Page 17 of The Minotaur’s Little Peach

SOREYA

T hree days of steady work have transformed the small orchard from neglected grief into something that looks like hope again.

My hands ache from hours of pruning and weeding, dirt clings beneath my fingernails despite repeated washings, and my back protests every movement from bending over root systems that had grown wild without proper tending.

But the trees—oh, the trees look magnificent.

I lean against the doorframe, cradling a cup of steaming kaffo as I survey our handiwork in the fading evening light.

The pruned branches create clean lines that enhance each tree's natural shape, and the cleared ground around their bases already shows signs of new growth.

For the first time since Korrun's death, the orchard looks like something we can build a future around instead of a monument to everything I've lost.

"Admiring our agricultural prowess?" Daegan's voice comes from behind me, warm with the same satisfaction I feel.

"I'd forgotten how good it feels," I admit, not turning around. "Seeing them healthy again. I didn't realize how much it hurt, letting them go like that."

His footsteps approach, stopping close enough that I can sense his presence without him crowding into my space. "They needed time to recover. Same as you."

The simple observation hits deeper than it should.

When Korrun died, tending the trees felt like betraying his memory—how could I nurture something that would grow and flourish when he never would again?

Letting them decline had been easier than facing the reminder of all the harvests we'd planned together, all the seasons we'd never share.

"He would've been furious," I say softly, remembering how protective Korrun had been of these trees. "Seeing them get so overgrown. He spent hours planning where each one should go, what varieties would do best in our soil."

"He'd also understand why you couldn't manage it alone," Daegan replies. "And he'd be proud seeing them healthy again."

Something warm uncurls in my chest at his words. Not absolution exactly, but permission to feel good about what we've accomplished without guilt overshadowing the achievement.

"Come on," he says, touching my elbow gently. "Fire's going, and you look like you're about to fall asleep standing up."

He's not wrong. Exhaustion weighs on my limbs like lead, the kind of bone-deep tiredness that comes from honest work and emotional release. But it's good exhaustion, earned rather than the heavy fatigue of grief that used to drag at me constantly.

Inside, Taran sleeps peacefully in his cradle beside the hearth, tiny chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm that never fails to calm my own breathing.

At nearly three months, he's started sleeping for longer stretches, especially after days when we keep him outside where fresh air and gentle activity seem to settle him more completely than anything else.

I settle into my usual chair, pulling my legs up beneath me while Daegan adds another log to the fire.

The flames catch and leap higher, casting dancing shadows across the walls and turning his brown fur to burnished gold where the light touches.

He moves with that careful grace I've grown accustomed to, aware of his size but never awkward, every motion deliberate and controlled.

"Think we'll actually get decent fruit this season?" I ask, wrapping my hands around my kaffo cup for warmth.

"With your expertise and my impressive ability to follow directions?" He settles into the chair across from me, his own cup steaming in his large hands. "I'd say the odds are promising."

"Your impressive ability to only cut the branches I tell you to cut, you mean."

"Hey, I showed real restraint. Do you know how many perfectly innocent branches I wanted to remove just because they looked at me wrong?"

The absurdity of his mock-serious tone makes me laugh, the sound bubbling up bright and unexpected. "You wanted to prune based on personal vendettas against tree branches?"

"One of them was definitely plotting something. I could tell by the way it kept hitting me in the face every time I walked past."

"That's called 'growing in a natural pattern,' not 'plotting against tall minotaur.'"

"Seemed suspicious to me."

His grin is infectious, drawing my own smile wider until I'm laughing again, the kind of helpless giggles that feel like pressure releasing from somewhere deep in my chest. When did laughter become easy again? When did these moments of simple joy stop feeling like betrayal?

"You realize," I manage between breaths, "that you're going to have to learn to coexist peacefully with those branches? We can't prune every tree limb that offends your sensibilities."

"I suppose I could try diplomacy first. Maybe establish some kind of peace treaty."

"Very mature approach."

"I'm known for my diplomatic skills."

"Are you now?" I arch an eyebrow, remembering some of the stories he's told about his trading ventures. "Is that why you've been banned from three different ports?"

"Those were cultural misunderstandings."

"Cultural misunderstandings that ended with you being chased by harbor guards?"

"The details are less important than the principle of the thing."

His expression of wounded dignity is so exaggerated that I dissolve into fresh laughter, the sound echoing off the stone walls and seeming to wrap around us both like something tangible.

Daegan's own chuckles join mine, deeper and richer, until we're caught in one of those feedback loops where each person's amusement feeds the other's.

But gradually, the laughter fades, leaving behind a silence that feels different from the comfortable quiet we've grown used to. Heavier. Charged with something I'm afraid to name.

The fire crackles in the hearth, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across Daegan's face.

His sea-glass green eyes reflect the flames, and I find myself studying the strong line of his jaw, the way firelight catches on the silver hoop in his ear.

When did I start noticing these details?

When did his presence become less about Korrun's brother and more about the man himself?

"Soreya." My name on his lips sounds different than usual, rougher somehow, like it caught on something in his throat.

I meet his gaze directly, and the air between us seems to shimmer with possibility.

He's looking at me the way a man looks at a woman he wants, not the way someone looks at his dead brother's widow.

The intensity in his expression makes my pulse quicken, heat spreading through my chest in ways I haven't felt in almost ten months.

"Dae," I whisper, and his name sounds like permission even to my own ears.

He rises from his chair with that fluid grace, crossing the small space between us in two careful steps. When he kneels beside my chair, bringing us to eye level, the scent of him fills my awareness—salt air and warm skin, something essentially masculine that makes my breath catch.

"Tell me to stop," he says quietly, his hand hovering near my face without quite making contact. "If this isn't what you want, tell me to stop."

