Page 51 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
Raphael
A shadow-beast prowls through thelantern light like something torn from my worst nightmares, its massive form rippling between the golden pools cast by Lysander’s carefully arranged illumination. To the humans around us, it seems like there’s nothing there. Mrs. Henderson continues her animated conversation, Tom and Sarah dance together, and even energy-reading Eleanor seems completely oblivious to the predator circling just beyond her perception.
But I can see it. Every monster here can see it.
The thing stands nearly twelve feet at the shoulder, its matted black fur seeming to absorb light. Slobber drips from jaws filled with teeth like broken glass, and its golden eyes—ancient, hungry, utterly without mercy—are locked on Frankie with the focused intensity of an apex predator.
Every instinct I possess yells at me to charge, to put myself between that thing and my woman, to tear it apart with my bare hands. My muscles coil, my vision narrowing as the bull in me demands immediate, brutal action.
But I don’t move.
Instead, I gather Frankie closer, turning our position into what must look like an intimate embrace.
“Don’t move,” I breathe against her ear. “Whatever you do, don’t move.”
The beast circles closer, its guttural breathing audible only to those of us cursed with supernatural senses. I catch Diego’s eye across the grove. The chupacabra has gone rigid, his zen demeanor replaced by predatory alertness. Moss has stopped mid-conversation, his features sharp with awareness.
We all see it. We all recognize the threat.
And we all understand that reacting to it, here, now, in front of the human population of Sunnybrook, would be exactly the wrong move.
I catch sight of Lysander near the refreshment table. To the humans around him, he’s the picture of elegant composure, chatting about the success of the evening. But his silver eyes are focused elsewhere.
They’re fixed on me.
His pale fingers move in subtle patterns at his sides. Spellwork, I realize with cold fury. The kind of delicate magical manipulation that his fae bloodline makes possible.
The trap crystallizes in my mind with perfect clarity. An illusion designed to provoke exactly the kind of violent response that would confirm every human fear about monsters like me. If I charge that thing, if I let my bull nature take control in full view of everyone, I’ll become exactly what they’ve always suspected I am: a barely controlled beast, a monster not fit to stand next to more refined creatures like Lysander.
His lips curve in the faintest smile as the shadow-beast takes another step toward Frankie.
So I do the one thing he doesn’t expect.
I hold perfectly still.
Minutes stretch as the thing circles us, its breathing growing more frustrated. Around the grove, other monsters maintain their careful composure. Diego forces himself to take a sip of coffee. The small dragon from the bookstore engages an elderly couple in conversation, though her eyes never stop tracking the threat.
We’re all walking the same tightrope, acknowledging the danger without giving Lysander the reaction he’s orchestrating.
But I can see the strain beginning to show in the fae’s perfect features. A slight tightness around his silver eyes, a tremor in his elegant fingers as his spellwork grows more complex. Whatever he’s doing is requiring more effort than he anticipated.
The shadow-beast grows more agitated, its circling becoming erratic. It snaps at empty air, frustrated by our lack of response.
“Please,” Frankie whispers against my chest.
My arms tighten around her, but I force myself to remain motionless, to be the wall between my woman and whatever Lysander thinks he can use to destroy us.
Then something changes.
The shadow-beast’s form flickers, its edges becoming more solid, until suddenly I can hear its claws scraping against stone.
This illusion… It’s becoming flesh.
Lysander’s face goes pale, his careful composure cracking as his magic surges beyond his control.
The shadow-beast solidifies with a sound like tearing fabric, its massive form suddenly visible to every human in the grove. Mrs. Henderson stumbles backward, her face white with terror. Tom shoves Sarah behind him, his mind struggling to process what he’s seeing.
Screams pierce the night air as the beast, now fully corporeal and no longer under Lysander’s control, pivots toward the nearest cluster of humans with hunger blazing in its golden eyes.
