Page 3 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
“Frankie,” I whisper. “Frankie Baker.”
“Frankie Baker.” He tests my name like he’s tasting it. “The beekeeper with the foreclosure notice.”
My stomach drops. How does he…?
But of course he knows. In a town this size, financial ruin isn’t exactly a secret.
“Look,” I say, trying to salvage what’s left of my dignity, “I know I’m trespassing, but those bees represent—”
“Everything,” he finishes quietly. “They represent everything to you.”
The understanding in his voice catches me off guard. I expected anger, maybe threats to call the sheriff. I didn’t expect… this. Whatever this is.
He’s studying my face with those impossibly dark eyes, and I’m starting to realize that the most dangerous thing about Raphael Tauros isn’t his size or his horns.
It’s the way he’s looking at me, like he can see straight through to my soul.
“You’re desperate,” he says, and it’s not a question.
I want to deny it, but what’s the point? “Yes.”
Something flashes across his expression—too quick for me to identify. When he speaks again, his voice has dropped to a rumble that makes me forget to breathe.
“Desperation…” he begins. “It can make people do things they might otherwise refuse.”
I swallow hard.
Above us, my bees continue their gentle humming, oblivious to the fact that their beekeeper just walked into a trap she never saw coming.
Chapter 2
Working Hands
Frankie
The silence stretches between us,and I’m acutely aware of how Raphael’s massive chest rises and falls with each breath. This close, I can see the individual whiskers on his muzzle, the way his dark eyes have flecks of amber in them.
Five years since the Great Unveiling, and I’ve never met a monster like him. Sure, I’ve seen some at the farmers market—a few shifters, that sweet dragon lady who sells pottery, and Diego, the chupacabra who runs the best coffee place in town—but I’ve never met a monster this… primal.
But before I can get too caught up in this moment between us, a single bee breaks away from the cluster above, spiraling down in lazy loops before finally settling on Raphael’s shoulder.
I freeze, watching it crawl across the dark fur like it’s exploring new territory. Another bee hovers near us, dipping lower with each lazy circle before finally settling on his arm.
“Uh oh,” I whisper, my eyes darting upward as I notice the subtle shift in the hum above us.
More of them are coming.
Raphael’s eyes follow mine as my entire swarm begins abandoning their cluster, flowing down from the tree like a living river.
“Should I be concerned?” he asks.
“Don’t move,” I say quickly while grabbing my smoker. “Seriously, don’t even breathe.”
But they’re not acting aggressively. No angry buzzing, no defensive posturing. Instead, they’re settling on him like he’s the most natural perch in the world. Soon, thousands of bees are covering his arms, crawling through the thick fur of his chest, and clustering around the base of his horns.
I’ve never seen anything like it.
“This doesn’t normally happen,” I mutter, watching in fascination as more bees join the living blanket covering his massive frame. “Bees don’t just… swarm someone at random.”
