Page 24 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
“Tell me more about your grandmother,” he says, refilling my wine glass with something expensive that probably costs more than my usual grocery budget.
I find myself sharing stories I haven’t told in months, like how she used to sing off-key while working in the garden, how she’d talk to the bees like they were gossipy neighbors, how she once chased off a black bear with nothing but a wooden spoon and righteous indignation.
“I wish I could have met her,” he says, and there’s genuine warmth in his voice.
I take another sip of wine, feeling more relaxed than I have in weeks. “And what about your grandmother? What was she like?”
His expression softens in a way I haven’t seen before. “Gentle. Patient. A bit of a runt in minotaur terms. She had these tiny hands, and she could do the most incredible needlework—embroidery that looked like paintings. As you saw in the tea room, she collected delicate teacups and taught me how to handle them without breaking them.”
“That’s where you learned to be so careful with fragile things.”
“Among other lessons.” He’s quiet for a moment, lost in memory. “She used to say that true strength was knowing when not to use it. That the most powerful thing a minotaur could do was choose gentleness.”
Something passes between us at that, a deeper understanding of what shaped us both. We’re both carrying the wisdom of strong women who saw potential in us that others might have missed.
After dinner, we clean up together, moving around each other in the kitchen with surprising ease. Every accidental brush of hands sends little sparks through me, but I try to keep my reactions under control.
“I should probably shower,” I announce when the last dish is stored away, suddenly very aware that bedtime is approaching.
“Of course. Take your time.”
Upstairs in the bedroom, his dark eyes track my movements as I gather my toiletries and nightgown from my dresser. “There are fresh towels in the cabinet.”
The bathroom is ridiculously luxurious, all marble and gold fixtures, with a shower that could fit six people and a tub deep enough to swim in. But even surrounded by all this opulence, I can’t stop thinking about the man waiting in the bedroom. Our bedroom. Where we’ll be sleeping together.
I take my time getting ready, using my favorite honey-scented body wash and smoothing on the lavender lotion I made myself. The silk nightgown I chose is modest by most standards, knee-length with thin straps and a sweetheart neckline, but it’s the most revealing thing I packed. The fabric clings to my curves in a way that makes me very aware of my body.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Raphael is sitting on the edge of the massive bed in pajama pants that strain across his powerful thighs. His chest is bare, thick brown fur catching thelamplight, and I find myself wanting to run my fingers through it like I did when we first met.
His dark eyes widen when he sees me, his gaze traveling from my bare shoulders down to where the silk skims my thighs. “Beautiful,” he says quietly.
“Thank you.” I hover by the bathroom door, suddenly shy despite this morning’s intimate encounter. “Which side do you usually sleep on?”
“The opposite of whichever you prefer.”
I choose the side closest to the windows, drawn by the view of the valley below. The bed is so enormous that even with both of us in it, there will be plenty of space between us. But as I pull back the covers, I’m acutely aware of every movement he makes.
The mattress dips significantly when he settles beside me, his considerable weight making me roll slightly toward the center. He reaches over to turn off the lamp, plunging us into darkness broken only by moonlight streaming through the tall windows.
We lie there in silence for a few minutes, both of us carefully maintaining our respective sides of the massive bed. But the awareness between us is electric, charging the air until it feels difficult to breathe. I can hear every shift of his body, feel the heat radiating from his massive frame.
“Frankie?” His voice is soft in the darkness, uncertain in a way I haven’t heard from him before.
“Yeah?”
“Is this… Are you comfortable with this? Being here, sharing my bed?”
I turn toward him, though all I can see is his silhouette in the dim light, with those massive horns and wispy mane. The question is sweet, especially considering how intimate we were this morning, as if he didn’t eat me out until I came twice. “I am.”
I hear his relieved exhale before he moves closer, the mattress shifting under his weight. His massive hand settles on my waist over the silk nightgown, fingers reaching from my ribs to my hip. The heat of his palm seeps through the fabric, and I have to bite back a sigh at how good it feels to be touched, to be wanted.
He doesn’t push for more, just holds me gently, his thumb tracing small, unconscious circles against my side. It’s intimate without being demanding, possessive without being overwhelming.
“Better?” he asks, his breath stirring the hair at my temple.
“Much better.”
We settle into a comfortable position with my back against his chest, his arm around my waist, his massive frame curled protectively around mine. His warmth surrounds me completely, and for the first time in months, I feel truly safe. The financial stress, the uncertainty about the future, the loneliness that’s been my constant companion—all of it fades into the background.
