Page 24 of The Minotaur’s Little Peach

DAEGAN

T he world returns in fragments—salt-crusted rope cutting into my wrists, the rhythmic slap of waves against hull planks, and the unmistakable stench of tar mixed with unwashed bodies. My head throbs like someone's taken a mallet to my skull, each pulse sending lightning bolts behind my eyelids.

The Siren's Call never smelled this foul. Even in the worst storms, when we couldn't wash properly for weeks, my ship maintained a cleanliness these bastards wouldn't recognize if it bit them on the arse.

I keep my breathing shallow, even, while my mind catalogs everything I can sense without opening my eyes.

Three distinct voices somewhere to my left—two playing cards by the sound of slapping leather, one muttering complaints about the quality of ale.

The gentle rock beneath me suggests we're anchored, not sailing, which means we're likely still close to shore. Close to Soreya.

The thought of her sends a jolt of panic through my chest that has nothing to do with my current predicament.

By now she'll have realized I never made it to Mirath's shop.

She'll be pacing that little house, Taran fussing in her arms as she watches the door and tries to convince herself I'm just delayed by some merchant's sob story.

By the Lady, what if she thinks I left? What if she believes I got spooked by our conversation about taking things slow and decided the sea was easier than whatever's growing between us?

The rope around my wrists has loosened during however long I've been unconscious.

These idiots tied sailor's knots without understanding the mechanics—tight enough to cut circulation, but not properly secured against the natural stretch that comes when someone stops fighting and goes limp.

Amateur mistake. The kind that gets you killed when you're dealing with someone who's spent half his life rigging lines in storm-tossed seas.

I flex my fingers carefully, working feeling back into them while keeping the rest of my body perfectly still. The guard closest to me—judging by his breathing—is maybe six feet away. Far enough that I'll need to move fast once I make my play, close enough that surprise will be my only advantage.

One of the card players laughs, a sound like grinding metal. "Garruk's taking his sweet time with whatever business he's got onshore."

"Probably making sure the message gets delivered proper," another voice responds. "Man wants the whole damn island to know what happens when you cross the Renn family."

Message. My blood goes cold as the implications sink in. This isn't just about revenge—it's about making an example. Garruk doesn't just want me dead; he wants everyone to see what happens to anyone who stands where Korrun once stood. Including Soreya.

Rage floods through me, hot and clean, burning away the last of the fog clouding my thoughts.

I've spent months learning to care about something beyond the next port, the next cargo run, the next storm to weather.

Found myself wanting to build instead of just survive, to protect instead of just endure.

And now some thick-skulled bastard with delusions of honor thinks he can use that against me.

The rope gives with a soft whisper of hemp fibers parting. My hands are free.

I wait three heartbeats, letting blood flow back into my fingers while I calculate distances and obstacles. The guard nearest me has his back turned, more interested in watching his companions' card game than keeping track of a supposedly unconscious prisoner. His mistake.

I move like a striking snake, rolling off the rough wooden platform they'd dumped me on and closing the distance before the guard can do more than start to turn.

My arm snakes around his throat, cutting off any cry for help while my other hand finds the dagger at his belt.

The blade slides free with barely a whisper of steel on leather.

"What the—" One of the card players starts to rise, hand moving toward his weapon.

I spin the guard around, using his body as a shield while the dagger finds the soft spot just below his ribs. He goes limp with a gurgling breath, and I'm already moving, letting his weight carry us both forward as I launch toward the remaining two.

The cramped space works against all of us—they can't spread out, can't use their numbers effectively, and every swing has to account for low beams and stacked cargo.

But I know how to fight in tight quarters.

Spent years learning to move efficiently in spaces where one wrong step could send you over the rail into hungry waves.

The first man draws his sword, a clumsy movement in the confined area that leaves him overextended.

I duck under his swing and drive my shoulder into his midsection, feeling ribs crack under the impact.

We go down together, grappling for control of his weapon while his companion tries to circle around for a clear shot.

Blood makes everything slippery. His blood, running from the gash I open across his forearm. My blood, flowing from where his desperate punch splits my lip. The deck beneath us grows treacherous, but I've fought on worse surfaces during storms that turned the world sideways.

I get my hands on his sword hilt just as the third man commits to a downward thrust that would have opened my back from shoulder to spine. Instead, it punches through his friend's chest with a wet sound that makes even hardened killers flinch.

That moment of horror is all I need. I roll clear, came up with steel in my hand, and put the blade through the last guard's throat before he can recover from his mistake. He drops like a sack of grain, clutching at the wound while his life pumps out between his fingers.

The sudden silence is deafening after the violence. Just the gentle lap of waves against the hull and my own harsh breathing as adrenaline courses through my system. Three men dead in less than a minute, their blood mixing with decades of spilled cargo and salt spray ground into the wooden planks.

I should feel something about that—guilt, maybe, or satisfaction. But all I can think about is getting back to Soreya before Garruk decides to expand his definition of appropriate targets.

The hatch above creaks open, spilling lamplight down into the hold.

"Took you boys long enough to—" The voice cuts off abruptly as its owner takes in the scene below.

Garruk fills the opening like a storm cloud, his massive frame blocking out most of the light from above.

Even crouched to fit through the hatch, he radiates the kind of controlled violence that comes from years of taking what he wants through force.

His gold eyes find me immediately, cataloging the blood on my clothes, the bodies scattered around the hold, the blade still dripping in my hand.

"Korrun's little brother." His voice carries the weight of mountains grinding together. "Should have known you'd have some fight in you."

He drops through the hatch with fluid grace that shouldn't be possible for someone his size.

The deck barely creaks under his weight—a man who knows how to move despite his bulk, how to use every pound of muscle to maximum effect.

The kind of opponent who's survived more fights than most men ever see.

The rune-carved horn catches the lamplight as he straightens to his full height, forcing me to crane my neck to meet his gaze.

Seven and a half feet of concentrated malice wrapped in dark fur and old scars.

I'm tall for most races, but Garruk makes me feel like a child reaching for something on a high shelf.

"Your brother killed my blood," he says, circling slowly to my left. Measuring distances, looking for openings, calculating how best to tear me apart. "Honor demands an answer."

"Your brother tried to murder mine with a concealed blade." I keep the dagger low, ready to move in any direction. "Honor got exactly what it deserved."

His laugh is like boulders falling down a cliff face. "Honor is what I decide it is, boy. And I've decided your whole cursed line needs to disappear."

The exhaustion from my escape is already dragging at my limbs, making each movement cost more than it should.

The guards weren't particularly skilled, but fighting three men in close quarters takes a toll even when you win quickly.

And Garruk is fresh, rested, probably been planning this moment for months.

But he's also angry. I can see it in the way his massive hands clench and release, the slight flare of his nostrils when he mentions Korrun. Anger makes fighters sloppy, makes them commit too hard to attacks that should be feints.

It's the only advantage I'm likely to get.

He comes at me like an avalanche—all crushing weight and unstoppable momentum. But avalanches are predictable once you understand the terrain, and I've spent years reading the subtle tells that separate survivors from corpses.

His first swing comes from his right, a massive fist aimed at my skull with enough force to cave in stone.

I slip left, feeling the wind from his knuckles ruffle the fur along my ear as I bring the dagger up toward his exposed ribs.

But he's not as committed as I'd hoped—the blow was a test, and he twists away before my blade can find flesh.

"Fast," he rumbles, already adjusting his stance. "But not fast enough."

He's right, and we both know it. In a straight fight, his reach and strength will wear me down eventually. But this isn't about winning clean—it's about getting home to Soreya's worried face and Taran's sleepy sighs when I carry him around the kitchen while she makes kaffo.