Page 5 of The Minotaur's Little Peach
He fills the archway completely, seven feet of sweat-slicked muscle and leather training harness that hangs loose around his broad chest. Sunlight catches the lighter streaks on his face, making them gleam like polished bronze, but it's the scattered cuts dotting his forearms that make me abandon the fruit tree entirely.
"You've been hit again," I murmur, crossing to him on bare feet that know every uneven stone by now.
My hands find his shoulders automatically, fingers tracing the familiar landscape of scars both old and new. There's a fresh scrape near his left shoulder blade, angry red against the sable-brown hide I've mapped a hundred times in darkness and sunlight both.
He bends down to meet me, those massive hands settling at my waist with the same careful gentleness he's always shown. His kiss tastes like salt and leather and something distinctly him that makes my bones feel liquid.
"The fighters are getting quicker," he says against my mouth, pulling back just enough to speak but not enough to break contact entirely.
The words carry his usual easy confidence, but his gaze drops toward the ground as he says them, and something cold settles in my stomach. In two years of watching him come home from training sessions, I've learned to read the subtle language of his expressions. The way his ears twitch when he's frustrated. How his tail moves when he's pleased with a student's progress. The particular set of his jaw when something isn't quite right.
This is that last one.
I wipe my hands on my skirts, transferring the mint and stone dust to fabric that's seen countless such moments. The simple brown wool is practical, comfortable—nothing like the worn rags I used to wear when we first met. Korrun made sure of that, though he'd never say as much directly.
"These look deeper than usual." My fingers trace another cut, this one along his forearm where someone's blade found its mark. "And more frequent."
"Training's been intense lately." He straightens to his full height, but doesn't step away from my touch. Never does, which still amazes me sometimes. "New batch of fighters came in last week. They're eager to prove themselves."
The explanation makes sense. It should ease the knot of worry that's been growing tighter with each fresh injury he's brought home over the past few months. New fighters are unpredictable, desperate to make their mark. It's natural they'd be more aggressive, less controlled.
But something about the pattern bothers me. The cuts aren't random—they're strategic, placed where they'd slow him down or throw off his balance. These aren't the wild swings of nervous beginners.
"Which one did this?" I ask, fingertip hovering just above the shoulder scrape.
"Does it matter?" His voice carries a note of something that might be irritation, though it's gentler than true annoyance. "It's nothing a bit of zabilla gel won't handle."
He's deflecting. After two years together, I know when Korrun's avoiding a direct answer. Usually it means he's trying to protect me from something he thinks will worry me unnecessarily. The trouble is, his idea of "unnecessary worry" and mine don't always align.
I step back just far enough to get a better look at him, taking inventory. The harness leather is scuffed in places that suggest more contact than a typical training session would warrant. His breathing is slightly labored, not from exertion but from the careful way someone moves when their ribs are tender.
"How many?" I ask quietly.
"How many what?"
"Fighters. At once."
The pause before he answers tells me everything I need to know. "Training doesn't work that way, Soreya. One instructor, one student. You know that."
"Usually." I cross my arms, studying his face. "But not always."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Sometimes the advanced students spar together while I supervise. If someone gets careless..." He shrugs, the gesture causing him to wince slightly. "Accidents happen."
The wordaccidentssits wrong in my mouth. I've watched Korrun train fighters for two years, seen how precise and controlled he is. How he anticipates problems before they develop, steps in before anyone gets seriously hurt. Accidents don't just happen around him—they're prevented.
But I also know that pushing too hard will only make him retreat into that stubborn protectiveness that sometimes makes me want to shake him. So instead, I reach for the small clay pot of zabilla gel we keep on the shelf by the kitchen door.
"Sit," I say, gesturing toward the low stone bench beneath the mint plants.
"I can handle it myself."
"I know you can." I dip two fingers into the cooling gel, feeling its familiar texture. "Humor me."
He settles onto the bench with a grace that belies his size, though I catch the slight hitch in his movement as he bends. Definitely tender ribs. The leather harness falls away easily when I work the buckles, revealing the full extent of today's damage.
More cuts than I initially thought. A developing bruise along his left side that will be spectacular by tomorrow. The shoulder scrape that goes deeper than it first appeared.
