Page 12 of The Minotaur’s Nanny Bride (Minotaur Daddies #2)

12

MAYA

T he marketplace pulses with life around me, a cacophony of voices haggling over prices and wares. I adjust Ellis in his wrap against my chest, his warm weight now familiar after these weeks of caring for him. His tawny fur tickles my chin as he shifts, tiny hooves pressing against my stomach. My fingers automatically find the edge of his blanket, tucking it more securely around his soft baby horns.

"Need to make a stop over there," I tell Dex, pointing toward Widow Fenna's herb stall. The old woman's display is heaped with bundles of dried plants I don't grow on my farm. "I'm running low on meqixste bark for that teething salve Ellis likes." The speed at which minotaur grow is insane and his gums are already inflamed. I swear he'll be walking at six months at this rate—though if he's going to grow as large as his uncle, I'm going to need him to.

Dex nods, his massive frame casting a shadow over me. "Lead the way."

I expect him to wander off to examine the nearby weapons display—minotaur men always gravitate toward steel—but he stays close, one step behind my right shoulder. His presence creates a bubble of space around us in the crowded marketplace. People naturally give way to a seven-and-a-half-foot minotaur, especially one with horns as impressively curved as Dex's.

"You don't have to shadow me through the entire market," I say, navigating around a merchant's cart piled with burgona tubers. "I won't run off with your nephew."

"It's not that." Dex's green eyes scan the crowd, watchful. One hand hovers near my lower back, not quite touching but ready to guide me through any sudden crush of people. "The marketplace can get unpredictable. Pickpockets. Drunks. Better safe than sorry with the little one."

Ellis coos at the sound of his uncle's voice, tiny fingers reaching out from the wrap to grab at nothing. I smile despite myself.

As we make our way through the crowd, I notice the glances—some curious, some indifferent, a few disapproving. A human woman with a minotaur infant strapped to her chest, a massive minotaur male at her side. I catch our reflection in a polished metal shield hanging at a merchant's stall, and the image stops me short.

We look like a family.

The thought sends a sharp pang through my chest. An unexpected ache, like pressing on a bruise I didn't know I had. I shake it off quickly, forcing my attention back to the herbs ahead.

"Something wrong?" Dex asks, his voice rumbling close to my ear.

"Just realized I need fialon berries too," I lie, avoiding his gaze. "For Ellis's digestive tincture."

A group of young men stumble by, laughing too loudly with wineskins in hand. One bumps against me, and before I can steady myself, Dex's arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me against his side. Ellis makes a startled sound, but doesn't cry.

"Watch where you're going," Dex growls at them, the bronze rings in his horns catching the sunlight as he lowers his head slightly—a subtle but clear warning. The young men mumble apologies and scatter.

I should step away, reestablish the proper distance between us, but Ellis has settled against the solid warmth of Dex's chest, his tiny hand gripping one of my fingers. We're connected, the three of us, in this strange tableau.

"Sorry," Dex murmurs, loosening his hold but not fully releasing me. "Protective instinct."

"It's fine." My voice sounds too soft, even to my own ears. "You're good with him. With us."

An older minotaur woman passes by, her gaze lingering on us with something like approval. A human spice merchant raises an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. It occurs to me that we're crossing invisible boundaries—species, culture, propriety—simply by standing together in this marketplace.

I finally pull away, adjusting Ellis against me. "The herbs," I remind myself as much as Dex.

But as we continue through the marketplace, I'm acutely aware of his presence beside me—a solid, protective force. And I'm surprised by how much I don't mind it.

Once we get the herbs I need, I meander between the market stalls with Dex beside me, our shopping nearly complete. Ellis has fallen asleep against my chest, his tiny snores vibrating through the fabric. The marketplace hums around us—merchants calling their wares, customers haggling over prices, the occasional burst of laughter cutting through it all. I've become more attuned to the ways people look at us now, the curiosity in their glances. Most are harmless, some approving, a few narrowed with judgment.

"Just need to get more fylek grass and we can head back," I say, adjusting my basket on my arm. The weight of herbs, spices, and a small bag of cryots pulls at my muscles.

Dex reaches over, his massive hand eclipsing mine. "Let me carry that."

I surrender the basket without protest, knowing better than to argue with a minotaur about bearing burdens. Their culture values physical strength almost as much as honor. Besides, my arms are grateful for the reprieve, especially with Ellis's weight against my front.

"This way," Dex says, steering us toward the northern edge of the marketplace. "I want to check something before we leave."

I follow him to a weaponsmith's stall, where gleaming blades of various sizes are displayed on dark cloth. The smith, a weathered minotaur with silver rings in his horns, nods at Dex with recognition. This is clearly a regular stop for him.

"New stock came in yesterday," the smith says by way of greeting.

Dex's eyes light up. "Any kuruk steel?"

"Two pieces. Premium price, of course."

While they talk, I hang back slightly, bouncing gently to keep Ellis asleep. My eyes drift to Dex's hands as he lifts a dagger from the display. His fingers—massive by human standards but surprisingly dexterous—curl around the hilt with practiced ease. The merchant passes him another blade, this one with an ornate handle inlaid with copper that matches the highlights in Dex's fur.

There's something mesmerizing about watching his hands work. The careful way he tests the balance, the strength evident in every controlled movement. He handles these deadly weapons with the same gentle precision I've seen him use when checking Ellis's tiny horns for irritation.

My throat feels suddenly dry. I shouldn't be noticing these things—the breadth of his shoulders as he leans forward to examine the blade's edge, the rumble of his laugh when the smith says something I can't quite hear. I shouldn't care about how steady he is on his hooves, how his brow furrows slightly when he concentrates, how the marketplace seems to shrink around his imposing frame.

I shouldn't be thinking about how, in just a few short weeks, he's transformed from a panicked, helpless new guardian into someone who can cradle an infant with one arm while preparing breakfast with the other. Someone who remembers which herbs soothe Ellis's stomach and which cloth he prefers for his morning bath.

Someone who looks increasingly right standing beside me.

A bizarre heat creeps up my neck as I realize I've been staring. I shift my attention to a nearby fruit vendor, pretending interest in their display of mueske.

"The grip could be better," Dex says, turning the dagger in his hand. His fingers trail over the hilt, testing its contours. "But the balance is perfect."

He looks up suddenly, his green eyes finding mine across the short distance between us. Something in his gaze makes my breath catch—an intensity, a question, something thick and unspoken that neither of us seems ready to name.

For one suspended moment, the marketplace noise fades to background. It's just us, connected by this strange, unexpected thread that's formed in the chaos of new parenthood and midnight feedings and learning to be something to each other that neither of us planned.

Dex breaks first, clearing his throat and returning the dagger to the merchant's table. He rubs the back of his neck, a gesture I've come to recognize as discomfort.

"Let's head back," he says, voice gruffer than usual. "Ellis will need feeding soon."

I exhale slowly, steadying myself. The moment passes, reality reasserts itself. This arrangement is temporary. Professional. I'm helping him until he finds a permanent solution for Ellis. That's all.

This isn't supposed to feel like this.

But as we turn away from the weapons stall, my basket in his hands, his shoulder occasionally brushing mine as we navigate the crowd, I can't help but wonder what exactly "this" is becoming.