Page 17 of The Minotaur’s Nanny Bride (Minotaur Daddies #2)

17

MAYA

I sit cross-legged on the plush rug in Dex's living room, watching Ellis wiggle his tiny hooves in the air. The morning sunlight filters through the tall windows, casting a golden glow across his tawny fur. After weeks of fussing and crying, these calm moments feel like precious gifts.

"Who's the strongest little minotaur?" I tickle his belly gently. "Is it you? Is it Ellis?"

His gold eyes—so like his uncle's—widen with fascination. He's growing more alert each day, those eyes tracking everything with an intelligence that sometimes catches me off guard. His baby horns are coming in strong through his forehead fur, soft little nubs that I've learned to carefully avoid when cradling him.

I wiggle my fingers over his chest, watching his small hands bat at the air. My practical silver-blonde hair falls forward, and he immediately reaches for it. I've learned to keep it pulled back most days, but this morning I'd forgotten.

"Oh no you don't, little one," I chuckle, tucking the strands behind my ear. The movement exposes the jagged scar across my right hand—a permanent reminder of the price I paid for my principles. "We've been down that road before."

Ellis kicks his legs excitedly, his eyes locked on mine. I tickle under his chin, and something magical happens—his mouth curves into a smile and he lets out the softest little sound, halfway between a coo and a laugh.

I freeze, my heart skipping a beat. "Was that...?"

I tickle him again, and this time there's no mistaking it. A giggle—tiny but unmistakable—bubbles from his throat. His eyes widen at the sound of his own voice, as if surprised by what he's accomplished.

"Ellis!" I gasp, warmth blooming in my chest. He laughs again, this time reaching for me with both hands, tiny fingers grasping at the air between us. The sound is like bells, pure and innocent.

My face splits into a grin I couldn't contain if I tried. "Did you hear that, Ellis?" I whisper, voice soft and full of wonder. "You laughed."

The moment feels sacred somehow. After weeks of tears and sleepless nights, this small victory feels monumental. I want to preserve it, memorize the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, how his little snout wrinkles when he smiles.

Movement at the doorway catches my attention. Dex stands there, massive frame filling the space, one hand resting against the doorframe. I hadn't heard him come in. His green eyes are fixed on Ellis, who's still making happy gurgling sounds.

"Dex! Ellis just laughed. Actually laughed!" I exclaim, expecting to see my own joy mirrored in his expression.

But something else flickers across his face—a shadow that doesn't belong. His jaw tightens slightly, the bronze rings on his curved horns catching the sunlight as he shifts his weight. He's smiling, yes, but it doesn't reach his eyes completely.

"That's..." he starts, then clears his throat. "That's wonderful."

I recognize it immediately, that complicated tangle of emotions. Pride in his nephew's milestone, happiness at seeing Ellis content—but threaded through it all, unmistakable jealousy. Jealousy that Ellis reached this milestone with me, not him. That after weeks of Dex's best efforts, it was my hands that coaxed out that first precious laugh.

I keep my face neutral, though my chest tightens. I understand his feelings better than he might think. Dex has been trying so hard, pouring everything into caring for this child thrust suddenly into his life. Yet despite his efforts, it's often my presence that soothes Ellis, my voice that calms his cries.

Ellis giggles again, oblivious to the complex emotions swirling around him, and Dex's expression grows more complicated still.

* * *

I settle into the worn armchair beside Ellis's crib, my fingers trailing over the intricate knotwork Dex carved into the wood himself. Each swirl and ridge tells a story of care—of late nights spent sanding edges smooth, of hours poring over designs to create something beautiful for his nephew. The little details speak volumes about the kind of uncle—the kind of father—Dex is trying to be.

Ellis sleeps peacefully now, his tiny chest rising and falling beneath the soft blanket. Tawny fur catches the gentle glow of the night lamp, making him look almost golden. His face, screwed up in frustration so often lately, is finally serene.

