Page 29 of The Minotaur's Little Peach
When I finally turn, I find myself facing a massive minotaur who makes my own considerable height seem modest. Dark brown fur streaked with gray covers a frame built for warfare, all thick muscle and coiled violence. Gold eyes that rarely blink fix on my face with the intensity of a predator marking prey. One horn bears intricate carved runes that speak of status, achievement, or both.
But it's the calculation in his expression that sets my teeth on edge. This isn't random aggression or territorial posturing. This minotaur knows exactly who I am.
He steps closer, close enough that his shoulder bumps mine with deliberate force. Not hard enough to start a fight, but firm enough to send a message. The contact feels like touching a loaded weapon, all restrained power and barely leashed hostility.
"Watch yourself," he says, his voice low and rough like grinding stone. Each word carries weight, threat wrapped in conversational tone. "Things have a way of happening to those who don't belong."
I could respond. Could match his aggression with my own, demand explanations, push back against whatever this is. But something in his manner tells me this minotaur wants a reaction, wants me to escalate so he can justify whatever he's planning. Instead, I step around him without acknowledgment, moving toward the vendor who's been watching our exchange with obvious discomfort.
"Interesting morning," I comment to the shop owner, keeping my tone light despite the tension radiating from the stranger behind me.
The vendor glances nervously between us. "You, ah, you having some trouble?"
"Not sure what that minotaur's problem is," I say loud enough for my unwelcome observer to hear. "Seems like he's got something on his mind."
Heavy footsteps retreat, but I can feel golden eyes burning into my back as I complete my transaction. The vendor wraps my purchases with hands that shake slightly, clearly eager to see this interaction end.
"You're Korrun's brother, aren't you?" he asks quietly as he hands over the bundle.
I nod grimly, though something cold settles in my stomach at the recognition. Being known has advantages in some situations, complications in others. Given the morning's events, I suspect this falls into the latter category.
The vendor's expression grows more sympathetic, tinged with something that might be pity. "That was Garruk Renn," he says, glancing toward where the large minotaur disappeared into the crowd. "His brother was the prisoner who killed Korrun."
Understanding hits like a physical blow. "Varkas," I say, the name tasting bitter on my tongue.
"Aye. Korrun killed him in return, but..." The vendor shrugs helplessly. "Seems Garruk blames your brother as much as you probably blame his. And now that Korrun's gone..."
The implication hangs in the air between us, heavy with threat and inevitability. Garruk has transferred his hatred to me, the living reminder of the brother he lost. Blood for blood, grief for grief, an endless cycle that started in the arena and now follows me through market stalls.
I think of Soreya at home, of Taran sleeping peacefully in his cradle, of the fragile safety we've built in our small corner of Milthar. Garruk's presence changes everything, adds a layer of danger I hadn't anticipated when I chose to stay.
The vendor watches my face with knowing eyes. "Might want to be careful where you go alone," he suggests quietly. "Garruk's got patience, but he's got a long memory too. And he's not the forgiving sort."
16
SOREYA
The kiss haunts me.
For three days, I've been moving through the house like a specter, tending to Taran with mechanical precision while my thoughts spiral in endless loops of shame and confusion. Every footstep in the hallway makes my heart stutter—is it him? But then the sounds fade toward his room or out the front door, and I'm left with this hollow ache that has nothing to do with grief and everything to do with the way his mouth felt against mine.
I check the trees obsessively, counting fruit that won't ripen for weeks, pruning branches that don't need attention. The orchard becomes my refuge, a place where I can breathe without wondering if Daegan will appear around the corner with those sea-glass eyes that seem to see straight through my carefully constructed walls.
He keeps his distance too. No more easy conversations over breakfast, no more gentle teasing while we tend to Taran together. The comfortable routines we'd built over months have crumbled, leaving behind this terrible politeness that cuts deeper than silence. When our paths cross—reaching for the same plate in the kitchen, both of us checking on Taran at thesame time—we dance around each other like strangers sharing space by accident.
The house feels enormous and suffocating all at once.
Taran notices. My sweet boy turns his head toward sounds that might be Daegan's voice. His little fists wave when he hears those familiar heavy footsteps, and when they fade without the promised appearance, his face scrunches in what I can only call disappointment. Even my infant son misses the minotaur who's been helping raise him, and the knowledge sits like lead in my stomach.
I wonder if Daegan regrets it. If he's as mortified as I am by what happened, by the way I responded before terror took hold and sent me fleeing like a child. Maybe he's disgusted that his brother's widow threw herself at him with such shameless need. Maybe he's counting the days until he can return to his ship and leave this mess behind.
The thought makes something twist painfully in my chest, and I hate that it does.
On the fourth morning, while I'm mechanically folding Taran's tiny clothes and pretending I don't hear Daegan moving around the kitchen, familiar footsteps approach the front door. Not his measured gait, but lighter, quicker—accompanied by the faint scent of herbs and something indefinably sharp that always clings to Mirath's clothes.
"You look terrible," she announces without preamble as I open the door, her dark eyes taking in my face with clinical assessment. Cinnamon-brown fingers push a strand of black curl away from her forehead as she steps past me into the house. "When's the last time you slept?"
"Good morning to you too, Mir." I close the door and lean against it, suddenly exhausted by the prospect of pretending everything's fine. "Taran's been fussy lately."