Instead of words, I lean into his almost-touch, my cheek finding his palm like a flower turning toward sunlight. His skin is warm and slightly rough from rope work, and the contact sends electricity racing along my nerves.

His thumb traces across my cheekbone, a feather-light caress that somehow feels more intimate than anything I've experienced in months. When did simple touch become so overwhelming? When did my body start craving contact so desperately that this gentle stroke feels like coming back to life?

"I should stop," he murmurs, but his hand remains against my face, his thumb continuing its slow exploration.

"Should and want are different things," I breathe, the words coming from some part of me that's tired of being careful, tired of measuring every feeling against grief and guilt.

His eyes search mine, looking for certainty I'm not sure I can give. But when he leans closer, drawn by something stronger than caution, I don't pull away. Instead, I tilt my face up, meeting him halfway.

The first brush of his lips against mine is tentative, questioning. Soft and warm and tasting faintly of kaffo and something uniquely him. For a heartbeat, we hover there in that space between decision and action, balanced on the edge of something that will change everything.

Then his mouth presses more firmly against mine, and thought becomes impossible.

The kiss deepens slowly, carefully, like he's afraid I might disappear if he moves too quickly.

But I don't disappear. Instead, I find myself leaning into him, my hands finding the front of his shirt and gripping the fabric like an anchor.

His lips are soft but insistent, coaxing responses from me that I'd forgotten I was capable of giving.

Heat blooms in my chest, spreading outward until my entire body feels alive in ways it hasn't since before Korrun died.

When Daegan's tongue traces the seam of my lips, I part them without hesitation, desperate for more contact, more connection, more of whatever this feeling is that's driving the cold loneliness from my bones.

His free hand finds my waist, fingers spanning across my ribs as he pulls me closer.

The chair arms become obstacles, barriers keeping us apart when all I want is to eliminate every inch of space between us.

My hands slide up his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through the fabric, mapping the contours of muscle and the steady beat of his heart.

When I make a soft sound of need against his mouth, something changes in his response.

The careful restraint gives way to hunger, his kiss becoming deeper, more demanding.

His hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head to an angle that lets him claim my mouth more completely, and I melt into him like I'm made of something softer than flesh and bone.

My body remembers this—remembers wanting and being wanted, remembers the sweet ache of desire that starts low in my belly and radiates outward.

It's been so long since anyone touched me with intent, since hands mapped my skin with reverence instead of necessity.

Too long since I felt beautiful, desirable, alive in ways that go beyond simply breathing.

His palm slides from my waist to rest just below my ribs, thumb brushing against the underside of my breast through the fabric of my tunic. The contact is electric, shooting sensation straight through me and making me arch into his touch with a gasp that he swallows with his kiss.

Then his hand moves lower, fingers finding the hem of my tunic and sliding beneath to touch bare skin.

The sensation hits me like cold water, sudden and startling. His palm against my stomach, warm and large and so very real, jerks me back to awareness with devastating clarity.

This is Daegan. Korrun's brother . And I'm responding to his touch like a woman starved for affection, which is exactly what I am, but that doesn't make it right.

That doesn't make this anything other than grief and loneliness and physical need tangled together into something that feels like healing but might just be another kind of damage.

Panic bursts in my chest like a physical blow. I pull back sharply, gasping for air that suddenly feels too thin, too hot. My hands push against his chest, putting distance between us even as my body protests the separation.

"I can't," I breathe, the words torn from somewhere deep in my throat. "I can't do this."

His hand withdraws immediately, but the imprint of his touch burns against my skin like a brand. He rocks back on his heels, giving me space, but the damage is already done. The air between us feels fractured, charged with want and confusion and the ghost of what just happened.

"Soreya—"

But I'm already moving, already fleeing. My legs feel unsteady as I push myself out of the chair, but somehow I make it across the room to where Taran sleeps. I scoop him up with shaking hands, cradling his warm weight against my chest like a shield.

"I need—" I start, then stop, unable to finish the sentence because I don't know what I need. Space. Time. Forgiveness for wanting something I shouldn't want.

Instead of trying to explain what can't be explained, I flee to my bedroom, closing the door behind me with a soft click that sounds loud as thunder in the silence.

I sink onto the edge of my bed, holding Taran close even though he doesn't wake. My lips still burn from Daegan's kiss, my skin still remembers the heat of his hands, and guilt crashes over me in waves that make it hard to breathe.

What kind of woman am I, to kiss my dead husband's brother? To respond to his touch like I've been waiting for it? To want him with an intensity that makes my body ache with need?

The worst part is that it didn't feel wrong in the moment. It felt like coming alive again, like discovering I was still capable of feeling something other than grief. But now, in the quiet of my room with Korrun's memory pressing close around me, the guilt is overwhelming.

I loved Korrun. Still love him. Will always love him. So how can I also want Daegan with such desperate hunger? How can my body betray Korrun's memory so completely?

I settle Taran back in his cradle, my hands trembling as I arrange his blankets.

Even in sleep, he looks like his father—the shape of his eyes, the set of his jaw, the way his tiny fist curls beside his face.

How can I look at this living reminder of Korrun and still taste another man's kiss on my lips?

The night stretches ahead of me, long and sleepless and haunted by the echo of Daegan's touch. I lie in the darkness, staring at the ceiling while my body remembers what it felt like to want and be wanted, while my heart breaks a little more with each breath.

I've been grateful for Daegan's presence, for his help with Taran, for the way he's filled some of the crushing loneliness that threatened to swallow me whole. But somewhere along the way, gratitude became something deeper, more dangerous.

And now I don't know how to face him in the morning, how to pretend that kiss didn't change everything between us.