Dex stands at the crib's edge, his massive frame somehow managing to look both powerful and vulnerable in the dim light. The shadow of his horns stretches across the nursery wall like protective sentinels. He's barely moved in the last ten minutes, just watching Ellis with an intensity that makes my heart ache.

I recognize that look. I've seen it on the faces of healers who've lost patients despite doing everything right—that questioning, that doubt that gnaws at your confidence until there's nothing left but raw uncertainty.

His green eyes reflect the soft light as he reaches down to adjust Ellis's blanket, movements surprisingly gentle for hands so large. The bronze rings on his horns catch the light as he leans forward, creating tiny flashes that dance across the wall like fireflies.

"He finally looks peaceful," I whisper, keeping my voice low enough not to disturb Ellis. The silence between us feels heavy with things unsaid.

Dex nods but doesn't respond. His jaw works silently, the muscles tensing beneath his copper-highlighted fur. I've learned to read his body language over these weeks—the way his shoulders stiffen when he's worried, how his left ear twitches slightly when he's holding back words.

Right now, every line of his body screams of doubt.

I rise from my chair and move beside him. Despite being tall for a human woman, I still barely reach his shoulder. Without thinking, I place my hand on his arm, feeling the warmth radiating through his sleeve. The rough scar across my right hand stands stark against his dark fur—two very different marks of our separate journeys.

"You know he loves you, right?" I offer him a gentle smile when he turns to look at me. "You're enough for him, Dex."

His gaze drops to my hand on his arm, then back to Ellis. Something flickers across his face—vulnerability so raw it nearly takes my breath away.

"Am I?" His voice comes out rougher than usual. "He laughed for you, Maya. After weeks of me trying everything—funny faces, tickling, those ridiculous songs my mother used to sing—nothing. But you..." He trails off, looking down at his hands. They clench into fists, then relax, then clench again, as if he's trying to grasp something just beyond reach.

"You're his blood," I remind him softly. "His family. That bond runs deeper than a few weeks of figuring things out."

"Blood didn't help me get him to eat. Or sleep." Dex's eyes remain fixed on Ellis. "Blood didn't stop him from crying every time I picked him up those first days."

I watch the conflict play across his face. For someone known throughout Karona for his boisterous laugh and easy confidence, this uncertainty seems to carve valleys into his usually jovial expression.

"Babies aren't merchants, Dex. You can't negotiate with them or charm them with your sales pitch." I bump his arm with my shoulder, trying to coax out the smile that's been absent since this morning. "They just need patience and consistency—both things you've given him in abundance."

Dex nods, but the tension remains coiled around him like a physical presence. His shoulders stay rigid, horns tilted forward slightly in that defensive posture I've noticed when he feels challenged.

"One laugh doesn't erase the weeks you've spent learning to be exactly what he needs," I say, my voice firm but gentle.

Ellis stirs in his sleep, tiny hooves kicking once before he settles again. Both of us hold our breath until his breathing evens out.

I gently guide Dex away from the crib, my hand still on his arm. "Come on," I whisper, nodding toward the door. "He's finally asleep. Let's not waste this miracle."

Dex hesitates, his eyes lingering on Ellis's sleeping form. I can practically see the battle happening behind those green eyes—the desire to stay vigilant warring with his own exhaustion. Finally, he nods, allowing me to lead him from the nursery.

We move through the hallway in silence, our footsteps muffled against the thick carpets. Dex's home is a strange contradiction—built to accommodate his massive minotaur frame, yet filled with unexpected delicacy. Merchant's sensibilities, I suppose. He has an eye for beauty that surprises those who only see his imposing exterior.

In the sitting room, I head straight for the cabinet where he keeps his liquor. "You need a drink," I state matter-of-factly, not bothering to phrase it as a question. "And frankly, so do I."

"Maya—" he starts, but I'm already pulling out a bottle of amber liquid and two glasses.

"Don't 'Maya' me." I pour generous amounts into both glasses, measuring by eye rather than with precision. Precision is for my herbal tinctures, not for moments like this. "When's the last time you actually relaxed?"

