Page 39 of The Minotaur's Little Peach
She can't finish the sentence, but she doesn't need to. The broken way her breath hitches tells me everything about the dark places her mind went while I was gone. She imagined me dead, probably in increasingly vivid detail as the hours crawled by. Pictured Garruk's massive hands around my throat or his horns piercing through my ribs, my blood soaking into the arena sand like Korrun's had.
The thought of her sitting here alone, torturing herself with those images while Taran cried and the house grew cold around them, makes my jaw clench. I should have found a way to get word to her. Should have anticipated that my absence would resurrect every nightmare about loss she's been carrying since Korrun's death.
"The thought of losing you too..." Her words dissolve into a sob that shakes her entire frame. "It broke something inside me, Dae. Something I didn't even know was still whole."
My throat constricts at the confession. Not just because of the pain in her voice, but because of what she's admitting without saying it outright. She's not just afraid of being alone—though Zukiev knows that would be terrifying enough for a human woman in Milthar with a half-minotaur baby to protect.She's afraid of losingmespecifically. Of having me ripped away from her the same way Korrun was.
It means I matter to her. Not just as a convenient helper or Korrun's brother fulfilling some obligation, but as myself. As Daegan. The realization nearly undoes me.
I tighten my hold on her, my free arm wrapping completely around her back to press her even closer against my side. Taran makes a soft sound of protest at being squished between us, but settles again when I adjust my grip to give him more room. The kid's gotten used to being held while emotional conversations happen around him—probably for the best, considering the household he's growing up in.
"I'm not going anywhere," I tell her, putting every ounce of conviction I possess into the words. My voice comes out rougher than I intended, gravelly with emotions I'm still learning how to name. "I promise you that."
She pulls back just enough to look up at me, and the devastation in her hazel eyes nearly brings me to my knees. They're swollen and red-rimmed from crying, but there's something else there too—a desperate kind of hope that's almost harder to witness than the grief.
"You can't promise that," she whispers. "Korrun thought he was coming home too."
The comparison stings, but not in the way I might have expected. Instead of jealousy or resentment, I feel a surge of fierce protectiveness that has nothing to do with competing with my brother's memory and everything to do with the woman falling apart in my arms.
"I know you've been hurt." I brush a strand of hair away from her face, my thumb automatically swiping at the tear tracks on her cheek. "But plenty of things have tried to take me out over the years, and I'm still here. I won't let some minotaur bent on revenge be the one to finally do it."
She searches my face like she's looking for cracks in my certainty, trying to find the lie that will confirm her worst fears. But there isn't one. I've survived storms that should have drowned me, fights that should have killed me, and enough close calls to fill a dozen lifetimes. Garruk is dangerous, but he's not the first enemy who's wanted my blood, and he won't be the last.
"I'm tougher than I look," I continue, letting some of my usual cockiness creep into my tone to lighten the moment. "Ask anyone who's tried to put me down permanently—oh wait, you can't. They're all dead."
That startles a laugh out of her—short and watery, but genuine. The sound makes something tight in my chest loosen, like a knot finally working free.
"Besides," I add, my voice going serious again, "I know you need me."
It's not arrogance talking, just simple truth. She does need me, and not just for the practical things like heavy lifting or reaching items on high shelves. She needs someone who understands what it means to love Korrun and lose him. Someone who can hold space for her grief without trying to fix it or hurry her through it. Someone who can be strong when she can't, who can anchor her when the storms of memory threaten to pull her under.
And Zukiev help me, I need to be needed by her. Need to matter in her world the way she's come to matter in mine.
She leans into me then, letting her full weight rest against my side like she's finally giving herself permission to stop holding herself upright through sheer will. The surrender in the gesture—the trust it represents—makes my breath catch.
"I've struggled so much to let anyone in," she admits, her voice muffled against my chest. "After Korrun died, I told myself it was safer to keep everyone at arm's length. That caring about people only led to pain."
Her fingers twist in my shirt, bunching the fabric like she's afraid I might disappear if she doesn't maintain physical contact. "But then you showed up, and you were so patient with me. So gentle with Taran. And somewhere along the way, I stopped being able to imagine life without you in it."
The confession hits me like a rogue wave, unexpected and overwhelming. She's been fighting this—fightingus—not just because she feels guilty about moving on from Korrun, but because she's terrified of opening herself up to loss again. Of caring about someone enough that losing them would shatter her completely.
"I was so scared," she whispers, and the admission is so quiet I almost miss it. "When you didn't come home, I was so fucking scared."
My hand smooths down her back in long, soothing strokes, following the curve of her spine from her shoulders to the small of her back and up again. The motion is automatic, instinctive—the same way I'd gentle a spooked horse or calm choppy seas. But there's nothing calculated about it. I just need to touch her, to offer what comfort I can while she finally lets herself be vulnerable.
"I know," I murmur against the top of her head. "I know it's all been so difficult."
And I do know. Not just from watching her struggle these past months, but from my own experience of losing people who mattered. The difference is that I've had years to build up scar tissue around those wounds, while hers are still raw and bleeding. She's trying to function with her heart completely exposed, and every day is a gamble that something won't come along to tear it open wider.
"But we'll get through it," I tell her, meaning every word. "Whatever comes next, we'll face it together."
She shakes against me then—not with sobs this time, but with the kind of tremors that come from holding yourself together for too long before finally letting someone else share the weight. Her body gradually relaxes as I continue stroking her back, the tension bleeding out of her muscles as she allows herself to truly lean on me.
I hold her like that, feeling her breathing gradually even out while Taran dozes peacefully against my shoulder. The house is quiet around us except for the soft sounds of three people learning how to be a family, and for the first time since I walked through that door, I let myself believe we might actually figure this out.
22
DAEGAN
