Kept By Her Obsessed Minotaurs

25. Lazir

25

LAZIR

T he first rays of dawn seep through the dense canopy above, casting a mosaic of light and shadow across the forest floor. I sit with my back to a broad tree trunk with the leather pouch of herbs between my legs. My fingers work diligently, grinding the plant matter into a fine, aromatic paste. The scent is pungent, filling the air with an earthy sharpness that speaks of ancient remedies and whispered healing charms.

A rustle from inside the tent draws my attention. I set the mortar and pestle aside and head for the tent. The canvas flap parts under my touch revealing the makeshift infirmary we've fashioned for Mara. The tent is a sanctuary amidst the chaos, the air inside heavy with the scent of medicine and the soft, rhythmic sound of her breathing.

Her eyes flutter open at my approach. There's a moment of disorientation before she recognizes me, a vulnerability in her gaze that tugs at something primal within me. "Where... are the others?" she asks. Her voice, a mere whisper, is laced with concern.

"Finding us a new place to stay," I reply, keeping my tone steady, authoritative. "You need more time to heal."

She tries to prop herself up on her elbows, a flicker of determination in her eyes, but I'm quick to intervene. My hand, broad and calloused, presses gently but firmly against her shoulder, urging her back down. "Don't. You'll only make it worse," I say, my voice tinged with worry.

Her defiance wavers, the fight draining from her as she sinks back down. Exhaustion clings to her like a second skin. She's so fragile, so breakable, and the realization that I might actually care sends a jolt of surprise through my system.

I reach for the small wooden bowl containing the herb mixture I've prepared. The spoon, crude but functional, hovers at her lips. She eyes it warily, no doubt catching the acrid scent of the concoction. Her lips part reluctantly, and I tip the spoon, the paste sliding onto her tongue. She swallows, her face contorting in distaste, but she doesn't refuse me.

Feeding her like this, it's... intimate in a way I hadn't anticipated. My role has always been that of the protector, the warrior, not the caregiver. Yet here I am, spoon-feeding a human female as if she were a fledgling bird, and I, her reluctant guardian.

I tell myself it's simply a matter of practicality. She's a means to an end, a potential key to the wealth and redemption we so desperately seek. But as I watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the softness of her features, I can't ignore the uncomfortable truth that has been tugging at the back of my mind.

I've grown... accustomed to her presence, to the sound of her voice, to the way her eyes light up with defiance at the slightest provocation. It's a weakness, one I cannot afford, yet I find it strangely difficult to tear my gaze away from her.

"I don’t… have time to rest," she murmurs suddenly, her eyes closing briefly. "I have things I need to do. Promises I need to keep.”

My expression softens slightly, though I don't show it. I've seen enough battle wounds to recognize the stubborn gleam in her eye, the set of her jaw that speaks of a will stronger than her fragile body might suggest.

"You'll keep them," I assure her, my voice low but firm. "But not if you die first."

I dip a clean cloth into a basin of cool water and wring it out before gently wiping her forehead. Her skin is warm under my touch, her cheeks flushed with a fever that refuses to break. She squirms a little at the contact but doesn't protest.

"Why are you doing this?" she asks, her eyes searching my face. I pause, my hand stilling on her forehead as I meet her gaze. My reasons are complicated, tangled up in a web of duty and desire that I'm not quite ready to unravel. But she deserves an answer, something honest amidst the lies and half-truths that have defined our relationship thus far.

"Because I want you alive," I say simply, the words leaving my lips before my mind has fully processed them. It's the truth, as far as it goes. I've seen too much death, too much senseless loss. I won't stand by and watch it claim another, especially not her.

She seems to accept this, her body relaxing as I continue my ministrations. I clean her body with careful precision, my large hands surprisingly gentle as I navigate the bandages and healing salves that mar her soft skin. She watches me, her hazel eyes never leaving my face.

As I work, I find myself asking about her life before all this—before the running, the fighting. "Tell me about your old life," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "How did your mistress treat you?"

Her expression shifts, a shadow passing over her face as she recalls her past. "She was kind," Mara replies after a moment. "In her own way. She trusted me." She doesn't elaborate any further, and I don't press her. Not yet. There's a wariness in her eyes that tells me she'll share more when she's ready, and not a moment before.

She turns the conversation back on me, her curiosity piqued. "And what about you, Lazir? What's it like, being a minotaur?" She asks the question with genuine interest, her gaze steady on mine.

I hesitate, the familiar weight of my past pressing down on me. It's not something I discuss often, if ever. But there's something about her—something that compels me to open up, to share pieces of myself that I've kept locked away for so long.

"It's... complicated," I say, my voice rough with old memories. "We're a proud race, bound by honor and tradition." I then go on to tell her of our customs, of the great halls and fertile plains of our homeland, now lost to us. I speak cryptically about the betrayal that led to my banishment alongside Garron and Calo. I tell her of the struggle to survive, to carve out a place for ourselves in a world that doesn't welcome us.

As I speak, I see a flicker of understanding in her eyes, a shared sense of loss and longing. We are not so different, she and I—both caught in the grip of a fate that neither of us chose.

Our conversation is cut short by the sound of approaching footsteps. Calo and Garron appear at the entrance of the tent, their expressions grim but determined. "We found a place," Garron announces, his gaze flicking briefly to Mara. "A cave. It'll do for now."

I nod, rising to my full height as I step out of the tent. The morning air is cool and crisp, a stark contrast to the stifling heat of Mara's sickroom. "Then let's get moving," I say firmly. "She'll need the better shelter if she's going to keep fighting."

As we prepare to depart, I can't help but glance back at Mara, her figure small and vulnerable on the makeshift stretcher. There's a fierce determination in her eyes though, a silent promise that she won't go down without a fight.

And for the first time since this whole mess began, I find myself hoping—praying—that she'll succeed. Because if she can survive this, then maybe there's hope for the rest of us too.