Page 30 of Scr*wed By the Minotaur in Hallow's Cove
I shook my head. “You’ll see.” It was only a five-minute drive, but I went slow, savoring the hush that fell between us. She tapped her fingers on the window, humming some tune that didn’t match the radio at all, and every so often she’d glance over and catch me staring like a dumbass, then look away pretending she hadn’t.
The road narrowed, the trees pressed in, and at the top of the ridge the world broke open. I pulled the truck off onto a gravel turnout overlooking the entire valley—Hallow’s Cove below us, the river a silver ribbon in the moonlight, the whole sweep of wilderness unspooling until it hit the next mountain. The sky was a riot of stars, and the air was cool, almost crisp.
I killed the headlights, letting the darkness swallow us whole. For a second, neither of us moved—the world so quiet that the ticking of the engine cooled to a hush and you could hear the trees settle. I went around and opened the passenger door with a flourish. Lea took my hand, letting herself be helped down even though I knew she didn’t need it. She looked up at the sky and gave a low, impressed whistle.
“Holy shit.”
The stars were thick tonight, stitched edge to edge across the sky, brighter than any city night. A meteor streaked past, leaving a greenish scar behind that lingered for a heartbeat. She craned her neck, losing herself in the view, and for a long moment I just stood there, watching her watch the sky. She was so beautiful when she forgot to guard herself, when she let awe crack her open.
I cleared my throat, feeling a flutter of nerves once more. “I set up something special in the truck bed for you... for us.” With a smile, I opened the back to reveal a cozy nest of blankets and pillows, accompanied by a thermos of hot chocolate, all ready for a perfect evening under the stars.
Lea
I could have cried, but I didn’t—my reservoir was dry, and anyway, it was too good. The truck bed was lined with a ridiculous pile of plaid blankets, a battered sleeping bag, and—because he was a dork at heart—one of those overhead camping lanterns that made the whole setup glow like a little den. Therewere snacks, too: a paper bag of fancy cookies from the town bakery, a bag of kettle chips, and the thermos—he hadn’t lied—full of homemade hot chocolate. I clambered up, wobbly in my dress, and flopped into the pile of blankets and pillows. It all smelled like pine, and dust, and him.
Rick climbed in after me, moving slow and deliberate, like he didn’t want to spook me or mess up the moment. He sat with his back to the cab, legs stretched out and hooves almost hanging over the edge and waited for me to settle before he poured two mugs from the thermos. He handed me a mug and clinked his own against it, grinning with an awkward pride. I took a sip, and the heat filled my chest. The chocolate was rich and not too sweet, just the way I liked it.
The world had gone silent except for the chorus of frogs and the crackle of distant branches. Above us the sky was a cathedral, stained with stars and the thin white hush of the Milky Way. We didn’t talk. For maybe the first time since I met Rick, we just sat together, shoulder to shoulder, letting the vastness of the universe do the talking for us. It reminded me of camping with my mom as a kid—how the world always felt too big, but also safe, as long as someone was beside you. I found myself leaning into Rick, not even noticing when his arm slid around my shoulders.
The warm, easy hush of the moment stretched and shimmered, until it was so taut I could feel the tension vibrating under my skin. Every time Rick shifted, the truck bed rocked, and every time his arm tightened around me, a corresponding spark jumped inside my chest. I sipped the last of my hot chocolate, not realizing until it was gone how badly I wanted my hands free.
He set his mug aside and I heard the faint click of ceramic on metal, the sound oddly loud in the hush. I felt him looking at me, but I didn’t turn—I just kept watching the sky, pretending Ididn’t notice the way his fingers had started tracing little circles on my shoulder, or how his thigh pressed against mine with more and more certainty.
I waited for him to make the first move—half because I wanted to see how long he could hold out, and half because I liked the anticipation. The tension built, a sweet ache, until finally his hand slid up the side of my neck, thumb under my jaw, tilting my chin toward him. There was no rush to the kiss, just a gentle press of lips, slow and searching, as if he was trying to memorize the taste of me under the stars.
I melted into him, letting the pressure of his mouth draw out every last shred of resistance. My hands found his chest, splaying over the heat of his skin beneath the button-up, feeling the steady thrum of his heart. He cradled my cheek, his other arm winding around my waist, and for a long moment we did nothing but kiss—deeper, then softer, like we could breathe the night air in and out of each other.
I didn’t remember lying down, but there we were, side by side in the sea of blankets, his hand gentle at my hip, his lips lingering again and again on my mouth. I’d had sex with him before—but this was different. There was no rush, no frantic need to prove we were alive or to suffocate grief with sensation. There was only his hand drifting, slow and warm, from my waist to my ribs; only the way he nuzzled into the hollow behind my ear, breathing me in like I was the first breath after drowning.
