Page 50 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
I nod, still grateful to have been spared any further threats from my cousin.
It is curious, though, how Lysander interacts with different guests. With his circle of vampire and siren friends, his laughter is genuine, his conversation animated. When he speaks with the more obviously monstrous residents, his interactions are shorter, more performative.
The werewolf gets a polite nod. The small dragon from the bookstore gets a brief, courteous exchange. Moss, the swamp creature, is acknowledged with the kind of distant politeness you’d show a useful but unsavory business associate.
As the evening reaches its peak, Lysander takes the small stage near the largest oak tree. The crowd gathers toward him, conversations dying as his presence commands attention.
“Friends,” he begins, his voice carrying easily across the grove. “I want to thank you all for joining us tonight. This gathering represents everything I love about Sunnybrook: our willingness to embrace change, to welcome new members into our community, and to grow stronger not in spite of our differences, but because of them.”
Warm applause ripples through the crowd. Beside me, Raphael stands perfectly still.
“For too long, some of us have enjoyed the luxury of easy acceptance,” Lysander continues, his silver eyes finding various faces in the crowd. “That has been a privilege—one that came simply through the accident of… compatible appearances.”
Murmurs of agreement from the crowd. To most ears, it sounds like thoughtful self-reflection.
“But Sunnybrook has proven itself capable of growth,” he says, raising his crystal glass. “A place where everyone can find acceptance. And that is what I want to toast tonight.” Lysander raises his glass higher. “Let us toast Sunnybrook, as we all move toward harmony.”
“To Sunnybrook!” the crowd echoes, glasses raised in response.
The toast ends and conversations resume, but something has shifted. Raphael’s breathing has changed, deeper and more controlled, and his dark eyes are scanning the crowd with predatory focus.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper.
“Stay close to me,” he says quietly, his voice carrying a note I haven’t heard since our earliest encounters.
I follow his gaze across the lantern-lit grove, trying to see whatever has captured his attention. The human guests continue their conversations, completely oblivious, but I notice other changes. Diego has gone rigid near the coffee station. The werewolf’s ears are pinned back, his lupine features alert. The small dragon has gone very still, her reptilian eyes scanning the tree line.
Something is wrong, but I can’t see what has all the monsters on edge. Was it something Lysander said? His toast had seemed innocent enough.
Then Raphael moves, pulling me against his chest in what must look like an embrace but feels more like a shield. His massive frame curves around me protectively, one hand cradling the back of my head while the other spreads across my lower back.
“What—” I start to ask, but his grip tightens.
“Don’t move,” he breathes against my ear. “Whatever you do, don’t move.”
The music continues, couples swaying around us, but I can feel the violence coiled in Raphael’s body like a loaded spring. His heart pounds against my cheek, and his breathing has taken on the deep, controlled rhythm of someone preparing for a fight.
Through the gap between his arm and his body, I catch a glimpse of Lysander. The fae’s perfect composure has developed cracks—a tightness around his eyes, tension in his elegant posture. He’s still playing the gracious host, but his silver eyes aren’t on his conversation partners.
They’re fixed on the monsters scattered throughout the grove, watching them with calculating attention.
“Please,” I breathe, not even sure what I’m asking for.
Raphael’s arms tighten around me, and I feel a terrible tension in his muscles. But he doesn’t move.
Instead, he holds me closer, his massive frame a wall between me and whatever has him on high alert. Around us, I can sense other supernatural guests fighting the same battle, holding themselves back from some instinctive response that would shatter the evening’s veneer of civility.
Minutes pass like hours. The human guests remain oblivious, but the monsters are all frozen in a silent standoff with some unseen threat.
When I finally look up at Raphael’s face, what I see there makes my blood run cold. His dark eyes hold a fury so complete, so carefully controlled, that it takes my breath away.
This isn’t my gentle giant.
This is the corporate enforcer who once broke a man, and for the first time since I’ve known him, I’m not entirely sure which side of his nature is going to win.
Chapter 17
Fighting Shadows
