Page 34 of The Minotaur's Little Peach
But there are too many of them. For every one I drop, another takes his place. Hands grab at my arms, my shoulders, trying to drag me down through sheer persistence. I keep fighting, keep moving, but the narrow confines of the alley work against me. No room to maneuver. No space to use my full reach.
A blow catches me across the temple, stars exploding across my vision in brilliant bursts of white and gold. The world tilts sideways, and I taste copper flooding my mouth where I've bitten my tongue. My knees buckle, strength pouring out of me like water through a broken hull.
The attackers move with practiced efficiency now that I'm stunned, rope appearing from somewhere to bite into my wristswith rough precision. They drag me toward a waiting cart I hadn't noticed before, hidden in the deeper shadows of the alley. Everything feels distant, muffled, like I'm experiencing it through thick glass.
"Should have minded your own business," the scarred man hisses, his face swimming in and out of focus. "Should have stayed on your ship where you belonged."
I try to respond, try to demand answers, but my tongue feels thick and clumsy. The world keeps tilting, gravity pulling me in directions that don't make sense. They heave me into the cart like cargo, my vision graying at the edges as consciousness threatens to slip away entirely.
The last thing I see before something crashes into my skull again is the morning sun, still bright and golden, still promising the kind of day where everything should have gone right.
Then darkness claims me, complete and absolute.
19
SOREYA
The house feels different without Daegan's presence filling the spaces between rooms. Quieter, somehow smaller, like the walls have drawn closer together in his absence. I tell myself it's nothing, just the natural stillness that settles over a place when someone steps out for errands. He's probably helping old Gareth load sacks of grain again, or listening to Raith’s endless complaints about her neighbor's capra getting into her garden.
Daegan has this way of attracting people who need help—something about his easy grin and those sea-glass eyes that makes folks feel comfortable sharing their troubles. It's one of the things I've come to notice about him over these past weeks, how he never seems in a hurry to brush off someone's problems, even when they're keeping him from his own tasks.
I shift Taran to my other arm, his warm weight solid against my chest as I pace to the window for what must be the dozenth time since the sun disappeared behind the rooftops. The cobblestones stretch empty in both directions, lamplights beginning to flicker to life like scattered stars fallen to earth. Still no sign of that familiar tall silhouette making his way home.
Home.The word catches me off guard, how naturally it formed in my thoughts. When did I start thinking of this place as Daegan's home too? When did his absence begin to feel like something vital was missing?
Taran makes a soft sound against my shoulder, not quite a cry but close enough to pull my attention back where it belongs. His amber eyes blink up at me with that solemn awareness that still startles me sometimes—too knowing for someone so small, like he understands more than any infant should. I smooth my palm over his downy hair, the gesture automatic now after weeks of learning his rhythms, his needs.
"He'll be back soon," I murmur, more to myself than to him. "Probably picked up something special for dinner. You know how he is."
But I don't really know how he is, do I? Not entirely. I know he takes his kaffo black in the mornings and hums old sailing songs under his breath when he thinks no one's listening. I know he checks the door locks twice before bed and always leaves his boots lined up neat beside the entrance, ready for a quick departure. Sailor's habits die hard, he says with that self-deprecating smile that makes my chest feel too tight.
I know he's patient with Taran in ways that make my throat close up, how he cradles my son like he's something precious instead of just another person's responsibility thrust upon him. I know the sound of his laugh when something genuinely amuses him, different from the polite chuckle he offers strangers. Warmer. More real.
But there are depths to him I haven't explored yet, histories written in the rope-burn scars along his forearms and the way his eyes sometimes drift toward the horizon like he's calculating wind speed and distance to ports I'll never see. We agreed to take things slow, to let whatever this is between us develop naturallyinstead of rushing headlong into something neither of us fully understands.
So why does his absence feel like a hook dragging through my ribs?
The knock at the door makes me jump, Taran startling in my arms with a small whimper of protest. Relief floods through me so quickly it leaves me lightheaded—of course, he probably forgot his key again. Always losing track of small things when his mind gets caught up in larger problems.
"Coming," I call, already moving toward the entrance with a smile tugging at my lips. I'll tease him about worrying me, make him promise to send word next time he gets distracted by someone else's troubles.
But when I pull the door open, it's Mirath standing on my threshold.
The smile dies on my face so fast it feels like it falls off. Because Mirath never looks like this—never stripped of her usual sharp humor, never wearing that careful, gentle expression that people reserve for delivering terrible news. Her dark eyes meet mine with a wariness that makes my stomach drop toward my feet, and suddenly I'm six months pregnant again and her words are shattering my world.
"Soreya." Her voice is softer than usual, missing its normal edge of casual sarcasm.
"No." The word escapes before I can stop it, raw and desperate. "Whatever you're going to say, just—no."
But she steps inside anyway, closing the door behind her with the kind of careful movements people use around wounded animals. Her gaze flickers to Taran, still cradled against my chest, then back to my face with something that might be pity.
I can't breathe. The room is too small, too warm, the walls pressing in like a trap. This is exactly how it felt before, when the messenger came with news about Korrun. That same sickcertainty crawling up my throat, the knowledge that everything I've started to rebuild is about to crumble again.
"Where is he?" My voice sounds strange, distant, like it's coming from someone else's mouth.
Mirath's hands flutter at her sides, then settle with visible effort. "I heard from Tomás at the market. He saw?—"
"Where is Daegan?" The words crack on his name, splitting open something raw inside my chest.
