Page 6 of The Minotaur's Little Peach
"This needs cleaning first," I murmur, reaching for the water basin.
"It's fine."
"It's not fine." The words come out sharper than I intended, and Korrun's ears flick back in surprise. I take a breath, moderating my tone. "Let me take care of you. Please."
Something shifts in his expression at that. The careful guardedness softens into something vulnerable that he rarely lets show. One massive hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing across the scar along my jaw.
"No one's ever..." He trails off, then starts again. "I'm not used to having someone worry."
The admission does something to my chest, makes it tight and warm and aching all at once. Of course he's not used to it. How could he be? Korrun gives care so naturally, so constantly, that it's easy to forget how little he's received in return over the years.
"Well, you'd better get used to it," I tell him, pressing a soft kiss to his palm before turning back to the zabilla gel. "Because I'm not going anywhere."
The cleaning process is methodical, soothing in its familiarity. I've done this enough times to know exactly how much pressure to use, how long to let the gel sit before checking the wound again. My hands move with practiced efficiency while my mind churns through possibilities I don't want to consider.
Korrun sits still under my ministrations, occasionally making soft sounds of contentment when I work out a particularly tight knot in his shoulders. The trust in his stillness humbles me. This massive, powerful man who could break me without effort sits patiently while I fuss over injuries that probably don't even register as pain to him.
"There." I cap the zabilla gel and step back to assess my work. "That should help the healing."
"Thank you." His voice carries a warmth that makes my pulse skip. "For all of it."
I settle beside him on the bench, careful not to jostle his injured side. The afternoon light slants through the backyard at just the right angle to turn everything golden—the stone walls, the herb plants, the lighter streaks in Korrun's fur.
"The fighters really are getting quicker?" I ask after a moment.
"Some of them." He leans back slightly, and I feel the solid warmth of him against my shoulder. "There's one in particular who's been pushing boundaries lately. Testing limits."
"What kind of limits?"
"The kind that keep training sessions from turning into actual fights."
The careful neutrality in his voice doesn't fool me. This isn't about an overeager student—this is about something more serious. Something that's putting him at risk in ways that go beyond normal training accidents.
But I also know Korrun well enough to recognize when he's reached the limits of what he's willing to discuss. Pushing now will only make him more protective, more determined to handle whatever this is on his own.
So instead, I reach for his hand, lacing our fingers together. His dwarf mine completely, callused and strong and infinitely gentle.
"Just..." I pause, searching for words that won't sound like nagging. "Be careful? These injuries are getting worse, and I can't help worrying."
"I'm always careful." He brings our joined hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to my knuckles. "Promise."
The word settles something in my chest, though the underlying unease remains. Korrun has never broken a promise to me. Not once in two years. If he says he'll be careful, he means it.
I just hope careful will be enough.
2
SOREYA
The familiar chime of Master Theren's shop door echoes behind me as I step back onto the cobblestone street, the weight of my empty fruit basket swinging light against my hip. The morning's harvest sold better than expected—the early pears fetched premium prices, and the late-season tizret fruit practically flew off the shelves. Enough coin to keep us comfortable for another week, with a little extra besides.
But instead of turning toward home, my feet carry me in the opposite direction, down the narrow lane that leads to Mirath's shop, the only healer I'd trust. I've been putting this visit off for days now, telling myself the strange queasiness in my mornings is nothing more than something I ate, or perhaps the stress of watching Korrun come home increasingly battered from training sessions.
The nausea that greets me each dawn, though—that's harder to dismiss. And the way certain scents make my stomach lurch, smells that never bothered me before. Yesterday, the aroma of frying dripir from a nearby kitchen sent me stumbling to the washbasin, retching until my eyes watered.
The healer's shop squats between a blacksmith and a cloth merchant, its painted wooden sign depicting a stylized herb crown that's faded from years of weather. Dried bundles of rirzed and goligan hang from the eaves, filling the air with their mingled fragrances—usually soothing, but today they make my stomach flutter nervously.
"Soreya." Mirath, who became my closest friend when I was working down here at the shops, looks up from her mortar and pestle as I enter, her face creasing into a smile. Her thick black curls are wild, but her dark eyes brighten when she sees me. "Been a while since you've darkened my doorway. That minotaur of yours keeping you too healthy?"
