Page 35 of The Minotaur's Nanny Bride

His massive hands find my waist, gentle despite their size, pulling me closer until I'm pressed against the solid warmth of him. I thread my fingers through his coarse fur, feeling the powerful muscles beneath, and deepen the kiss. He tastes faintly of kaffo and something distinctly him—earthy and wild and perfect.

I've never been one for sentiment, for romantic notions. I'm the practical one, the survivor, the woman who rebuilt her life from nothing after being cast out. But this—this feels inevitable, like two plants that have been growing toward each other despite all obstacles.

His low groan vibrates through me as I trace the line of his jaw. For these precious moments, all the uncertainty falls away, replaced by the raw, undeniable truth of us together, of what we could be.

But then something shifts.

His hands tighten slightly at my waist, and he pulls back, breaking the kiss. His breathing is ragged, eyes dark with desire—but there's something else there too. Hesitation. Doubt.

"Maya..." he starts, voice rough.

I don't let him finish, don't let him retreat behind excuses. My practical nature takes over, cutting straight to what matters.

"I'm not going anywhere," I tell him, my voice thick with emotion I rarely allow myself to show. "Not...if you don't want me to."

The vulnerability of those words leaves me feeling exposed, stripped of my usual armor of self-sufficiency. The scar on my right hand—my permanent reminder of choosing compassion over family loyalty—throbs slightly, as it always does when my emotions run high.

But Dex doesn't answer. Instead, he steps back, putting distance between us. His green eyes, usually so full of mischief or warmth, are unreadable as he runs a hand through the thick fur between his horns. He looks almost lost—this massive, confident, jovial minotaur suddenly uncertain and withdrawn.

I watch him, feeling something heavy and cold settle in my chest. I've faced rejection before—my family made sure I knew exactly what that felt like—but this hurts in a different way. Deeper. More personal.

The practical healer in me catalogs the physical symptoms: quickened pulse, tightness in the throat, a hollow feeling spreading beneath my ribs. The rational part of my mind understands I've just changed everything between us, upset the delicate balance we've maintained.

But my heart? My heart is a different matter entirely.

I stand there, feeling the heat of the fire at my back, watching him wrestle with whatever demons keep pulling him away from connection. I don't know what just happened, but I know with absolute certainty that it changed something.

Even if he can't say it.

20

DEX

Ibalance Ellis in the crook of my elbow, gently bouncing him as I finish the bottle of warm milk. The little one stares up at me with those wide gold eyes—Iris' eyes—making my chest ache. He's getting heavier by the day, growing faster than I can keep up with. Three months old now, and he's already developing that sturdy minotaur frame.

"There you go," I murmur as he grabs for the bottle. "Hungry today, aren't you?"

The house feels emptier when Maya isn't here. She left at dawn for her shop, something about a special batch of gankoya root that needed processing before it lost potency. I miss the way she moves through these rooms, adding life to spaces I never knew were vacant. Things are easier between us, but I want her so much that I know it's keeping tension there that I want gone.

I don't know what to do.

Ellis makes a gurgling noise, milk dribbling down his chin. I wipe it away with my thumb, studying the soft tufts of tawny fur covering his cheeks. My sister's son. My responsibility now.

"Your mother would've been much better at this," I tell him. "She knew what she was doing."

A sharp knock at the door breaks the quiet. I frown. It's midmorning on a trading day—not when I'd expect visitors.

"Coming," I call, shifting Ellis into a more secure position against my chest. His tiny fingers clutch at my shirt as I make my way to the entrance.

The moment I pull the door open, a female minotaur sweeps past me into the foyer. She doesn't wait for an invitation, doesn't pause for introductions. Just walks in like she owns the place, her black and white fur impeccably groomed, her horns polished to a gleam and adorned with silver bands that probably cost more than a month of my earnings.

I recognize her from Iris' descriptions. Varina. Ellis's paternal grandmother.

"So this is where my grandson has been hidden away," she says, her voice cool and precise. Her dark brown eyes flick over my modest home, cataloging every detail—the toys scattered across the floor, the half-finished bottle on the side table, the cradle in the corner of the sitting room visible through the doorway.

Ellis squirms against me, as if sensing the sudden tension in my muscles.

"No one's hiding him," I say, struggling to keep my voice even. "And you might want to try a greeting before barging into someone's home."

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