Page 4 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
“Perhaps it’s not so random,” he says, his voice carefully controlled as a bee walks across his muzzle.
The sight is mesmerizing. This fearsome creature—because let’s be honest, heisfearsome, all eight feet of solid muscle and sharp horns—transformed into something almost mythical by my gentle insects. They’re almost treating him like he’s part of their colony…
“Grandma used to say bees could sense people’s true nature,” I say, then immediately feel stupid for sharing family folklore with a stranger.
“And what do you think they sense in me?”
I swallow hard, suddenly aware of how quiet the landscape has become except for the soft buzzing around us. I study his face, looking for some hint of what lies beneath that careful control, before admitting, “I don’t know yet.”
A spark of something shines in his dark eyes, and he says approvingly, “An honest answer.”
Maybe he’s used to people sugarcoating things, all to avoid upsetting the big bad bull…
A bee lands on his horn, and I watch it explore the polished curve with contentment. But how long they’ll stay docile, I’m not sure.
“We need to get them to a hive,” I say. “Can you move slowly?”
“I can try.”
I’m already heading toward the fence line, quickly removing my gloves and placing the smoker on the other side of the fence, then working the horizontal support pegs free with unsteady hands. The opening I create is barely wide enough for his broad stance, but it’ll have to do.
“Follow me,” I say, then pause. “And move slowly. Really slowly.”
He nods, and I reach for his hand to guide him.
The moment my fingers touch his, my brain short-circuits. His hands are massive, easily twice the size of mine, but it’s not just the scale that throws me. His fingers end in thick, blunt tips that are more hoof than nail, dark and smooth. Completely inhuman, and yet when he carefully curls those strange fingers around mine, the gesture is surprisingly gentle.
“Okay?” he asks, and I realize I’ve been staring.
“Yeah. Yes. Fine.” I tug gently, leading him toward the gap in the fence. “Just… one step at a time.”
Each movement is deliberate and careful as I guide him through the opening, his focus fixed entirely on me. His footsteps sound so much heavier than mine against the ground, and with each step the bees shift and resettle on his body, but they stay calm, content to ride their chosen perch. After he makes his way through the gap, I grab the smoker and continue to lead him.
“Here,” I say when we reach the empty hive. “Now comes the tricky part.”
I light my smoker with trembling fingers, sending gentle puffs of cool smoke toward the clusters of bees. They respond immediately, settling into an even drowsier state.
“I need to brush them off of you,” I explain. “Into a new hive. It means I’ll have to… touch you. A lot.”
His dark eyes find mine. “I think I can handle that.”
The way he says it makes my heart race, which is definitely not the appropriate response when I’m about to put my hands all over a virtual stranger.
A stranger who happens to be a minotaur with biceps the size of my head.
I start with his forearms, my palms sliding along the powerful muscles as I gently encourage the bees toward the hive entrance. His fur is softer than I expected, thick and warm, and I can feel the tension in his body as I work.
“You’re very gentle,” he says quietly.
“I have to be,” I murmur, my palms sliding along his biceps. “One wrong move…”
“And I’ll get aggressive?”
I freeze. “I was talking about the bees.”
“Hm.”
I’m not sure what to make of that, so I focus on the task at hand. Moving to his chest means getting closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. My hands slide over the broad expanse of his torso, fingers working through the dense fur to reach the bees clustered there. I can feel his heart beating, strong and steady, and when my fingers brush through the thick tuft of fur on his sternum, he draws in a sharp breath through his nose.
