25. Theron
25
THERON
I grip the edge of my desk, the polished wood creaking under my fingers as Lyra's voice filters through the study door. The sound of her gentle goodbyes to my children tears at something deep in my chest.
"I'll visit soon, I promise. I'll need to keep an eye on you to make sure that everything goes well." Her words, meant to comfort my daughters, slice through me instead.
My reflection in the window shows exactly what I am - a coward. Seven feet of muscle and pride, hiding in my study while the tiny human who turned my world upside down walks away. The gray clouds outside mirror the storm in my gut.
"But why can't you stay?" Mira's small voice breaks. "Papa doesn't want you to go either. I heard him-"
I slam my fist against the desk. The silver rings on my horns catch the dim morning light as I bow my head. Every instinct screams at me to wrench open that door, to stop her. But what right do I have? I'm the one who drove her away with my temper, my inability to handle these feelings that threaten to consume me.
Besides, why would she want me? She's a great healer. She doesn't need to be held back by a beast like me, a widow and the two children he doesn't even know how to let in.
I was nothing more than a distraction, a release for her. And I know that.
"Your father..." Lyra's voice catches. "Your father needs someone more suitable. Someone who won't complicate things."
The lie in her words tastes bitter even from here. Suitable. As if any of the highborn minotaur ladies Marcus keeps parading past me could hold a candle to her fire, her determination, the way she stands up to me despite barely reaching my chest.
Footsteps approach my door. My breath catches. But they pass by, heading toward the main entrance. The sound of her boots on the floors grows fainter with each step.
I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window. Outside, the first drops of rain begin to fall, distorting my view of the courtyard where her small figure will soon appear, walking away from everything I'm too much of a coward to admit I want.
The rain picks up, drumming against the window pane. Each drop mirrors the pounding in my chest as memories flood back - Cassandra's ice-blue eyes narrowed in contempt as I dared suggest she hold our newborn son. The way she turned away, declaring a merchant's hands weren't fit to touch her noble flesh.
My fingers dig into the wooden windowsill. The scars are still there, carved deep - not just in the wood, but in my soul. Every cutting remark about my common blood, every time she rejected our children's attempts at affection. Even in death, she haunts these halls.
I catch my reflection again - broad shoulders hunched, amber eyes haunted. The silver rings in my horns mark me as what I am - a merchant. No matter how much gold I earn, how many trade routes I establish, I'll never be good enough for the likes of Marcus and his ilk.
And Lyra... sweet, fierce Lyra deserves better than a broken minotaur twice her size with more emotional baggage than his merchant ships can carry. The way she tends to Mira's weak heart, how she stands toe-to-toe with me despite barely reaching my chest, unafraid to call me out on my bullshit. She's everything Cassandra wasn't.
But it doesn't matter. I have to remind myself that I can't move. Can't speak. Can't beg her to stay. Not when she deserves so much more.
The main door creaks open below. My muscles coil, every fiber screaming to charge down those stairs. But Cassandra's voice whispers in my head, "A merchant playing at nobility. Did you really think I could love someone like you?"
I press my forehead against the cold glass, horn rings clinking softly. The rain blurs everything beyond, just like the memories blur the line between past and present. Between what was and what could be.
The front door's final thud echoes through my empty study. I remain frozen at the window, watching Lyra's small figure disappear into the rain-soaked streets. My chest feels hollow, like someone's carved out everything inside.
A gentle knock breaks my trance. "Master Theron?" Mrs. Bramble's voice carries that particular tone she uses when she thinks I'm being particularly thick-headed.
"Not now." My voice comes out rougher than intended.
The door opens anyway. Mrs. Bramble's never been one to take my orders seriously, not since I was a calf stealing cookies from her kitchen. She crosses the room, her practical black dress rustling with each determined step.
"She left this." A cream-colored envelope appears on my desk. Lyra's neat handwriting spells out my name.
My fingers shake as I pick it up. The paper carries the faint scent of the healing herbs she always weaves into her hair.
Theron,
I know you're afraid. I see it in your eyes every time you look at me, every time you pull away. You think I'll be like her - cold, distant, using your children as pawns in some game.
I'm not Cassandra.
I don't care about your rings or your merchant status. I care about how you read to Mira every night, even after exhausting trade meetings. How you teach Kai to be strong without losing his gentleness. How you pretend not to notice when I rearrange your entire healing supplies because your organization is terrible.
I would choose you - all of you - over anyone else. Not because you're the richest merchant in the city, but because you're you. Gruff and stubborn and wonderful.
But I won't force my way in where I'm not wanted. I won't watch you hide behind your walls, keeping me held away from you. I'd brave everything else…if you just wanted me, too.
The choice is yours.
- Lyra
The paper crumples in my grip. Each word strips away another layer of the armor I've built around myself since Cassandra's death.
A roar tears from my throat, primal and raw. The walls shake, papers scattering from my desk like startled birds. My horns catch the edge of a shelf as I slam my fist into the wall again, sending books tumbling.
The letter flutters to the ground, Lyra's words burning in my mind. Each careful stroke of her pen strips away another layer of excuses I've built.
The door flies open. Mrs. Bramble stands there, her gray bun slightly askew, brown eyes sharp as ever. She takes in the chaos - the dent in my wall, the scattered papers, my shoulders heaving as I struggle to contain the storm inside.
"You're not the beast you think you are, sir." Her voice carries the same steady tone she used when I was a calf scraping my knees in her garden.
I bare my teeth, but she doesn't flinch. Never has. "Look at this." I gesture to the destruction around me. "I'm exactly what they say I am. A common merchant who can't control his temper."
"What I see," she steps over a fallen ledger, "is a father who loves his kids. A widow who deserves someone to really care for him."
My legs give out. I sink into my chair, the wood groaning under my weight. "I'll destroy her, just like-"
"Like Cassandra?" Mrs. Bramble's voice turns sharp. "That woman destroyed herself with her own pride. Miss Lyra isn't made of porcelain, and you're not the monster you pretend to be." She shakes her head. "You are both so worried of not being right for the other that you won't even get out of your own way."
Maybe she's right…
But I'm not willing to corrupt Lyra. To drag her down where she doesn't belong.
So if it's for her own good, I'll keep standing in my own way.