Page 49 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
Eventually we get dressed and emerge from the trees hand in hand, Frankie still glowing with contentment. I’m sure I look just the same.
She’s mine, and soon the entire town will see us together at Lysander’s gala—a public declaration that Sunnybrook’s sweetheart has chosen her monster.
Chapter 16
Harvest Festival
Frankie
The Silvermoon estate at twilightlooks like something from a fairy tale—which, considering our host, might be more literal than metaphorical. Ancient oak trees draped in golden lanterns create a canopy of warm light over the sprawling grounds, while strings of smaller lights weave between the branches like captured starlight. The air carries the scent of wood smoke and spiced cider, mixed with the earthier smells of fallen leaves and the distant hint of magic that seems to cling to everything Lysander touches.
I smooth my hands over the honey-gold gown Raphael insisted on buying for tonight, silk that flows like liquid sunshine and makes my skin glow in the lantern light. When I catch my reflection in the windows of the estate, I barely recognize myself. I look like someone who belongs at elegant gatherings, not the stressed farmers market vendor I was just months ago.
Beside me, Raphael cuts an imposing figure in his perfectly tailored charcoal suit. The jacket was custom made to accommodate his massive shoulders, while the fabric drapes his powerful frame in a way that makes him look less like a monster and more like some ancient god attending a mortal celebration.
“Quite the turnout,” he says, offering me his arm as we approach the main gathering area.
“Mmm,” I agree, though something feels off about the crowd composition. The guest list is more segregated than I expected—clusters of elegant creatures who could pass for human mingling near the main pavilion, while the more obviously monstrous residents seem relegated to the outer edges of the gathering.
Mrs. Henderson stands near the cider station with her usual group of human friends, pointedly not making eye contact with the hulking werewolf in full lupine form who’s helping himself to appetizers from a nearby table. The werewolf’s ears twitch occasionally toward their conversation, but he doesn’t attempt to join.
“Frankie! Raphael!” Eleanor Hartwell appears at my elbow, her fanny pack tonight bedazzled with autumn leaves and tiny pumpkins. “You both look lovely. And Raphael—” She studies him with those sharp eyes that see more than most people give her credit for. “Your aura’s more settled now. That’s good to see.”
She bustles away toward the dessert table before either of us can respond, leaving Raphael looking mildly puzzled by her assessment.
“She’s not wrong,” I tell him. “You do seem more relaxed.”
“For now,” he says, though his tone suggests he’s reserving judgment about how the evening will unfold.
A fiddle strikes up near the dance area, joined by a guitar and the soft percussion of a hand drum. The melody is something old and sweet, though only about half the couples move toward the makeshift dance floor—mostly the human guests and the more human-passing monsters.
“Dance with me?” I ask, already tugging Raphael toward the music.
“If you insist,” he says, though he follows willingly enough.
We move together slowly, his hands careful on my waist as we sway to the music. Around us, other couples join the dance: Diego with a shy dryad who works at the library, Tom awkwardly but earnestly dancing with his wife Sarah, and a few other familiar faces from town.
“Look around,” I murmur against Raphael’s chest. “People are getting used to us.”
His arms tighten around me slightly. “Some people,” he corrects, and when I follow his gaze, I see what he means. There’s acceptance, yes, but it’s not universal. It’s conditional, stratified in ways I hadn’t noticed before.
The music shifts to something more upbeat, and we step apart to let others claim the dance floor. That’s when Lysander appears beside us, moving with that otherworldly grace that makes it seem like he’s floating rather than walking.
“Miss Baker, you look absolutely luminous this evening,” he says, his voice carrying just the right note of admiration without crossing into impropriety. “And Raphael, I must say, that suit is exceptionally well-tailored. You cut quite the impressive figure.”
“Thank you for hosting,” I say, meaning it despite the weird undercurrents I’m starting to notice.
“The pleasure is entirely mine,” Lysander replies, his silver eyes warm as they rest on my face. “You must know, Miss Baker, how easy monsters like me have always had it since the Unveiling. Declawed, so to speak.”
There’s something in the way he says “declawed” that makes me glance up at Raphael, but his expression remains carefully neutral.
“It’s refreshing to see the more formidable members of our community finding their footing as well,” Lysander continues. “Though of course, finding a place in human society is still a delicate process, even after all this time. Such a shame you must continue to prove yourself time and time again.”
Before the conversation can grow more uncomfortable, someone calls Lysander’s name from across the grove, and he excuses himself with perfect politeness.
“Charming,” I mutter once he’s out of earshot.
“Sometimes it’s like he’s throwing it in my face about how much more human he is compared to me,” Raphael says, watching the fae glide toward his next conversation. “But perhaps I am oversensitive. He did put that Craig problem to a swift end.”
