Page 15 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
The nightmare always starts thesame way.
I’m standing in that sterile corporate conference room again, fluorescent lights humming overhead like angry wasps. Marcus Kelloway sits across from me, his expensive suit wrinkled from a sleepless night, sweat beading on his forehead despite the aggressive air conditioning. He knows why I’m here. They always know.
“Please,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “I have children.”
But in the dream, I don’t stop. In the dream, I become the monster everyone expects me to be. I lower my massive head and charge, my horns piercing straight through his chest, lifting him off the ground as his blood runs down my face. The worst part, the most distinct, is how the light fades from his eyes as his family photos smile at me from his desk.
I wake with a roar that rattles the windows.
Five AM. The pre-dawn darkness presses against my windows, and my fur is damp despite the cool morning air. The nightmare clings to me like smoke, filling my nostrils with the phantom scent of fear and blood. I stumble out of bed, my hooves hitting the hardwood with thunderous impacts that echo throughout the empty mansion.
I need to move. Need to burn off this restless energy before it consumes me.
I pace the length of my bedroom, then stomp down the stairs, through the formal living room, and into the kitchen. Regardless, the familiar route does nothing to calm the beast prowling beneath my skin. My reflection catches in the darkened windows—eight feet of barely contained violence, muscles coiled tight, eyes wild with something that has nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with the guilt that never quite leaves me alone.
You’re a monster,the voice in my head whispers.You’ve always been a monster.
In reality, I had spared Marcus Kelloway. I stopped myself before crossing that final line, but barely. I’d slammed him against the wall so hard my horns punched through the plaster on either side of his head, missing his skull by inches. The sound of his terrified whimpering as drywall rained down on us still haunts my dreams. And the way he looked at me, not with anger, but with pity, cut deeper than any accusation could have.
That was the moment I walked away from everything. The money, the power, the intoxicating rush of being feared. Because I realized I was one decision away from becoming exactly whathumans expect minotaurs to be: mindless beasts who solve problems with violence.
I’m still pacing when I hear it: a soft, hesitant knock at my front door.
My entire body goes still. It’s five-fifteen in the morning. Nobody knocks at this hour unless something’s wrong. My first instinct is to ignore it, to let whoever it is assume I’m asleep. The last thing I need right now is to face someone else while I’m fighting to keep my darker nature caged.
But the knock comes again, more tentative this time, and somehow I know exactly who it is. The soft, uncertain sound speaks of desperation masked as politeness.
It can’t be anyone else but her.
I stride to the foyer, my hooves muffled on the thick Persian rug. Through the beveled glass of the front door, I can make out a small figure silhouetted against the porch light. My enhanced hearing picks up a familiar heartbeat, slightly elevated but steady.
Frankie.
I yank the door open, probably too quickly, and she takes a small step back. She’s wearing a skirt that hugs her curves and a soft yellow sweater that makes her wavy locks look even darker in the porch light. Her hazel eyes are bright despite the early hour, and I can see the determination in the set of her shoulders. A duffel bag sits at her feet.
“I’m sorry,” she says immediately, her voice soft and uncertain. “I know it’s early. I just—I couldn’t sleep, and I kept thinking about what you said, and I figured maybe it was better to come over instead of lying in bed overthinking everything until I talked myself out of it.”
She’s rambling, the words tumbling over each other in that adorable way she does when she’s nervous. But I’m barely processing what she’s saying because the nightmare is still too close to the surface, my control too thin. And if her wide eyes are any indication, she can probably sense the aggression rolling off me in waves.
“Frankie.” My voice comes out rougher than I intended, more growl than words. “You’re making a mistake.”
Instead of backing away like any sensible person would, she steps closer. Those bright hazel eyes study my face with the same care she gives her bees, taking in the tension in my jaw, the way my nostrils are still flaring with each breath.
“What’s wrong?” she asks softly.
“Nothing. I just—” I run a hand through my mane, my tail lashing behind me with agitation. “I had a bad night. You should go home.”
But she doesn’t move. If anything, she seems to settle more firmly in place, like she’s made some kind of decision. Her gaze travels over my face, reading whatever she sees there: the wildness I’m fighting to contain, the way my massive frame is practically vibrating with barely controlled energy.
“You’re agitated,” she observes, and there’s no fear in her voice. Just that same calm certainty she had when she was brushing bees off my body. “What happened?”
“Frankie, please.” My tail continues its restless movement, and I can see her tracking the motion out of the corner of her eye. “You don’t want to be around me right now.”
“Why don’t you let me decide that?”
Before I can protest, she picks up her duffel bag and steps past me into the foyer. The scent of honey and wildflowers fills my nostrils, cutting through the lingering phantom smells from my nightmare. My entire body responds to her presence—muscles relaxing slightly, breathing deepening, the frantic energy settling into something more manageable.
She sets her bag down and turns to face me, her movements slow and deliberate, like she’s approaching a spooked animal.
