The Minotaur's Nanny Bride

Chapter 1

Dex

The weight of grief sits heavy on my shoulders as I trudge up the cobblestone path to Iris' home. My sister—my brilliant, fierce, stubborn little sister. Gone. Just like that. The morning sun mocks my sorrow, shining bright and cheerful like it hasn't the decency to recognize that the world has lost one of its brightest flames only days ago. 

I pause at the door, my massive frame suddenly feeling fragile. My fingers trace over one of the bronze rings adorning my left horn—Iris' gift on my thirtieth birthday. "For the most successful merchant in Milthar," she'd said, eyes twinkling with pride. Now those eyes are closed forever.

Taking a deep breath that does nothing to steady my nerves, I push the heavy oak door open. The hinges creak in protest. Inside, two healers in their white cloaks stand conversing in low tones with a pair of maids. They all turn at my entrance, their faces a mixture of sympathy and wariness—probably wondering if the giant minotaur filling their doorway might collapse in grief.

Then I hear it—a high-pitched wail cutting through the somber atmosphere. My ears prick forward instantly, swiveling toward the sound like twin weathervanes finding true north.

"The baby," I whisper, my voice unexpectedly hoarse. "The baby survived."

One of the maids, a plump human woman with silver-streaked hair, steps forward. "Master Ironhoof, we've been expecting you. Yes, your nephew lives, though it was a close thing."

My hooves carry me across the room without conscious thought. "Take me to him."

"Of course." The maid nods, leading me down the hallway. "We've done our best, but he's been fussy since—" She stops, choosing her words carefully. "Since your sister passed. He seems to sense that something's missing."

"Smart kid," I mutter, ducking my head to avoid scraping my horns on the ceiling beams. Iris always teased me about my size, said she'd build me a proper door one day. Now she never would.

The nursery is small but well-appointed—Iris had prepared for this child with her typical thoroughness. A mobile of carved wooden animals hangs above a hand-crafted crib. The second maid stands beside it, gently rocking its occupant.

"Here he is," she says as we approach. "Ellis, your uncle has come to meet you."

I peer down into the crib, my breath catching at the sight. He's tiny, even for a newborn, with tawny fur so like Iris'. Soft little nubs where his horns will eventually grow peek through the fluff on his head. His eyes—gods above—they're gold like mine, wide and curious despite his distress.

"Hey there, little one." I reach down with one finger, careful to keep my merchant's rings away from his delicate skin. He grasps it with surprising strength, his crying subsiding into hiccupping breaths. "I'm your uncle Dex."

The older maid clears her throat. "Master Ironhoof, there's something you should know. The child's father..."

"Passed a few months ago. I know." My heart aches for my sister, who loved her mate fiercely and was fearful of racing their baby without him. 

She didn't even have our mother to guide her. My parents had died in the Red Fever outbreak five winters past. Iris' death has left me the last of our bloodline—except for this tiny bundle.

"The child has no one else to care for him," the younger maid states bluntly, her eyes meeting mine with unexpected boldness. "He needs family. And your sister had said your name just before she passed."

Ellis chooses that moment to release my finger and make a grabbing motion toward one of my horn rings. Even in my grief, a laugh rumbles up from my chest.

"Well, you're certainly an Ironhoof." I carefully lift the small bundle, cradling him against my massive chest with a gentleness that surprises even me. "Don't worry, little one. Your mother might be gone, but you've got me now. And I've got you."

I've been carrying Ellis for the whole walk home, his tiny body nestled against my chest inside my open vest. It seemed like the right thing to do—natural even—but my stomach churns with doubt as I approach my front door.

"Well, here we are, little one." I fumble with my keys, trying not to jostle the bundle of fur and potential against my heart. "Home sweet home."

Ellis makes a gurgling sound that I choose to interpret as approval. Pushing open the door reveals my bachelor quarters in all their chaotic glory—trade ledgers stacked on every surface, half-finished cups of honeyed marka scattered about, clothing draped over furniture. It's the home of a merchant who lives alone, not a nursery.

"Might need to tidy up a bit." I chuckle nervously, but Ellis doesn't share my humor. His face scrunches up, turning an alarming shade of red, and suddenly he's wailing at a volume that seems impossible for such a small creature.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" I bounce him gently like I've seen mothers do in the marketplace. "It's not that bad, is it?"

The crying intensifies. Perhaps he's hungry? The healers packed a bag with bottles and milk, which I set down somewhere—where did I put it?

Ellis' cries ratchet up another notch while I frantically search one-handed. My ears pin back against my skull in distress, and sweat beads along my brow despite the cool spring air.

"Found it!" I triumphantly hold up a glass bottle, only to realize I have no idea how to prepare the contents. The instructions are written in tiny script, and Ellis is now screaming so loudly my neighbors will think I'm torturing him.

"Give me a minute, little guy." I set him down on my couch, propping him between two cushions. He immediately rolls sideways, nearly tumbling off before my quick reflexes catch him. My heart nearly stops. "By Zukiev's horns—okay, bad idea."

I scoop him back up, his cries now interspersed with hiccupping sobs that break my heart. His face is bright red, his little fists balled up in rage or distress—I can't tell which.

"I've negotiated trade deals with fierce minotaur sailors and even the occasional dark elf," I mutter, trying to read the formula instructions while holding a squirming, screaming infant. "Surely I can figure this out."

Twenty minutes later, the milk is too hot, then too cold, then spilled across my kitchen counter when Ellis kicks the bottle from my hand. My usual cheerful confidence is crumbling faster than poorly made pottery.

"Please, Ellis," I beg, offering the fourth attempt at the bottle. "Your uncle Dex is trying his best here."

He turns his head away, wailing with renewed vigor. My chest aches—not from his weight, but from the crushing feeling that I'm completely out of my depth. What would Iris do? What would she say if she could see me now, fumbling through this simplest of tasks?

The thought of my sister makes my throat tight. I sink down onto the floor, cradling Ellis against me. 

"I miss her too," I whisper, grief ripping through me. "I'm sorry I'm not her. I'm sorry..."

Ellis pauses his crying just long enough to look up at me with those wide golden eyes, so like mine, yet so like Iris' in their intensity. Then he resumes his protests, perhaps even louder than before.

Night falls. Ellis refuses to sleep in the makeshift crib I hastily assembled from a drawer and blankets. He won't take the bottle. He soils his wrappings faster than I can clean him, each change more disastrous than the last. My hands—steady enough to thread a needle in a storm at sea—fumble with the tiny fastenings of his clothes.

"What am I doing wrong?" I pace the floor, horns lowered in dejection. My usual booming laugh, my ready smile—both seem like memories from another lifetime. The merchant who can charm anyone can't soothe one tiny minotaur. "I can't do this. I can't, little one."

Ellis cries on, inconsolable, and in that moment, I've never felt more lost or alone.