Page 18 of The Minotaur’s Little Peach

DAEGAN

T he morning after feels like walking on broken glass—every step careful, every breath measured.

I keep my distance from Soreya, though it tears at something vital inside my chest with each passing hour.

She moves through the house like a ghost, tending to Taran with mechanical precision, avoiding eye contact whenever our paths cross in the small space we share.

The kiss replays in my mind with relentless clarity.

The soft warmth of her lips, the way she melted into my touch, the small sound of need she made against my mouth.

For those stolen moments, she wasn't Korrun's widow—she was just Soreya, alive and wanting and responding to me like I was something worth having.

But the way she fled afterward, the panic in her eyes, tells me everything I need to know about where we stand. She sees me as Korrun's brother, nothing more. Maybe she always will.

I throw myself into repairs around the property, anything to keep my hands busy and my thoughts occupied.

The chicken coop needs reinforcing, several fence posts have started to lean, and there's a loose shutter that's been rattling in the wind for weeks.

Physical labor helps, but not enough. Not when I catch glimpses of her through the windows, not when I hear her humming softly to Taran in the afternoon light.

By the second day, the silence between us has grown thick enough to choke on.

She takes her meals after I've finished mine, disappears into her room early, speaks to me only when absolutely necessary.

The easy companionship we'd built over months has crumbled in the space of a heartbeat, leaving behind awkwardness so sharp it cuts.

When the ache in my chest grows too loud to ignore, I retreat to my small room and dig through my belongings until I find the letter tucked between spare shirts.

Korrun's handwriting stares back at me, familiar and painful. This one arrived just after the news of his son, probably written on the same day. I’d gotten it after I already decided to come back but he hadn’t known that yet.

Dae—

You aren’t going to like this letter but it has to be said.

I know the risks of what I do, know that every day I walk into that arena might be my last. I've made my peace with that, but I can't bear the thought of leaving Soreya and our child alone. If something happens to me, they’ll need you, brother.

She's strong, stronger than she knows, but she'll need family. Real family, not just the polite distance of my trainer colleagues or the careful kindness of neighbors. She'll need someone who understands what she's lost, someone who can help her remember how to laugh again.

I'm asking you to come home, brother. I want you in their lives. And if I ever need it, I’ll need you to do more than that. Not to replace me—no one could do that—but to be part of their lives in whatever way they'll let you. Help raise my child. Make sure they know they're not alone in this world.

I trust you with what matters most to me. I always have.

Your brother,

Korrun

My hands shake as I fold the letter carefully, tucking it back between the layers of fabric.

Korrun asked me to take care of them, but he couldn't have known this would happen.

Couldn't have predicted that I'd fall for the woman he loved, that every day spent in her presence would make it harder to remember the boundaries that should exist between us.

He trusted me with what mattered most, and I've complicated everything by wanting more than he ever intended to give.

The walls of my room feel like they're closing in, the weight of unspoken words and unfulfilled desires pressing against my lungs until breathing becomes an effort. I need air, space, somewhere that doesn't smell like her or echo with Taran's soft sounds or remind me of what I can't have.

The market seems like neutral ground, a place where I can gather supplies and think about something other than the careful way Soreya avoids my gaze. I pull on my coat and step into the crisp morning air, grateful for the bite of wind against my face.

The marketplace buzzes with its usual energy—vendors calling out prices, equus stamping and snorting while their owners negotiate trades, the rich scents of baking bread and fresh fruit mixing with salt air from the harbor.

I move through the familiar chaos, letting the normal rhythms of commerce wash over me.

But something feels different today. Sharper. Heavier.

The sensation of being watched prickles between my shoulder blades, raising the hair on my arms despite the morning warmth. I've spent enough years on ships and in foreign ports to trust that instinct, to know when observation crosses the line from casual to intentional.

I'm examining a display of preserved meats when footsteps approach from behind—heavy, deliberate, meant to announce presence rather than conceal it. The vendor's eyes flick over my shoulder, his expression shifting from merchant's enthusiasm to something more cautious.

"Morning," I say to the man, keeping my voice level while my peripheral vision tracks the newcomer.

"Fine selection today," the vendor replies, but his attention keeps drifting to whoever stands behind me.

The footsteps stop close enough that I can hear breathing, sense the bulk of another minotaur in my space. Still, I take my time examining the goods, refusing to be rushed or intimidated by whatever game this stranger wants to play.

When I finally turn, I find myself facing a massive minotaur who makes my own considerable height seem modest. Dark brown fur streaked with gray covers a frame built for warfare, all thick muscle and coiled violence.

Gold eyes that rarely blink fix on my face with the intensity of a predator marking prey.

One horn bears intricate carved runes that speak of status, achievement, or both.

But it's the calculation in his expression that sets my teeth on edge. This isn't random aggression or territorial posturing. This minotaur knows exactly who I am.

He steps closer, close enough that his shoulder bumps mine with deliberate force. Not hard enough to start a fight, but firm enough to send a message. The contact feels like touching a loaded weapon, all restrained power and barely leashed hostility.

"Watch yourself," he says, his voice low and rough like grinding stone. Each word carries weight, threat wrapped in conversational tone. "Things have a way of happening to those who don't belong."

I could respond. Could match his aggression with my own, demand explanations, push back against whatever this is.

But something in his manner tells me this minotaur wants a reaction, wants me to escalate so he can justify whatever he's planning.

Instead, I step around him without acknowledgment, moving toward the vendor who's been watching our exchange with obvious discomfort.

"Interesting morning," I comment to the shop owner, keeping my tone light despite the tension radiating from the stranger behind me.

The vendor glances nervously between us. "You, ah, you having some trouble?"

"Not sure what that minotaur's problem is," I say loud enough for my unwelcome observer to hear. "Seems like he's got something on his mind."

Heavy footsteps retreat, but I can feel golden eyes burning into my back as I complete my transaction. The vendor wraps my purchases with hands that shake slightly, clearly eager to see this interaction end.

"You're Korrun's brother, aren't you?" he asks quietly as he hands over the bundle.

I nod grimly, though something cold settles in my stomach at the recognition. Being known has advantages in some situations, complications in others. Given the morning's events, I suspect this falls into the latter category.

The vendor's expression grows more sympathetic, tinged with something that might be pity. "That was Garruk Renn," he says, glancing toward where the large minotaur disappeared into the crowd. "His brother was the prisoner who killed Korrun."

Understanding hits like a physical blow. "Varkas," I say, the name tasting bitter on my tongue.

"Aye. Korrun killed him in return, but..." The vendor shrugs helplessly. "Seems Garruk blames your brother as much as you probably blame his. And now that Korrun's gone..."

The implication hangs in the air between us, heavy with threat and inevitability. Garruk has transferred his hatred to me, the living reminder of the brother he lost. Blood for blood, grief for grief, an endless cycle that started in the arena and now follows me through market stalls.

I think of Soreya at home, of Taran sleeping peacefully in his cradle, of the fragile safety we've built in our small corner of Milthar. Garruk's presence changes everything, adds a layer of danger I hadn't anticipated when I chose to stay.

The vendor watches my face with knowing eyes. "Might want to be careful where you go alone," he suggests quietly. "Garruk's got patience, but he's got a long memory too. And he's not the forgiving sort."