His fingers trailed under the hem of my dress, tentative, asking permission with every inch. I shivered, not from cold but from the fragile, electric certainty that he wanted me—every part, every scar, even the parts that had nothing to do with sex at all. I let my head tip back, exposing my throat, surrendering to the flutter of his mouth, the way every brush of his hand made me feel sharper, more alive.
The air was cool on my thighs when his hand slid higher, but I was already burning, every inch of exposed skin prickling where his fingers traced. He went slow, agonizingly so, thumb stroking tender crescents at the hem of my underwear, knuckles feathering the skin above my knee. When he finally—finally—let his hand slip up and over, I gasped, hips arching into the touch.
He stilled, eyes searching mine in the lantern glow. “Okay?” he whispered, voice so low it was almost lost to the night.
I nodded, too breathless for words. “Better than okay.” And it was. There was no friction in this, no pain, just a hot, slow unraveling, like every nerve in my body came awake under his hands.
He kissed me again, slower this time—mouth coaxing, savoring, not just taking. My breath tangled in my throat as his fingers slid beneath the thin band of my underwear, finding me already wet and wanting. He touched me like he had all night, all weekend, all the time in the world. I moaned softly, because it was too good to hold in, and he shushed me with the sweetest kiss, his thumb circling until I was trembling against the blanket.
I reached for the buttons on his shirt, managing to fumble them open one by one. His body was solid and warm against the chill, and when I touched him, he shuddered like it was the first time. His hand never stopped moving, never stopped drawing soft, breathless sounds out of me, even when I pressed my mouth to his shoulder and bit down, needing something to hold the world together.
He tugged my underwear off slowly and left them tangled around one ankle before pulling my dress over my head. He pressed me onto my back, bracing his arms to either side of my head. The cool air hit, goosebumps chasing up my arms, but he was there, kissing each one in turn, mouth warm and reverent. He kissed my collarbones, the dip above my heart, the small scar near my ribs from when I’d fallen out of a tree at age six. It feltlike each kiss was a wordless promise: I see you, I want you, I’m not going anywhere.
He took his time. There was no hurry, no need to rush toward the finish line. The night was endless, the valley below us a secret, and for once I didn’t care if there were monsters or ghosts or gods watching from the dark. Let them. I had him, and he had me, not just in the way of hands and mouths and bodies, but in the slow, deliberate claiming of hearts. I wanted it to last forever. I wanted to remember this, not as the night I let go of my grief, but the night I finally decided I had a future worth wanting.
He moved over me, big and careful, the weight of his body a perfect shelter. When he finally pressed into me, it was slow, so slow, the stretch and ache of him as much comfort as pleasure. We fit together, bodies aligning in a way that made me think of matched puzzle pieces, the kind you find in the bottom of a box after searching for years. I wrapped myself around his hips and held him there, grinding up against every inch, and he groaned into my neck, the sound so needy and desperate that it almost made me cry.
He didn’t fuck me—he made love to me, and I almost hated the cliché of it, but that’s what it was—something slow and deliberate, something that built and built until my body was shaking, not from what he did to me but from what it meant to be chosen by him, all of him, every broken and bruised part. He ground into me with a patience that bordered on torture, pausing every so often to check my face, my breath, the whisper of my name on my lips.
Between thrusts, he kissed me everywhere—forehead, cheekbone, jaw, even the soft place behind my ear. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, voice thick with wonder, and it hit me harder than anything else that night. I pulled him down, mouthing the wordsdon’t stopagainst his throat, not just meaning themovement but the moment, not wanting him to let go even when my own body started to tremble and collapse.
I came soft and slow, wave after wave, clinging to his shoulders like I might go under if I let go. He held me through it, not moving, just breathing hard, sweat slicking his skin where our bodies met. When he finally came, it was with a low, stunned grunt, his face buried in the crook of my neck, hands clamped at my hips like I was the only thing that kept him tethered to the world. I felt the shudder go through him, the throb and flood of him inside me, and I was hit with this unaccountable joy—like maybe the universe hadn’t made a mistake after all, putting us here, together, under this free country sky.
Afterward, we just lay there, his body draped half over mine like a living, breathing security blanket. The air cooled quickly, prickling sweat on my skin, but I didn’t care. I pulled him closer, arms locked around his back, and listened to the frantic thunder of his heart gradually slow, the way his breath caught and hitched every time I stroked his hair or traced the arch of his horns. My own heart was steady, grounded, not frantic for the first time in months.
When he finally slid off me, it was gentle, almost apologetic, like he was sorry to let the night back in. He pulled my dress back over my head, then wrestled his own shirt on without buttoning it, and we lay there, side by side, sharing a half-packet of cookies and the rest of the hot chocolate. I’d never felt so completely seen, or so thoroughly wrecked.
Eventually, the night got too cold, even for us. I shivered, pulling the blankets up, and Rick sat up, stretching with a wince. “C’mon,” he said, patting my knee and helping me up. “Let’s get you home.”
