Page 4 of The Minotaur's Nanny Bride

I laugh, the sound coming out sharper than intended. "Me? No. I'd be a terrible mother. I enjoy my freedom too much." The words flow automatically, my standard response to such questions.

Thea smiles. "Some days I envy that freedom."

We part ways at the fruit stall, Nico now happily clutching both my sachet and an apple his mother purchased. She thanks me again, genuine gratitude in her tired eyes.

As I walk away, something gnaws at me—a splinter lodged beneath my skin. I helped without taking responsibility. I made a difference for a moment without changing my life. That's enough.

Isn't it?

3

DEX

Islump against the cool stone wall of my home, sliding down until my massive frame hits the floor with a thud that would normally concern me about disturbing the neighbors. Right now, I couldn't care less. My head drops into my hands, fingers digging into the fur between my horns where a headache pulses like a blacksmith's hammer.

"Waaaaaaaah!"

Ellis's cries pierce the air again, his tiny lungs somehow producing a sound that could wake the dead in the catacombs. I lift my bloodshot green eyes to the cradle where my nephew's tawny fur is slick with sweat, his little body arching and twisting as if possessed.

"Come on, little one," I whisper, my normally booming merchant's voice reduced to a ragged plea. "What do you want from me?"

I've tried everything. The bottle sits rejected on the side table, barely touched. Each time I try to rock him, his cries intensify as if I'm torturing him. Sleep? That's become a distant memory for both of us.

I drag myself up, my seven-and-a-half-foot frame feeling heavier than a wagon of iron. One of the bronze rings on my left horn is loose—I haven't had time to tighten it. My brown fur is matted in places, especially around my chest where Ellis has spit up more milk than he's consumed. There's a sour smell clinging to me that no amount of washing seems to remove.

"Let's try once more," I mutter, reaching into the cradle.

Ellis's gold eyes—so like mine—are swimming with tears. His tiny horns, barely nubs poking through his downy head fur, gleam with moisture. I lift him as gently as my massive hands can manage.

"Shhhh," I try again, patting his back with a fingertip that seems absurdly large against his small frame. "Your uncle's got you."

His response is a hiccupping sob that breaks my heart and my patience simultaneously.

"Gods below," I groan. "I've faced down a band of river pirates with nothing but a broken oar. I once convinced Theron to attend a Spring Festival dance." I look down at the wailing infant. "But you, little one, might be my undoing."

The walls of my house feel like they're closing in. I need air. Maybe that's what Ellis needs too.

"A walk," I decide, grabbing a light blanket to wrap around him. "The evening air might calm us both."

I step outside, the cool evening breeze a blessed relief against my overheated skin. The sun is starting to set, the warm light spilling across the cobblestone streets. For a moment, Ellis's cries soften, and I feel a surge of triumph.

"That's it," I encourage, taking a few steps down the street. "See? Much better out here, isn't it?"

My victory is short-lived. Within moments, Ellis is screaming again, possibly louder than before. A window slams shut across the way. Someone mutters a curse that even I, a former warrior's son, find impressive.

I bounce Ellis gently as we walk, trying to remember the lullaby my mother used to sing. All that comes to mind are ribald drinking songs from the portside taverns.

"Not helpful," I mutter, adjusting Ellis in my arms. His tiny fingers grab at my chest fur and pull, bringing tears to my eyes. "Careful there, strong one."

We make a circuit around the block, then another. My legs ache. My horns throb. My eyes feel like they're filled with sand. Ellis continues to cry, his little body shuddering with each sob.

"What would your mother do?" I ask the stars, not expecting an answer. The question sends a pang through my chest sharper than any physical pain.

It's been one week. One week of this impossible task. One week of being completely, utterly inadequate to the needs of this tiny life in my arms. One week of missing sleep, missing meals, missing the knowledge that should have been passed down but never was.

"I don't know if I can do this," I admit aloud, voice cracking. "I really don't."

I'm about to turn around and head back home, admit defeat, when suddenly, a voice cuts through the fog of my exhaustion. "You look like you're about to drop dead."

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