Page 37 of The Minotaur's Little Peach
"You're fighting for a dead man's memory," I tell him, circling to keep that damaged leg between us. "Varkas chose his path when he brought a blade into training. Korrun just made sure he couldn't use it on anyone else."
"Varkas was blood!" Garruk lunges forward, faster than his size should allow. "Family protects family!"
I barely get my arms up in time to block his reaching grab. His fingers close around my forearms like iron shackles, and suddenly I'm lifted off the deck entirely. For a moment I'm eight years old again, watching Korrun effortlessly hoist cargo nets that took three dock workers to manage. The same impossible strength runs in our family, but Garruk's got decades of violence on both of us.
But Soreya didn't fall in love with Korrun's strength. She fell for his gentle hands when he helped her down from the wagon, his patience when she needed space to grieve, his quiet way of making her feel safe in a world that had taken everything from her parents and left her to survive on wit and stubbornness.
And she's learning to trust me with that same precious vulnerability. Learning to let me see her first thing in the morning when her hair's a riot of tangles and her voice is rough with sleep. Learning to lean against my shoulder when exhaustion weighs her down, to let me take Taran when her arms ache from carrying him.
I won't let this bastard turn me into another loss she has to survive.
I hook my legs around Garruk's massive torso and use his own grip against him, twisting hard to the left while driving my knee up toward his solar plexus. The impact jars him enough that his hold loosens, and I slip free before he can adjust. My boots hit the deck already moving, putting distance between us while I reassess the situation.
Blood runs from scratches where his claws raked my arms during our grapple. The wounds aren't deep, but they're a reminder that he doesn't need weapons to kill me—those hands are perfectly capable of crushing bone and tearing flesh.
"If Varkas had actual honor," I say, keeping my voice level despite the adrenaline singing in my ears, "he would have faced his sentence with dignity. Would have earned his freedom through the trials like every other criminal. Instead, he tried to murder an innocent trainer and got exactly what cowards deserve."
Garruk's roar shakes dust from the overhead beams. "You know nothing of honor, you sea-wandering scum!"
He charges again, but rage is making him sloppy. His feet are too close together, his center of gravity too high for the low-ceilinged space. When he throws his massive right cross, I don't try to block or dodge—I step inside his reach and drive my shoulder into his sternum while my dagger finds the soft spot beneath his ribs.
The blade slides between bone and muscle like it was designed for this exact moment. Garruk's breath leaves him in a rush that smells of ale and old blood, his forward momentum carrying him onto six inches of good steel before momentum and physics finally register in his brain.
He looks down at the handle protruding from his side with something almost like surprise. "That's not... possible."
"You want justice?" I twist the blade, feeling it grate against bone as his lifeblood flows hot over my knuckles. "Here's your justice. Your brother was a criminal who died like a criminal. And you're a fool who confused vengeance with honor."
His massive hands close around my throat, thumbs pressing against my windpipe with crushing force. For a moment the world narrows to a tunnel of black spots dancing at the edges ofmy vision. But I can feel his strength ebbing with each heartbeat that pumps more blood onto the deck between us.
I get my hands under his wrists and wrench sideways, breaking his grip just long enough to suck in a desperate breath. Then I'm moving again, pulling the dagger free and driving it up under his chin in one fluid motion. The point punches through soft tissue and into his brain, ending his threats and his twisted sense of family honor in the space between one breath and the next.
Garruk topples like a felled tree, his massive frame hitting the deck with a sound like thunder. Blood pools beneath him, mixing with the gore from his men until the entire hold reeks of death and iron.
I stand over his corpse, breathing hard, dagger still dripping in my hand. Four men dead because one criminal couldn't accept the consequences of his choices. Four lives ended because Garruk decided my family owed him blood for his brother's stupidity.
But it's finished now. The threat that's been hanging over us like storm clouds finally breaks and dissipates, leaving only the urgent need to get home. To see Soreya's face when I walk through that door. To hold Taran and promise him that no one will ever take his family away again.
I climb through the hatch into clean sea air that tastes like freedom. The stars overhead are the same ones I used to navigate by during my trading runs, but now they're just pointing me toward something more precious than any cargo I've ever carried.
The ship's boat is tied alongside, rocking gently in the harbor swells. I lower myself down and cut the lines, letting muscle memory guide my hands through the familiar motions of preparing to row. The oars bite into dark water, each strokecarrying me closer to shore, closer to home, closer to the family I chose and the life I'm finally ready to build.
Behind me, the ship drifts silent and dark on the tide. Let whoever finds it puzzle out what happened in that bloody hold. I've got more important things waiting for me than explanations for dead men's mistakes.
21
DAEGAN
The familiar outline of our home emerges from the darkness like a beacon, its windows glowing warm yellow against the star-scattered sky. Every muscle in my body aches from the fight, from the desperate row back to shore, from the sprint through Milthar's winding streets with Garruk's blood still crusted under my fingernails. But seeing that light—knowing Soreya's inside, safe—makes every bruise and cut worth bearing.
I pause at the garden gate, suddenly uncertain. Part of me hopes she's already asleep, curled up in that oversized chair by the hearth with Taran peaceful in his cradle nearby. It would be easier that way. I could slip inside quietly, wash the evidence of tonight's violence from my hands, and pretend nothing happened. Let her wake to find me making kaffo like any other morning, as if I'd never been gone at all.
But another part of me—the part that's been starving for her touch since that kiss we shared—desperately wants her to have noticed my absence. Wants proof that I matter to her beyond just being another pair of hands to help with Taran or someone to share the burden of grief. I want her to have paced the floortonight, checking the door every few minutes, worrying about where I've gone and when I might return.
The contradiction twists in my gut like hunger pangs. I can give her time, space, whatever she needs to sort through her feelings about Korrun and what's growing between us. But I can't pretend I don't want her to want me back, at least a little. Can't pretend it wouldn't gut me to discover I was just part of her processing grief.
I'm still standing there like an idiot, key in hand, when Taran's wails pierce the night air.
The sound galvanizes me into motion. That's not his usual fussy cry when he wants feeding or changing—this is the full-throated scream of a baby in genuine distress. My nephew has excellent lungs when he puts his mind to it, but this particular note of panic sends ice water through my veins.
