Page 16 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
“Close the door,” she says gently. “Whatever’s bothering you, we can talk about it.”
“You don’t understand.” But I do close the door, the soft click echoing in the silence. “I’m not… I’m not safe when I’m like this.”
She moves closer, and I catch the subtle shift in her scent. “Not safe how?”
How do I explain to her that the line between civilization and savagery feels paper-thin right now? That the nightmare reminded me exactly what I’m capable of when I stop holding back?
Instead of answering, I turn away from her, running both hands through my mane. But then I feel gentle fingers touch my forearm, and the simple contact sends electricity racing through me.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” she says.
The simple command does something to me, cuts through the chaos in my head like a blade. This small human woman, barely reaching my chest, is looking at me like she expects to be obeyed. Like she’s not afraid of whatever she sees in my face.
Her other hand comes up to touch my muzzle, fingers gentle against the coarse fur there. “Breathe with me,” she murmurs, and incredibly, I find myself doing just that. Her touch moves to my ears, scratching gently behind them the way she might soothe a distressed animal, and something inside me unclenches.
“I had a nightmare,” I admit finally, my voice barely above a rumble. “About my past. About the things I used to do.”
“What kind of things?”
I close my eyes as her fingers trail up to my horns, stroking along the ridged surface with the same gentle confidence she shows with her bees. “Things that would make you run if you knew.”
“Try me.”
The challenge in her voice makes me look at her again. She’s still touching my horns, still standing close enough to be in danger if I lose control, but there’s no fear in her expression. Just patience and something that looks almost like affection.
“Maybe someday,” I say quietly. “When you know me better. When you’re sure you want to hear it.”
She nods slowly, accepting this non-answer in a way that makes my chest tight with gratitude. “The nightmare was about that moment. The one where you decided to change.”
“It always is.”
“And that’s when you stopped.”
“Yes.”
“How often do you have them?”
“More frequently since I moved here. Since I started trying to be someone different.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Turns out you can’t outrun what you are.”
“What are you?”
The question catches me off guard, and I can only answer honestly. “A monster.”
“No.” Her voice is firm, certain, her fingers still gentle on my horns. “You’re a man who made mistakes and chose to be better. The nightmares are your conscience reminding you why you changed.”
Her simple acceptance of what little I’ve told her, the way she’s looking at me without fear or judgment, does something to the tight knot of guilt in my chest. Not erasing it—I don’t think anything could do that—but loosening it enough that I can breathe again.
“You’re not afraid of me,” I say.
“Should I be?”
I consider this seriously, taking inventory of my current state. The aggressive edge from the nightmare has mostly faded, replaced by something warmer but no less intense. My awareness of her has sharpened to a razor’s edge, taking in the way she’s breathing, the fact that she’s standing close enough for me to feel the heat radiating from her skin.
“Not afraid,” I say finally. “But you should be careful.”
“Careful of what?”
“Of the way you’re looking at me right now.”
