Page 19 of Scr*wed By the Minotaur in Hallow's Cove
The hangover pelted me like a heavy summer thunderstorm, but the memory of her standing there, hurt and angry, was like going through a hurricane. Gravity became irrelevant. All I thought about was those eyes looking so disappointed in me, and my stomach roiled. I’d wanted to make things right. Instead, I’d shown up at her door, confirming every worst fear she had about me. I rolled over, burying my face in the pillow.
Fuck.
I peeled myself out of bed, the wooden floor too loud against hooves. I wasn’t sure what to do. Give her space? Give her time?A part of me knew I should back off, let her decide if she wanted anything more to do with me. But another part—a bigger, more desperate part—wanted to go over there right now, sober and clear-headed, and try again.
I splashed cold water on my face and stared at my reflection. My shaggy hair was a mess, and regret had settled deep in my eyes. I needed to breathe. To think. To get my head on straight before I went to her again. Maybe I’d made an idiot of myself the night before, but she was still the one who got us into this situation.
The thought burned, but it also cleared the haze. I wasn’t just going to let her waltz into town, wreck my head, and then sweep out again. If she wanted to play games, she’d picked the wrong minotaur.
I stormed out of the apartment, down to the shop. I didn’t know what I’d say when I saw her, but I knew one thing: I wasn’t going to be the one to retreat in embarrassment.
I knocked on the flower shop door once, hard. No answer. The windows were covered in brown paper, but I could hear music blasting—early 2000s, some boy band—leaking through the cracks.
I didn’t wait for an invitation. I turned the handle and stepped inside.
It was an explosion of color—fresh paint, stacks of packaging, pots of flowers in various states of bloom. Lea stood behind the counter, her curls piled up with two pencils and a spade jammed through them like it was a hairdo straight from an art supply riot. Lea was hunched over her phone, typing one-handed, the other hand holding a half-eaten donut.
She didn’t look up.
“Lea.” I called over the music.
“Rick?” Her voice was startled, then cutting. “Sobered up, have you?” She turned down the old-fashioned CD player she had next to her.
She was right, but it still stung.“Yeah, I have. And if you are going to stay here, then we need to at least be civil to each other.”
Her tone was pure steel. “Fine. Let’s be civil neighbors.” She set down the donut with a deliberate lack of care, wiped her fingers on a rag, and gave me a glare that could scour rust off metal.
“Run your shop. I’ll run mine. We’ll keep it professional.” Her laugh was sharp-edged but real. “You think you can manage that, big guy?”
I bristled at the word. “Careful,” I said, stepping closer.
“Or what?” she said, chin up, lips twitching. “You’ll mope at me? Glare holes in my drywall?”
“Don’t push me,” I said, but it came out hoarse, barely more than a growl.
The look she gave me then—defiant, electric—should have been a warning. Instead, it detonated every rational thought in my skull. With no more than a heartbeat’s hesitation, I leaned forward, flattening my palms on the counter. She didn’t recoil. She didn’t even blink. She just stared me down, chest rising and falling like she was daring me to cross the line.
So I did.
In one motion I vaulted the counter, scattering the screws and nails that Randy had left behind, landing just inches from her. She didn’t flinch. If anything, she squared her shoulders, tilting her chin up so our faces were even. I could see the spark in her eyes, a riot of hurt and want and willful, impossible hope.
“Didn’t think you had it in you,” she whispered, and the words barely made it past her lips before I crushed my mouth into hers. She met the kiss like a slap, hard and greedy. There was nothing polite about it. All lips and tongue and an angry, desperategasp that burned in my mouth. Her hands tangled in my shirt, bunching the fabric, and she yanked me so close I could have sworn she meant to tear me in half. Good. Maybe I wanted her to.
I pressed her back into the wall behind the counter, feeling every point of contact: her small fingers digging into the flesh of my shoulders, her thighs bracing my hips, the fever-hot pulse pounding in her throat as my lips trailed down to claim it. She let out a sound—not quite a moan, not quite a growl, but something feral—and the need in it made me lose the last shreds of sense I had.
My hands roamed over her, everywhere, gripping her hips, sliding up her back, tangling in her hair. I wanted every part of her, wanted to erase the distance we’d carved between us. I kissed down her neck, feeling her shiver against me, feeling the heat between us grow until it was more than I could handle. Until I was hard and aching and ready to take her right there on the shop floor, to show her how much I wanted her, how much she meant.
“Upstairs,” she panted, her voice urgent.
I pulled back, breathless, my eyes searching hers for something—anything—to tell me this was real.
Her gaze was steady, and she tugged at my hand, leading us through the mess of paint cans and empty boxes and up the stairs to her apartment.
Lea
My pulse throbbed in my ears, the sharp hammering of my heart matching the wild scramble of our feet as I hauled him up the stairs. We were a frantic mess of tangled limbs and reckless urgency, my boots and his hooves sending vibrations through the old wood, the soft glow of midmorning light be damned. I didn’t know if this was madness or desperation, and I didn’t give a fuck. I needed him, needed the heat of him, needed that first kiss—searing, possessive, branding my soul.
I kicked open the apartment door. Rick was mine the second he stumbled inside, his mouth crashing onto mine, fierce, demanding, tasting of stale whiskey, sleep, and a primal hunger that matched my own. I drank him down like the strongest shot, body already yearning for more, already aching for every part of him.
