Page 6 of The Minotaur’s Nanny Bride (Minotaur Daddies #2)

6

DEX

I sit stiffly on the nursery floor, my legs crossed in a way that feels unnatural for my massive frame. Ellis squirms in the crook of my arm, his tawny fur damp with sweat from all his fussing. The small weight of him—barely anything compared to a sack of grain—feels heavier than all my merchandise combined. His little hooves kick against my forearm as if trying to escape.

"Hey now, little one," I murmur, my voice coming out rougher than intended. "You need to eat."

Ellis turns his face away from the bottle I'm trying to position at his mouth. His golden eyes, so like mine, are puffy from crying. Gods, I never thought it would be this hard.

My grip tightens reflexively as he twists—a jolt of panic shooting through me. What if I drop him? What if my massive minotaur hands crush something important? Every movement I make feels wrong, every position awkward.

"Come on, Ellis," I plead, hearing the desperation in my own voice. "Just take the damn bottle."

The baby's face scrunches up—that familiar precursor to another crying fit that'll probably wake half the neighborhood. I've gotten better at the feeding part, at least compared to that first disastrous week, but everything else? Complete taura shit.

I feel her presence before I see her. Maya stands in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, silver-blonde hair catching the late afternoon light streaming through the nursery windows. I didn't even realize she was back from her shop.

Her gray eyes take in the scene—me, defeated on the floor, and Ellis working himself into another fit. She doesn't rush in to help. Just watches. I like that about her—most of the time. She wants to help, not just tell me what I'm doing wrong. She makes me feel like maybe I could learn.

And then there are moments like this where I think I'm hopeless.

"Don't just stand there," I grunt, trying to adjust Ellis's position for what feels like the hundredth time. "Either help or leave me to my misery."

Maya's lips quirk up at one corner—that almost-smile that somehow makes me feel both chastised and encouraged. "You're doing fine," she lies smoothly.

"Fine? Look at him! He hates me."

"He doesn't hate you." Maya pushes off from the doorframe and approaches, her movements graceful and confident. "He's a baby. They don't hate, they communicate."

"Well, he's communicating that I'm terrible at this."

She kneels beside me on the floor, close enough that I catch the scent of herbs that follows her everywhere—zabilla and rirzed, sweet yet medicinal. Without a word, she reaches out, her hands moving to guide mine.

"You're holding him like he might shatter," she murmurs, repositioning my fingers with her smaller ones. The scar on her right hand stands out against her skin as she demonstrates. "Loosen up. Babies feel tension. He's not a weapon, Dex."

Her touch is firm but gentle as she adjusts my grip on the bottle next, tilting it slightly. "There. Let him control the pace a bit."

To my utter amazement, Ellis latches onto the bottle properly—just like when she showed me yesterday—his tiny hands coming up to press against the glass as he starts to drink. No resistance. No crying. Just the soft sounds of contented feeding.

The relief that floods through me is almost dizzying. My shoulders drop several inches, and I exhale a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The tight coil of frustration in my gut begins to unravel.

"I was doing it wrong." The admission comes out heavier than I intend, weighted with a week's worth of failure.

Maya's eyes meet mine, steady and without judgment. "You were trying," she corrects, her voice soft but firm. "That's what matters."

Her fingers linger on my wrist for a moment longer than necessary before she withdraws them, settling back on her heels to watch Ellis drink.

"I'm a merchant," I mutter, staring down at the small miracle happening in my arms. "I can haggle with the stingiest traders in all of Milthar. I can lift cargo that takes two humans to move. But this?" I shake my head, the bronze rings in my horns clinking softly. "This scares the shit out of me."

"Good thing you are a big, strong minotaur." She winks and I find myself grinning. "I know you can handle this."

Maya leaves with a soft "I'll be back after my bath," her footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving me alone with Ellis for the first time since she arrived this morning. The house settles into the kind of quiet that feels like a held breath—waiting for something to go wrong.

Ellis is still suckling at the bottle, his tiny fingers pressed against the glass. I stare down at him, memorizing the contours of his face—my sister's son. The weight of that responsibility sits on my chest, heavier than any merchandise I've ever hauled.

"Just you and me for a bit, little one," I murmur, my voice sounding too large in the nursery's stillness.

When the bottle empties, Ellis makes a small noise of protest. I carefully set it aside and shift him to my shoulder the way Maya showed me—supporting his head, patting his back with gentle taps from my massive palm. His body feels impossibly small against mine.

"Your mother would laugh herself sick seeing me like this," I tell him quietly, thinking of Iris. My throat tightens. "She always said I didn't know my own size. Too big for my own heart."

Ellis hiccups against my shoulder, a tiny sound that somehow fills the entire room.

The nursery feels too confining suddenly, the walls pressing in. I carry Ellis to my bedroom, careful not to jostle him. The late afternoon sun slants through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor. I ease myself onto the edge of my bed, the frame creaking under my weight.

With deliberate movements, I loosen the front of my shirt and settle Ellis against my bare chest. Maya mentioned something about skin contact being important—one of the dozens of bits of knowledge she's dropped casually, like they're things everyone should know.

Ellis's fur is softer than anything I've ever touched, finer than the most expensive silks I've traded. His tiny body radiates heat as he settles against me, his heartbeat a rapid flutter against my own slower, heavier rhythm. The contrast hits me hard—how fragile he is, how much damage these merchant's hands could do if I'm not careful.

I run a careful finger over Ellis's forehead, tracing the barely-there bumps where his horns will someday grow. They're nothing more than slight protrusions now, velvety nubs at the edges of his hairline. Mine took years to fully emerge, curving out and up like my father's before me.

"Will yours look like mine?" I whisper, touching one of the bronze rings that adorn my own horns. "Or did you get your mother's? Hers were straighter, sleeker."

Ellis makes a small noise, a contented sigh as he nestles deeper against my chest. His eyes are closed, long lashes resting against his cheeks, his tiny fists curled against my skin.

It's such a simple thing—a baby falling asleep. It happens countless times across the world every day. But this—this undoes something in me.

I don't know when I started holding my breath, but I let it out now, a slow, shuddering exhale. My chest expands and contracts beneath Ellis's small form, and he moves with it, completely trusting.

"You're really stuck with me, aren't you?" My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Pretty shitty trade, little one. You could've done better."

I press my palm over Ellis's small back, feeling the rise and fall of his tiny ribcage. His ears twitch slightly in his sleep, and I find myself smiling despite the exhaustion weighing down my shoulders. The smile feels rusty, like a door hinge that hasn't been used in too long.

Ten days. It's been ten days since I walked into my sister's house and walked out with her son. Seven days of fumbling, failing, and fearing I'm ruining him with every mistake. Seven days of feeling like I'm drowning.

But right now, with Ellis's heartbeat steady against mine, something shifts. Something takes root. Not confidence—I'm nowhere near that yet—but a fierce, protective instinct that runs deeper than blood or obligation.

"We'll figure this out," I promise him quietly. "I don't know what the hell I'm doing, but we'll figure it out together."

I rub small circles on his back, careful to keep my touch light. The first real threads of attachment weave through me, forming something I know instinctively will be unbreakable.