Page 21 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
“Different how?”
“Gentler. After.” I gesture vaguely between us. “But also more intense during. I didn’t know it could be like that.”
Something shifts in his expression, and I catch the way his eyes darken with satisfaction, his mouth curving into a smile that’s equal parts pleased and possessive. “No one’s ever made you feel like that before?”
I shake my head, heat creeping up my neck. “No.”
He makes a pleased rumbling sound deep in his chest. “Good. I want to be the only one who makes you fall apart like that.”
The possessive words send a fresh wave of heat through me, which is ridiculous considering I just came twice and can barely feel my legs. But the hunger in his eyes and how he studies every tremor that runs through my body ignites a fresh ache.
“So, uh… What do you usually do on Sundays?” I ask, needing to ground myself in something normal before I’m tempted to climb right into his lap.
He’s quiet for a moment, his hand still stroking through my hair. “I watch the farmers market from my upstairs window,” he admits finally. “There’s a good view of the square from the master bedroom. I can see all the vendors setting up, the customers browsing the stalls.”
“Why don’t you ever go? Why do you watch from afar?”
“Imagine it. Me, going down there? Watching people cross the street to avoid me. Seeing parents pull their children closer whenI walk by. Watching vendors suddenly become very busy when I approach their stalls… It would be miserable.”
The pain in his voice makes my chest tight. “It wouldn’t be like that if you came with me,” I say impulsively.
He goes completely still, his hand freezing in my hair. For a moment, I think he might actually consider it. I see the longing in his expression, the way he wants to be part of the community instead of just observing from the outside.
But then he shakes his head, pulling his hand back. “I’m not ready for that yet.”
“Okay,” I say, reaching out to touch his arm. “Maybe next week.”
“Maybe.”
But we both know he won’t be ready next week either. And as I sit here wrapped in his blanket, snuggled up against his warmth, I realize I might not be ready either.
What we just shared was amazing, life-changing even. But it also makes everything more complicated. Walking into town with him, letting everyone see us together… That’s going to change how they look at me forever.
The thought of their stares, their whispers… it makes my stomach clench with anxiety. Sweet little Frankie Baker, the town’s beekeeper, choosing the monster everyone fears.
But then I think about the way he just worshipped me with his mouth, the way he held me up when my legs gave out, thegentle care he’s showing me now. Maybe what they think doesn’t matter as much as I thought it did.
This arrangement was supposed to be simple: three months of pretending in exchange for saving my farm.
But nothing about this feels simple anymore.
Chapter 7
Before the Town Knows
Frankie
The afternoon sun streams throughRaphael’s windows as I set down the last box from Grandma Rose’s old pickup. The 1987 truck is a faded blue with wooden stake sides that rattle whenever I hit a bump, but it’s been reliable for decades. When I’d arrived this morning with just my duffel bag, Raphael had suggested I go back for more of my belongings, things that would help make his place feel more like home to me during our arrangement. The truck bed had been packed full by the time I finished loading everything I thought might matter.
Now his pristine foyer is scattered with cardboard boxes and canvas totes containing pieces of my life, and somehow the space already feels less like a museum. The scent of lavender from my essential oils is already mixing with the cedar smell that seems to cling to everything in his house.
“Let me get that,” Raphael says, easily lifting the heaviest box with one massive hand. I’d been struggling with it, theweight making me lean backward for balance, but he makes it look effortless. His thick fingers span the entire width of the cardboard, and he doesn’t even seem to notice the strain that had my arms shaking.
“Thanks.” I grab a lighter tote bag and follow him toward the sweeping staircase. “I probably brought too much stuff. It seemed reasonable when I was packing, but seeing it all scattered around your foyer…”
“Doubt that.” He glances back at me as we climb, his hooves making soft thuds against the polished wood steps despite his obvious efforts to walk gently. “What’s in this one? Feels like you packed a pile of rocks.”
“Books. Mostly farming guides and beekeeping manuals.” I’m grateful I left my romance novel collection back at the farmhouse, hidden away in my bedroom closet where they’ve always been. The last thing I need is him discovering my literary guilty pleasures. Although maybe it wouldn’t be so bad for him to know the things I fantasize about… “Very dull stuff, really,” I say as I tug my collar back. “Soil composition and hive management techniques. Just your standard, boring beekeeper reading.”
