Page 23 of The Minotaur’s Little Peach
SOREYA
T he house feels different without Daegan's presence filling the spaces between rooms. Quieter, somehow smaller, like the walls have drawn closer together in his absence.
I tell myself it's nothing, just the natural stillness that settles over a place when someone steps out for errands.
He's probably helping old Gareth load sacks of grain again, or listening to Raith’s endless complaints about her neighbor's capra getting into her garden.
Daegan has this way of attracting people who need help—something about his easy grin and those sea-glass eyes that makes folks feel comfortable sharing their troubles.
It's one of the things I've come to notice about him over these past weeks, how he never seems in a hurry to brush off someone's problems, even when they're keeping him from his own tasks.
I shift Taran to my other arm, his warm weight solid against my chest as I pace to the window for what must be the dozenth time since the sun disappeared behind the rooftops.
The cobblestones stretch empty in both directions, lamplights beginning to flicker to life like scattered stars fallen to earth.
Still no sign of that familiar tall silhouette making his way home.
Home. The word catches me off guard, how naturally it formed in my thoughts. When did I start thinking of this place as Daegan's home too? When did his absence begin to feel like something vital was missing?
Taran makes a soft sound against my shoulder, not quite a cry but close enough to pull my attention back where it belongs.
His amber eyes blink up at me with that solemn awareness that still startles me sometimes—too knowing for someone so small, like he understands more than any infant should.
I smooth my palm over his downy hair, the gesture automatic now after weeks of learning his rhythms, his needs.
"He'll be back soon," I murmur, more to myself than to him. "Probably picked up something special for dinner. You know how he is."
But I don't really know how he is, do I?
Not entirely. I know he takes his kaffo black in the mornings and hums old sailing songs under his breath when he thinks no one's listening.
I know he checks the door locks twice before bed and always leaves his boots lined up neat beside the entrance, ready for a quick departure.
Sailor's habits die hard, he says with that self-deprecating smile that makes my chest feel too tight.
I know he's patient with Taran in ways that make my throat close up, how he cradles my son like he's something precious instead of just another person's responsibility thrust upon him.
I know the sound of his laugh when something genuinely amuses him, different from the polite chuckle he offers strangers. Warmer. More real.
But there are depths to him I haven't explored yet, histories written in the rope-burn scars along his forearms and the way his eyes sometimes drift toward the horizon like he's calculating wind speed and distance to ports I'll never see.
We agreed to take things slow, to let whatever this is between us develop naturally instead of rushing headlong into something neither of us fully understands.
So why does his absence feel like a hook dragging through my ribs?
The knock at the door makes me jump, Taran startling in my arms with a small whimper of protest. Relief floods through me so quickly it leaves me lightheaded—of course, he probably forgot his key again. Always losing track of small things when his mind gets caught up in larger problems.
"Coming," I call, already moving toward the entrance with a smile tugging at my lips. I'll tease him about worrying me, make him promise to send word next time he gets distracted by someone else's troubles.
But when I pull the door open, it's Mirath standing on my threshold.
The smile dies on my face so fast it feels like it falls off.
Because Mirath never looks like this—never stripped of her usual sharp humor, never wearing that careful, gentle expression that people reserve for delivering terrible news.
Her dark eyes meet mine with a wariness that makes my stomach drop toward my feet, and suddenly I'm six months pregnant again and her words are shattering my world.
"Soreya." Her voice is softer than usual, missing its normal edge of casual sarcasm.
"No." The word escapes before I can stop it, raw and desperate. "Whatever you're going to say, just—no."
But she steps inside anyway, closing the door behind her with the kind of careful movements people use around wounded animals. Her gaze flickers to Taran, still cradled against my chest, then back to my face with something that might be pity.
I can't breathe. The room is too small, too warm, the walls pressing in like a trap. This is exactly how it felt before, when the messenger came with news about Korrun. That same sick certainty crawling up my throat, the knowledge that everything I've started to rebuild is about to crumble again.
"Where is he?" My voice sounds strange, distant, like it's coming from someone else's mouth.
Mirath's hands flutter at her sides, then settle with visible effort. "I heard from Tomás at the market. He saw?—"
"Where is Daegan?" The words crack on his name, splitting open something raw inside my chest.
She takes a breath that seems to cost her effort. "Garruk took him. Varkas' brother. Tomás saw them dragging him into a cart near Merchant's Row this morning."
The floor tilts under my feet. "That's impossible. He was coming to see you. He left to visit your shop and pick up supplies."
"He never made it to me, Soreya."
The words physically hurt, each syllable driving the breath from my lungs. Taran fusses against my chest, sensing my distress through whatever mysterious connection exists between mothers and children. His small sounds of protest seem to come from very far away, muffled by the rushing in my ears.
My knees give out.
I don't feel myself falling, don't register the impact as I hit the wooden planks. Everything narrows to a single point of agonizing clarity: Daegan is gone. Taken. Possibly hurt or worse, and I'll never see him again.
The thought shouldn't tear through me like this.
It shouldn't feel like someone has reached into my chest and ripped out something vital.
I've known him for months, not years. We've shared conversations and quiet mornings, not decades of marriage and shared dreams. This isn't the same as losing Korrun.
But it is. Zukiev help me, it is.
Because somewhere between his patient hands teaching me to tend the fruit trees and his gentle voice soothing Taran through fussy nights, I stopped seeing him as just Korrun's brother.
Stopped thinking of him as temporary help or family obligation.
He became Daegan—the man who brings me kaffo in the mornings and remembers how I like it prepared.
The man who reads to Taran in that warm rumble that makes my son's eyes drift closed in perfect contentment.
The man who looks at me like I'm something worth protecting, worth staying for, worth building a life around.
The man I was falling in love with, even as I told myself we needed to go slow.
Taran's cries grow more insistent, his small body rigid with the kind of distress that comes when the person holding him is too lost in grief to provide comfort. I try to soothe him, try to offer the steady presence he needs, but my hands are shaking too badly to be of any use.
"I can't," I whisper, the words scraping past the tightness in my throat. "I can't lose him too. Not now. Not when I just started to?—"
The confession hangs unfinished in the air between us, too raw and terrifying to complete.
Because admitting I've fallen for Daegan means acknowledging that I'm capable of loving someone other than Korrun.
Means accepting that my heart has shifted without my permission, opened itself to new possibilities even as I insisted we take things slow.
Mirath drops to her knees beside me, her hands steady as she helps support Taran's weight. "We'll find him," she says, but there's something hollow in her voice that suggests she doesn't quite believe it herself.
The room spins around me, walls closing in until I can barely draw breath.
This can't be happening again. I can't survive losing another person I've let inside the careful barriers I built around my heart.
Can't endure watching another future I'd barely dared to imagine disappear into violence and blood.
But the fear cutting through me isn't just about being alone again.
It's about losing him —Daegan with his quick wit and gentle hands, Daegan who makes Taran laugh and brings light into rooms that felt too dark for too long.
The man who was teaching me it's possible to love again without betraying what came before.
I may have lost him before I ever got the chance to tell him how I felt.