Page 23 of The Minotaur's Nanny Bride

I scrub a hand over my face, feeling the rough texture of my fur against my palm. The copper highlights catch the moonlight, reminding me how different we are. Human and minotaur. Healer and merchant. Woman who can walk away and man who's suddenly terrified she will.

A low rumble of thunder rolls across the sky, and I glance up at the gathering clouds. The rain will come soon. I should go inside. But the thought of those walls, of being so close to her while fighting this growing ache in my chest, keeps me rooted to the bench.

"No one's ever going to choose you, not for keeps," I remind myself, echoing the words Arekia said when she left. Her face had been cold, dispassionate as she explained that while I was a suitable match on paper, she couldn't imagine spending her life with someone so... common in his ambitions. Someone who cared more about fair trade than family honor.

I believed her then. Still do, if I'm honest. Maya deserves someone extraordinary. Someone whose idea of rebellion isn't choosing commerce over combat. Someone whose hands aren't stained with ink instead of glory.

The first drops of rain hit my shoulders, cool against my fur. I don't move. Let it come. Maybe it'll wash away this ridiculous hope taking root in my chest—this dangerous, foolish idea that Maya might see something in me worth staying for.

The rain falls harder, plastering my fur to my skin, streaming between my horns and down my face. And still I sit, eyes closed, trying to remember that I'm a merchant. I deal in certainties, in contracts and agreements. Not in maybes. Not in the wild, terrifying gamble of offering my heart to someone who never asked for it.

14

DEX

Istand with Ellis tucked into the carrier strapped across my chest, watching Maya work. She's worn a dress today instead of her usual practical tunic and trousers—some flowing thing in a deep green that makes her eyes look more silver than gray. It's not fancy by wealthy merchant standards—no embroidery or excessive layers—but it suits her. Simple, elegant, with a fitted bodice that accentuates the curve of her waist before flowing outward.

Too damn well, if I'm honest with myself. I've been trying not to stare all morning.

"You're hovering again," Maya says without looking up from the crate of dried herbs she's sorting through. Her fingers move with practiced precision, separating rirzed from its near-identical poisonous cousin, numiscu. To my untrained eye, they're the same bright blue petals, but Maya never hesitates.

"I'm not hovering. I'm strategically positioned to catch Ellis if he decides to make a break for it." I adjust the carrier where my nephew dozes against my chest, his tiny hands occasionally twitching in sleep.

Maya snorts. "He's two months old. The only thing he's breaking is your sleep schedule."

I grin despite myself. "Fair point."

Her shop smells like a hundred different plants at once—sharp, sweet, earthy, medicinal. Bundles of herbs hang from the rafters, drying in the warm air. Tables covered with mortars, pestles, and measuring scales line the walls. It's organized chaos, everything exactly where Maya needs it to be.

I've spent the morning helping her fill orders while Ellis naps. It feels good to be useful, to do something with my hands besides bouncing a crying infant. I may not know zabilla from bluefrost, but I can lift crates and count measurements and keep the fires at the right temperature. Simple tasks that don't require me to make life-altering decisions.

"That sack of cryots needs to go in the storeroom," Maya says, nodding toward a burlap sack near the door. "Then could you bring me the fortisia from the drying rack? The dark green leaves, not the light ones."

"I know what fortisia looks like," I say, though we both know I learned the difference yesterday after nearly ruining a batch of fever remedy.

I heft the sack onto my shoulder, careful not to jostle Ellis. His gold eyes—so like mine—flutter open briefly before closing again. The weight of him against my chest still feels foreign, terrifying. This tiny life that depends on me completely. On us, really, since I'd be lost without Maya's help.

The bell above the door jingles as I'm returning from the storeroom. A minotaur strides in—broad-shouldered with steel-gray fur and a confident gait. His horn rings are simple iron, marking him as zotkak—merchant class, just like me. But there's something in his manner that suggests he thinks otherwise.

"Maya!" His voice booms through the shop. "You're looking particularly lovely today."

Maya doesn't pause in her sorting. "Hello, Torven. Your usual order?"

"Plus some extra goligan oil, if you have it. The wife uses it for her joints." He leans against the counter, watching Maya work. "Though I must say, if I'd known you'd be wearing that dress, I'd have brought you flowers."

I roll my eyes, moving to the drying rack to retrieve the fortisia Maya requested. Torven comes in every week, apparently. Always with the same heavy-handed compliments. Always met with the same polite deflection.

"The goligan will be ready by tomorrow," Maya says, ignoring the flowers comment entirely. She moves to another crate, pulling out bundles of dried herbs with practiced efficiency. "I'll have everything else ready in a moment."

I gather the fortisia, eyeing Torven over my shoulder. He doesn't acknowledge me—common enough when dealing with other minotaur merchants. We're always sizing each other up, deciding if the other is competition or potential alliance material. Apparently, I don't rate either category in his assessment.

"I don't know how you're still single, Maya," Torven says, leaning in with a grin that shows too many teeth. "Beautiful and smart? That's a rare combination."

My hand tightens around the bundle of fortisia, crushing the brittle leaves. Maya's told me how rare it is for humans and minotaur to form meaningful connections in Karona, despite the city's relative tolerance. How healers like her who treat minotaur patients are often ostracized by their own kind. Torven's words make it sound like she's a curiosity, a novelty. Not a person.

Maya laughs—casual, light—but it burns in my ears because I know that laugh. It's her professional laugh, the one that doesn't reach her eyes. The one she uses when she's tolerating something for the sake of business.

"I'm too busy for romance," she says, scooping dried herbs into a small pouch. "Between the shop and the farm, I barely have time to sleep."

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