Page 47 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
“This year,” Lysander continues, his silver eyes sweeping across the diverse faces before him, “I want to make it clear that our Harvest Celebration welcomesallmembers of our community. Every family, every individual who calls Sunnybrook home.”
The applause is immediate and enthusiastic. Beside me, Frankie’s face lights up with excitement.
“For too long,” Lysander’s voice takes on a note of what sounds like sincere reflection, “certain members of our community—myself included—have enjoyed acceptance without having to fight for it. That has been a privilege, and I acknowledge it freely.” His gaze seems to find me in the crowd, holding for just a moment. “How heartening it has been to watch Sunnybrook embrace those whose appearances once kept them in shadows. In time, I am certain their contributions will speak for themselves.”
More applause, warmer now. I hear Diego chuckle appreciatively from his coffee cart, and several of the monster vendors nod in approval. To most ears, it sounds like an acknowledgment of past inequities.
But something about the phrasing sits wrong with me. The emphasis on “in time,” as if acceptance is conditional on proving worthiness. The subtle positioning of himself as the gracious leader guiding the community’s evolution rather than someone who simply stood by while others fought for recognition.
“The celebration will be held next Saturday evening at the family estate,” Lysander concludes. “Formal attire is encouraged, but not required. We want everyone to feel welcome in whatever way they’re most comfortable.”
As the crowd disperses, chattering excitedly about the upcoming gala, Frankie turns to me with sparkling eyes.
“We have to go,” she says, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm. “Can you imagine? The Silvermoon estate. No one outside their inner circle has ever been invited to one of their parties before.”
I study her animated face, see the joy at being included in something that’s always been beyond her reach. How can I explain my unease without sounding paranoid or jealous?
“It could be good for us,” she continues, apparently reading my hesitation as something else entirely. “Being seen there together, as a couple. It would really establish that we belong in this community.”
“We already belong,” I point out. “We don’t need Lysander’s approval for that.”
“I know,” she says quickly. “But this feels like… I don’t know… Official.”
The hope in her voice decides it for me. Whatever my instincts are telling me about Lysander’s motives, I won’t be the one to dim that light in her eyes.
“Then we’ll go,” I say, and her answering smile could power the entire town.
That afternoon, we walk throughthe apiaries not for work but simply to check on our thriving colonies. The late September air carries the promise of autumn, and the bees are busy with their final preparations for winter. Frankie moves between the hives in a flowing sundress the color of honey, her hair loose around her shoulders.
“Look how heavy the supers are getting,” she says, gesturing to the upper boxes of the nearest hive. “They’re really packing away the stores.”
I nod, though most of my attention is focused on the way the afternoon light filters through her dress, outlining her curves in a golden silhouette. We’ve made love countless times over these past weeks, but the wanting never seems to fade. If anything, it’s gotten stronger, more urgent, as if my body has finally accepted that she’s mine and now demands constant confirmation.
“The new queen in hive seven is really proving herself,” Frankie continues, oblivious to the direction of my thoughts. “Her laying pattern is perfect, and the workers seem completely devoted to her.”
“Devoted,” I repeat, moving closer until I’m standing directly behind her. “I understand the feeling.”
She glances back at me, and whatever she sees in my expression makes her breath catch. “Raphael…”
“You look beautiful in this dress.”
A flush spreads across her cheeks, but she doesn’t step away. “We’re supposed to be checking the bees.”
“The bees are fine,” I say, my hands settling on her waist. “They don’t need our supervision to do what comes naturally.”
She leans back against my chest, and I can feel the moment her resolve crumbles. “Someone could see us.”
“Who?” I challenge. “The bees? They don’t care what we do.”
She turns in my arms, her hands finding the front of my shirt. “You’re terrible for my productivity.”
“And you’re terrible for my self-control,” I counter, capturing her mouth in a deep kiss.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Without a word, she takes my hand and leads me toward an open patch of grass.
“Here?” I ask, though my hands are already working at the ties of her sundress.
“Here,” she confirms, her fingers busy with the buttons of my shirt. “I want to feel the earth beneath me while you claim me.”
