Page 41 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
“I’m giving you freedom.” The words come out rough, weighted with emotions I’m still learning to navigate. “If you stay now, it’s because you choose to. Not because you have to.”
Frankie is quiet for so long I start to wonder if I’ve miscalculated. Maybe she did feel trapped. Maybe the security of knowing she could leave if she wanted to will make her realize she wants exactly that.
Then she sets the check on the nightstand and turns to face me fully.
“You think I’m here because of the money?”
“I think you’re here because you’re brave and generous and you saw someone who needed help.” I reach out to touch her face, my thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone. “But I also think you deserve to make choices from a position of strength, not desperation.”
“Raphael.” Her voice is steady. “I chose this. I chose you.”
The tightness in my chest eases slightly, but I need her to understand completely. “Craig is going to use our relationship against you. He’s going to paint you as unstable, manipulated by a dangerous monster. Having your financial situation resolvedremoves one of his weapons, but it doesn’t eliminate the threat entirely. Not if there really is a provision in the will.”
“So what do we do about it?”
The simple question, the automatic assumption that we’re in this together, does something to me. Smooths the jagged edges of my anger, transforms it into something colder and more focused. She’s not running. She’s not backing down. She’s choosing to stand with me, even knowing the cost.
Something powerful and unfamiliar swells in my chest, an emotion I’ve never experienced before, deeper than desire or even affection. The need to protect her, to build something lasting with her, to be worthy of the trust she’s placing in me…
“I know someone with the legal expertise to understand exactly what we’re dealing with,” I say.
“Who is it? Why won’t you tell me his name?”
My expression grows reluctant. “Because it pains me to go to him for help. Lysander Silvermoon. You met him at the mixer.”
She studies my face for a long moment. “This is hard for you. Asking for help.”
“Asking for help from this person specifically.” I move back to the bed, sitting heavily beside her. “He’s everything I’m not. Polished, accepted, the kind of monster who makes humans comfortable. And he knows it.”
“You’re not unpolished,” Frankie says quietly. “You’re real. There’s a difference.”
Her defense of me makes something warm unfurl in my chest, but it doesn’t change the reality of what I’m about to do. “I should call him. See if he can meet with me as soon as possible.”
“Will you be all right?”
I catch her hand as she reaches for me. “Yes. It’ll be easier than you think, because I’m doing it for you.”
The next morning, I call the Silvermoon estate and speak to someone who sounds like a personal assistant. After she has me on hold for a few minutes, she tells me in a crisp, professional tone that Lysander can see me Friday afternoon.
I spend Thursday trying not to think about what swallowing my pride is going to cost me.
Friday afternoon arrives gray andovercast, the kind of weather that matches my mood perfectly. The drive to the Silvermoon estate takes twenty minutes through winding country roads lined with old oak trees. Their property sits on a hill overlooking the valley, a sprawling mansion that seems to shimmer slightly in the afternoon light, as if it exists partially in some other realm.
As I pull up the circular driveway, I’m struck by how different this place feels from my own home. Where my house is grand but comfortable, built for someone my size, the Silvermoon estate seems designed to intimidate through sheer otherworldly beauty. Every line flows like water, every detail seems to shift slightly when I’m not looking directly at it. Even the gardens look like they’ve been tended by magic rather than mortal hands.
The walkway is made of some kind of pale stone that seems to glow from within, and flowers bloom in impossible colors along the borders. Everything about this place whispers of old power, ancient bloodlines, the kind of influence that predates human civilization.
The door opens before I can knock, revealing Lysander himself. He’s even more striking in his element, with platinum hair that catches the light, silver eyes that seem to see through me, features so perfect they make my chest tighten with an inexplicable sense of inadequacy.
“Raphael,” he says, and his voice carries that same cultured accent I remember. “What a pleasure. Please, come in.”
He steps aside to let me enter, and I’m immediately aware of how my hooves sound against the pristine floors. Harsh, clumsy, destructive. The foyer soars above us, decorated with what I’m sure are priceless artifacts that seem to hum with their own energy.
Lysander glances down at my hooves, then says delicately, “Perhaps, and I hope this isn’t rude… But perhaps you could try to keep to the runners? These floors are quite old, and the weight distribution of hooves might be a bit challenging for the more delicate inlay work.”
The request is polite, even apologetic, but it lands like a slap. He’s asking me to watch where I step in his house, to be careful not to damage his precious floors with my crude, animal feet.
The message is clear: You don’t belong here, but I’ll tolerate your presence if you’re careful not to break anything.