He accepts the glass I hand him, his massive fingers dwarfing it. "Define relaxed."

"Not thinking about feeding schedules or diaper changes or whether you're ruining your nephew's life." I take a healthy swallow from my own glass, feeling the liquor burn pleasantly down my throat. It's strong—like everything in minotaur culture.

A ghost of a smile flickers across Dex's face. "So... sometime before Ellis arrived."

"Precisely." I settle into one of his overstuffed chairs, tucking my legs underneath me. The chair, like everything else in his home, is too large for me, making me look even smaller than my average height would suggest. "Now drink. Healer's orders."

"Is that what this is? Medical treatment?" Despite his skepticism, he takes a drink, his throat working as he swallows.

"Absolutely. I'm treating a severe case of new-parent anxiety combined with stubborn minotaur pride syndrome." I keep my tone light, but my eyes hold his steadily. "It's a particularly nasty combination."

He barks a surprised laugh, nearly choking on his drink. "Has anyone ever told you that your bedside manner leaves something to be desired?"

"Only those who don't appreciate honesty." I take another sip, savoring the warmth spreading through my chest. "And you, Dex Ironhoof, have always struck me as someone who values truth over comfort."

His expression turns thoughtful as he contemplates the liquid in his glass. "Truth, huh? The truth is I have no idea what I'm doing."

"None of us do." I shrug, my practical nature asserting itself. "First-time parents fumble through it all. The difference is they usually have nine months to prepare, not a sudden tragedy and a newborn dropped in their lap."

Dex's shoulders slump slightly. "You make it look so easy."

"It's not easy. I just have experience with children from my healing work." I run my finger over the scar on my right hand, a habit when I'm thinking. "And I'm not trying to measure up to someone's memory."

His head snaps up, eyes widening slightly. "What do you mean?"

"You're not just trying to care for Ellis—you're trying to be what Iris would have been for him." I level my gaze at him, unflinching. "That's an impossible standard, Dex. You can't be his mother. You can only be his uncle—his family—who loves him enough to try."

For a moment, he looks like I've physically struck him. Then something releases in his expression—like a knot finally coming untied.

"How do you do that?" he murmurs, taking another long drink.

"Do what?"

"See through people like they're made of glass."

I laugh, the sound unexpectedly light in the heavy atmosphere. "Years of practice. You can't heal people properly if you don't understand what's really hurting them."

Dex shifts in his seat, the furniture creaking slightly under his weight. "And what's hurting me, Healer Maya?" There's a teasing note in his voice that's been absent for days, a glimpse of the jovial minotaur I first met.

"Fear." I answer without hesitation. "You're terrified of failing him. Of failing Iris. Of not being enough." I soften my words with a small smile. "Which is ridiculous, by the way."

"Oh? Enlighten me why that's ridiculous." He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his expression caught between amusement and genuine curiosity.

"Because you're already more than enough. You dropped everything to take in an orphaned infant. You're learning skills that terrify most grown men. You carved him a crib with your own hands when you could have bought one." I count off on my fingers. "You're enough and then some, Dex. Ellis is lucky to have you."

Something shifts in his expression—a lightening, a clearing, like storm clouds parting. He drains the rest of his glass and sets it down with a decisive thunk.

"You know what's truly ridiculous?" His voice has regained some of its natural resonance. "That I needed someone half my size to remind me of my own worth."

I raise my glass in mock salute. "The best medicine often comes in small packages."

That draws a genuine laugh from him, deep and rumbling. The sound fills the room, warming it more effectively than any fire could. I find myself smiling in response, pleased to have coaxed that sound from him after days of tension.

The rigid set of his shoulders has finally eased, his posture relaxing into something more natural. It's like watching a mountain settle after an earthquake—still imposing, but no longer in danger of collapse.

Something eases in my own chest too, a knot I hadn't fully acknowledged until it began to untangle.