Page 40 of The Minotaur's Little Peach
Hours later, after we've eaten a quiet meal and Taran's been fed and changed and sung to sleep, I find myself sitting beside Soreya on the edge of her bed. The baby sleeps peacefully in his cradle nearby, one tiny fist curled near his face, completely oblivious to the weight of the conversation hanging between his mother and me.
The lamplight casts warm shadows across Soreya's profile as she watches over our boy—herboy, I correct myself, though the slip feels more natural than it should. Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, still slightly mussed from earlier when she buried her face against my chest and clung to me like I was the only solid thing in her world.
She's changed into a soft nightgown, pale yellow fabric that makes her skin look golden in the flickering light. There's something vulnerable about seeing her like this—not just because of the thin cotton or the way the neckline dips to reveal the hollow of her throat, but because she's let her guard down completely. No careful composure or practiced strength, just Soreya as she truly is when she thinks no one's watching.
"I want to tell you something," I say quietly, my voice pitched low so we don't wake Taran.
She turns to look at me, those hazel eyes still slightly red-rimmed from crying but alert. There's trust there now, hard-won over these past months but finally solid enough to lean on. She doesn't tense or pull away, just waits for me to find the words.
I reach into my shirt pocket and pull out the letter I’ve been reading over and over since our kiss. I didn’t tell her then because I didn’t want to manipulate her feelings. She needed to process them. But now… I think she deserves to know.
The parchment is soft from handling, worn thin at the creases where I've folded and unfolded it dozens of times during the voyage home. Korrun's careful handwriting covers the page in dark ink, some words slightly smudged from my sweaty fingers during particularly rough weather.
"This came days after he told me about you being pregnant," I explain, holding the letter carefully between us like the fragile thing it is. "I think the idea of being a father changed so much in him."
Soreya's breath catches, her eyes fixed on the familiar handwriting. I can see her throat work as she swallows, probably recognizing the careful way Korrun formed his letters—he'd always taken pride in his penmanship, said it was important for a minotaur to prove he wasn't just brute strength.
"He asked me to come home," I continue, my thumb tracing over one worn edge of the paper. "Said if anything happened to him, he needed to know you and the baby would be protected."
The words sit heavy between us, carrying all the weight of my brother's love and fear for his family. I can still hear his voice when I read these lines, still picture him bent over this letter late at night while Soreya slept beside him, trying to plan for a future he hoped would never come to pass.
I hand her the letter, and watch her read it. Watch the sorrow and love crest over her face and I feel it in my heart. I know her pain and carry it myself.
Soreya's hand comes up to cover her mouth, fresh tears spilling over her cheeks. But these aren't the broken sobs from earlier—these are the quiet tears that come with bittersweet memories, the kind that hurt and heal at the same time.
"I'm not telling you this to manipulate you," I add quickly, folding the letter back up before the temptation to read more becomes too strong. "That's why I didn't mention it after we kissed. I didn't want you to think I was using his words to pressure you into something you weren't ready for."
She nods, understanding flickering in her expression. Smart woman, my Soreya—she can read between the lines of what I'm not saying as easily as what I am.
"But I want you to know that Korrun would understand," I continue, tucking the letter back into my pocket where it's lived for months now. "Maybe not exactly this—I don't think he anticipated us falling for each other—but he wanted us to be a family. In whatever way worked."
"Korrun was a good man," she says softly, her voice steady despite the tears tracking down her cheeks.
"He was," I agree, feeling the familiar ache that comes with missing my brother. "Best man I ever knew, if I'm being honest. Too good for this world, probably."
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, both lost in our own memories of the minotaur who brought us together without meaning to. I can almost feel his presence in the room—not in some mystical way, but in the love he left behind. In the son who has his amber eyes and the woman who carries his gentleness in the way she moves through the world.
"I'm falling for you, Soreya."
The confession comes out rougher than I intended, my voice catching on the words I've been holding back for weeks now. Her head turns toward me, eyes wide with something that might be surprise or might be relief.
"I don't want to replace Korrun," I continue, needing her to understand this completely. "Not in your heart, not as Taran's father. That's not what this is about."
I reach for her hand, threading our fingers together and marveling at how perfectly they fit. Her skin is soft against my calloused palm, warm and real and exactly what I need to anchor myself while I fumble through the most important conversation of my life.
"But I want to be yours," I tell her, meeting her gaze steadily. "Both of yours. I want to wake up every morning knowing I get to spend another day with you. I want to teach Taran how to sail and fight and treat women with respect. I want to grow old watching him become the kind of man his father would be proud of."
Her breath hitches, and I can see the war playing out across her features—hope battling with fear, love fighting against the terror of loss.
"I understand if you need more time," I add quickly, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "If you need to move slowly. I'm not going anywhere, no matter how long it takes."
She's quiet for so long I start to worry I've pushed too hard, said too much too soon. But then she speaks, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I want Taran to know about Korrun," she says. "I want him to grow up hearing stories about his father, knowing how much he was loved even before he was born."
"Of course," I reply immediately. "Korrun should be part of his life, even if he can't be here physically. I have dozensof stories about his stubborn, honorable, completely ridiculous father that Taran needs to hear."
That gets me a watery smile, the kind that transforms her entire face and reminds me why I fell so hard so fast.
