swallows with his kiss.
Then his hand moves lower, fingers finding the hem of my tunic and sliding beneath to touch bare skin.
The sensation hits me like cold water, sudden and startling. His palm against my stomach, warm and large and so very real, jerks me back to awareness with devastating clarity.
This is Daegan. Korrun'sbrother. And I'm responding to his touch like a woman starved for affection, which is exactly what I am, but that doesn't make it right. That doesn't make this anything other than grief and loneliness and physical need tangled together into something that feels like healing but might just be another kind of damage.
Panic bursts in my chest like a physical blow. I pull back sharply, gasping for air that suddenly feels too thin, too hot. My hands push against his chest, putting distance between us even as my body protests the separation.
"I can't," I breathe, the words torn from somewhere deep in my throat. "I can't do this."
His hand withdraws immediately, but the imprint of his touch burns against my skin like a brand. He rocks back on his heels, giving me space, but the damage is already done. The air between us feels fractured, charged with want and confusion and the ghost of what just happened.
"Soreya—"
But I'm already moving, already fleeing. My legs feel unsteady as I push myself out of the chair, but somehow I make it across the room to where Taran sleeps. I scoop him up withshaking hands, cradling his warm weight against my chest like a shield.
"I need—" I start, then stop, unable to finish the sentence because I don't know what I need. Space. Time. Forgiveness for wanting something I shouldn't want.
Instead of trying to explain what can't be explained, I flee to my bedroom, closing the door behind me with a soft click that sounds loud as thunder in the silence.
I sink onto the edge of my bed, holding Taran close even though he doesn't wake. My lips still burn from Daegan's kiss, my skin still remembers the heat of his hands, and guilt crashes over me in waves that make it hard to breathe.
What kind of woman am I, to kiss my dead husband's brother? To respond to his touch like I've been waiting for it? To want him with an intensity that makes my body ache with need?
The worst part is that it didn't feel wrong in the moment. It felt like coming alive again, like discovering I was still capable of feeling something other than grief. But now, in the quiet of my room with Korrun's memory pressing close around me, the guilt is overwhelming.
I loved Korrun. Still love him. Will always love him. So how can I also want Daegan with such desperate hunger? How can my body betray Korrun's memory so completely?
