Page 37 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
Long Lost Cousins
Frankie
The morning feels fresh andexciting as I head toward the apiaries, eager to lose myself in the steady work of checking the hives. It’s Wednesday, and after everything that’s happened since the article came out, I need the simple comfort of my bees.
Life since meeting Raphael has been a whirlwind. The article ran on Thursday, and Friday’s monster mingle at Diego’s was… well, let’s just say I never expected to spend an evening watching a minotaur politely discuss tea varieties with Eleanor Hartwell while a dragon sipped hot chocolate in the corner. Life has gotten beautifully weird.
Saturday’s farmers market was the real test, though. Raphael stood beside my booth for the first time, his massive presence drawing stares and whispers from across the square. I was nervous, but by the end of the morning, I’d sold more honey than I had in weeks. Turns out, an eight-foot-tall minotaur sort of makes your booth stand out among all the others. Who knew?
The nights have been… Where do I even start? I’m still getting used to sharing his enormous bed, to the way he takes control in the bedroom with this quiet authority that makes me forget I was ever shy about anything. The things he whispers in my ear, the way he guides my hands and tells me exactly what he wants—it’s like he’s awakening parts of myself I didn’t know existed.
We haven’t gone much further than touches and mouths, but God, the anticipation is killing me. Every night we push a little further, and every morning I wake up wondering if tonight will be the night I finally work up the courage to ask for everything.
I pull on my bee suit and light my smoker, breathing in the familiar scent of burning burlap and pine needles. The ritual connects me to Grandma Rose and all the years she spent tending these same hives.
The first hive is thriving when I open it. I lift out a frame heavy with capped honey, watching the workers go about their ancient dance of survival. Their wings catch the morning light as they move across the comb, some heading out to forage, others returning with pollen sacs so full they look like tiny yellow pantaloons. I smile at the sight. There really is something satisfying about watching a system that’s worked perfectly for millions of years.
I add another box to give them more room to expand, checking each frame for signs of disease or distress. Everything looks healthy, productive. Tom’s been helping more than I expected, showing up early to do the heavier lifting and maintenance work. Despite our initial tension over Raphael, he’s proven himself reliable, even protective of the operation in his own gruff way.
The second hive is equally busy, and I’m lost in the meditative rhythm of the work when a voice breaks through my concentration.
“Frankie? That you out there?”
I look up from the frame I’m examining to see a man walking up the path from the main road.
It takes me a moment to recognize him—Craig Baker, my grandmother’s great-nephew and technically my second cousin, though we’ve never been close. I haven’t seen him since Grandma Rose’s funeral.
He looks exactly the same, with his medium height and build gone soft around the middle, thinning brown hair he’s trying to style over a growing bald spot, and a cheap suit that doesn’t quite fit. But he’s smiling, his pale blue eyes crinkling at the corners like we’re old friends.
“Craig,” I say, carefully replacing the frame and closing the hive. “This is a surprise.”
“Well, I was in the area for work. Got a meeting with some folks in Santa Barbara later, and I thought, ‘Craig, you haven’t checked on little Frankie in far too long.’” He spreads his arms wide, gesturing at the apiaries. “Look at this place! Great-Aunt Rose would be so proud to see you keeping the tradition alive.”
Something in his tone feels off. Too enthusiastic. Craig was never particularly interested in the farm when Grandma Rose was alive. I remember him at family gatherings, and he always seemed squeamish about the topic of beekeeping, like hecouldn’t understand the appeal. So why’s he now acting like he cares about the tradition?
“Thank you,” I say carefully, pulling off my bee veil. “The bees have been doing well this season.”
“I can see that! Just look at all these hives.” He walks closer, but still keeps a certain distance, his gaze sweeping over the neat rows of white boxes. “Must be a lot of work, managing all this on your own. Especially with everything else going on.”
There it is. The reason for his visit.
“I have help,” I say. “And I love the work.”
“Of course you do. Rose always said you had the touch with the bees, even as a little girl.” Craig’s smile widens, but there’s something not genuine about it. “Though I have to say, I’ve been hearing some interesting things about you lately.”
My stomach tightens. “Have you, now?”
“That article in the Gazette last week. Very illuminating.” Craig’s tone remains conversational, but I can hear the subtle shift underneath. “Your friend did quite the interview with that minotaur fellow. What’s his name? Raphael?”
“Yes.” I straighten, meeting his gaze directly. “Sage is a good journalist. She told his story fairly.”
“His story,” Craig repeats, nodding slowly. “Right. The story about how he used to be some kind of corporate enforcer. How he nearly gored a man. That’s quite something, isn’t it?”
The way he says it makes my skin crawl. “He was honest about his past. He chose to walk away from that life.”
“Mmm.” Craig nods again, his hands clasped behind his back as he continues to survey the apiaries. “Takes courage to admit something like that publicly. Though I have to wonder what kind of man puts a woman in the position of having to defend his violent past.”
“He didn’t put me anywhere,” I say, my tone growing sharper. “I chose to support him.”
