Page 11 of Her Possessive Minotaurs

My grip tightens slightly around her waist. “Remember this moment,” I say softly. “Remember who holds your fate.”

She swallows hard, a mixture of fear and determination flickering in her eyes as she meets my gaze once more. For a fleeting moment, something like respect passes between us—a mutual recognition of strength in different forms.

I step back, releasing my hold on her. She stands there, chest heaving with each ragged breath, eyes locked on mine with that same defiance.

This human is more than she appears. But survival here requires more than just courage and desperation—it requires submission and strength in equal measure.

Laia’s face is throwing a challenge at me. She moves closer to me.

“I want to prove that I can do it,” she chokes, her breath hitching.

I lean down, my lips brushing against her neck. Her skin is warm, almost feverish. “You want to prove yourself?"I whisper a dark taunt. “Then show me.”

Her breath catches, and I feel her body respond to my proximity despite the fear curling in her gut. My hand slides down her back, gripping her tighter. She’s trembling, but she doesn’t pull away.

My other hand moves with deliberate slowness, teasing her and testing her resolve. My fingers trace the lines of her body, skimming over the curve of her waist and down to her hip. It’s a game—a reminder of who holds the power here.

My fingers found her nipples, and I pinch them, loving the feel of it. I’ve never fucked a human before, but there’s something so addicting about her vulnerability and softness.

She gasps softly, her skin alive with sensation under my touch. I see the struggle in her eyes—fear mingling with something else, something she doesn’t quite understand yet.

But then, just as the tension peaks, I stop.

I pull away, my eyes dark and unreadable. “Not yet,” I say softly, releasing her. The absence of my touch leaves her breathless, her body still humming with the heat of my dominance.

“You’ll have to earn my trust first.”

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8

LAIA

Icrouch by the fire, my hands busy slicing herbs I found earlier in the forest. The smell of fresh thyme and mint fills the air, mingling with the smoke from the cooking meat. I stir the pot, watching the broth bubble, my mind drifting back to the night five days ago—to Thalos’s touch and his commanding presence.

My body shivers as I recall what happened inside his cave. I push the thoughts away as I notice Kael from a distance. I wave at him, gratitude filling my heart.

Kael's care has worked wonders; my wounds are nearly healed. Over the past five days, I’ve found ways to be useful around the lair—cleaning, cooking, doing anything to prove my worth. Fortunately, they seem to like my cooking. It's... pretty normal.

The broth bubbles more vigorously now, and I add a handful of sliced herbs into the pot. The aroma intensifies, and I take a moment to savor it. Normality is a strange concept here. Yet, in these small tasks—preparing meals, keeping their space clean—I find a sliver of peace.

But a hollow ache lingers in my chest, a reminder of what I’ve given up. My body, my freedom... all traded for survival. Isthis who I’ve become? My hands grip the wooden spoon tightly, knuckles whitening with the strain.

A woman who trades her body just to keep breathing? What was the difference between this and Eryndor?

The memory of Eryndor’s cruelty flashes in my mind—his cold hands on my skin, his brutal smile as he inflicted pain. I shudder, shaking myself free of the thoughts. He drained my friend’s blood without a flicker of remorse, and when I refused to kill for him, he beat me until I could barely stand.

His cruel laughter echos in my ears as if he’s just beside me. My body jolts in fear, and cold sweat drips from my forehead.

Clenching my hands, I tell myself I’m not that girl anymore. I’m not a victim. This is the difference between Eryndor and the minotaurs.

Here, I made a choice.

I glance around the lair, at the rough stone walls and the flickering firelight casting shadows on their faces. This place is vastly different from Eryndor’s mansion. This rough lair is the closest place I can call home.

My gaze locks with Thalos’ dark eyes. He follows my movements from across the room, always assessing and always watching. His presence is a constant reminder of my bargain.

Amongst these minotaurs, each day brings its own battles—small victories like cooking a meal they enjoy or cleaning without complaint.

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