Page 31 of The Minotaur's Little Peach
SOREYA
The days blur together like watercolors in rain. I move through the house like a ghost, checking on Taran with mechanical precision, forcing down bites of food that taste like ash, lying in bed staring at the ceiling while sleep dances just out of reach. Every creak of the floorboards 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.
The orchard becomes my sanctuary. Among the branches heavy with developing fruit, 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. I spend hours checking trees that don't need checking, counting fruit that won't ripen for weeks, pruning branches with hands that shake more each day.
Taran comes with me, nestled in the sling across my chest, his weight both comfort and responsibility. He's been fussier lately, as if he senses the tension crackling through the house like lightning before a storm. When he cries, I rock him againstthe bark of our largest tree, humming songs Korrun used to sing, trying to find peace in routines that once brought joy.
But peace eludes me. Instead, memories chase themselves through my mind—Korrun's steady presence, the way he made everything feel safe and certain. Then Daegan's laugh, bright as sunlight on water, the careful way he tends to Taran, those stolen moments when I catch him looking at me with something I'm too frightened to name. The collision of past and present leaves me dizzy, caught between grief and guilt and want so fierce it steals my breath.
I haven't been eating properly. Sleep comes in fragments, broken by Taran's needs and my own restless thoughts. The work in the orchard, usually restorative, becomes a desperate attempt to outrun the chaos in my head. I prune until my arms ache, water until my back screams, check soil until my knees give out. The physical exhaustion should help, should quiet the noise inside my skull, but instead it only makes everything feel distant and strange.
On the sixth day, while I'm examining the base of our oldest tree for signs of root rot, the world tilts sideways. My vision grays at the edges, and I press one palm against the rough bark for support, Taran's weight suddenly impossible to bear. The sling feels too tight, the sun too bright, and something burns behind my forehead like banked coals.
"Just a moment," I whisper to Taran, who's making soft sounds of distress. "Mama just needs a moment."
But the moment stretches, and my legs won't hold me anymore. I slide down the trunk until I'm sitting at its base, Taran cradled against my chest, his little fists tangled in my dress. The world spins lazily, and I close my eyes against the nausea rolling through my stomach. The fever I've been ignoring for days finally claims me, turning my skin hot and clammy while chills race down my spine.
I should go inside. Should call for Mirath, or at least move to somewhere more comfortable than the hard ground with bark digging into my back. But the exhaustion feels too heavy, too complete, and Taran has finally settled into quiet sleep against my chest. The tree supports me, solid and patient, and the dappled shade soothes the ache behind my eyes.
Just for a few minutes. Just until the spinning stops.
Sleep takes me like a tide, pulling me under before I can resist. I drift in and out of consciousness, half-aware of Taran's warm weight, the scent of earth and growing things, the distant sound of someone calling my name. But it all feels far away, muffled by fever and exhaustion until even worry becomes too much effort.
When awareness returns, it comes with the sensation of being lifted. Strong arms slide beneath my knees and shoulders, cradling me against a broad chest that rises and falls with careful, controlled breaths. The scent that fills my nostrils is familiar—sea salt and something indefinably warm, different from Korrun's earthier musk but no less comforting.
"Daegan," I breathe, and the word comes out cracked and small.
My face turns toward his chest of its own accord, seeking that comfort I remember from another life. His fur is softer than Korrun's was, longer and silkier, but the solid strength beneath it brings the same sense of safety I thought I'd lost forever. I burrow closer, too sick and tired to care about the complications, about what this means or how it looks. Right now, there's only the relief of being held, of not having to carry everything alone.
"Easy," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through his chest. "I've got you. Both of you."
Taran. The spike of panic clears my head enough to register that he's not in my arms anymore, and I try to lift my head tolook for him. But Daegan's hand comes up to cup the back of my skull, gentle but firm, keeping me still.
"He's safe," Daegan says, understanding immediately. "Right here with us."
The house passes in a blur of doorways and shadows. I catch glimpses of familiar rooms, the hallway we've both been avoiding, and then I'm being lowered onto my bed with careful precision. The mattress feels like heaven after hours on the hard ground, and I sink into it with a grateful sigh.
"Mirath's coming," Daegan says, and his voice sounds strained. "I sent a message as soon as I found you. What were you thinking, Soreya? You could have collapsed with Taran. You could have?—"
But his words fade into background noise as footsteps approach and Mirath's familiar voice cuts through the fever haze.
"Out," she commands, and though I can't see her clearly through the fog clouding my vision, I can picture her perfectly—hands on hips, dark eyes blazing with professional determination. "Let me examine her."
"I'm not leaving," Daegan says, and there's steel in his voice I haven't heard before. "She was unconscious in the yard. She had Taran with her, and if something had happened?—"
"Nothing happened because you found them in time," Mirath interrupts, and I feel the mattress dip as she sits beside me. Cool fingers touch my forehead, my throat, checking for signs I'm too foggy to understand. "But she needs rest and fluids, not you hovering like a worried hen. Take care of the baby. I'll take care of her."
A soft gurgle reminds me that Taran is indeed here, and through the haze I see Daegan's large hands lifting my son with infinite care. The sight hits me like a physical blow—thisminotaur who came here for duty but stayed for love, who tends my child with the same devotion he might show his own.
Daegan moves toward the door, Taran secure in his arms, but he pauses at the threshold to look back at me. His sea-glass eyes are dark with worry, and in them I see something that makes my chest tight with more than fever. Care. Deep, genuine care that goes beyond obligation or grief or the memory of his brother.
He cares about me. Not just as Korrun's widow, not just as the mother of his nephew, but as me. Soreya. The woman who sells fruit and tends trees and laughs at his terrible jokes. The woman who kissed him in the kitchen and ran away in terror, leaving him to wonder if he'd overstepped some invisible line.
And I… I think I’m starting to feel so much more for him too. Not the same way I loved Korrun—that was first love, steady and sure as sunrise. This is different, built on shared grief and careful trust and the way he makes me feel alive again after months of merely surviving. It's the care of a woman who's learned that hearts can hold more than one person, that wanting someone new doesn't diminish what came before.
The knowledge should terrify me, but instead it brings a strange peace. Even through the fever, even lost in exhaustion and confusion, I can finally see what Mirath was trying to tell me. Wanting Daegan doesn't make me a traitor to Korrun's memory. It makes me human.
And maybe, when this fever breaks and I can think clearly again, I'll finally be brave enough to tell him so.
