Page 53 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
Lysander’s mouth opens, but no words come out. His silver eyes dart between the assembled faces, and I can see the moment he realizes his careful political maneuvering has collapsed entirely.
“That’s quite an accusation,” is the best he can manage.
“Is it wrong?” Moss asks mildly.
Almost everyone has gathered around now, monster and human alike, staring at Lysander, waiting for him to provide a better explanation.
“I don’t know what any of you are implying,” Lysander protests hollowly. “We all are victims of this awful beast.”
“The beast you conjured,” Frankie says, appearing at my side with her honey-gold dress torn and dirty but her hazel eyes blazing. “We’re stating facts. You created something that only monsters could see, hoping they’d attack it in front of everyone. And when that didn’t work, when these monsters proved they weren’t the mindless beasts you needed them to be, your control slipped. Made it real. Put innocent people in danger just to salvage your narrative.”
I watch understanding dawn on human faces as they piece together what really happened: not a random monster attack, but a calculated attempt to destroy the very integration Lysander claimed to champion. Lysander takes a step back, as if he’s about to bolt, but a couple of men restrain him while a woman calls the police.
All I can do is shake my head and hold Frankie close, glad she’s okay.
When the sheriff’s deputies arrive, it’s Lysander they take away. Not for the illusion—that would be difficult to prove—but for the reckless endangerment that occurred when his magic spiraled beyond his control.
As we watch him be led to the waiting vehicles, I don’t gloat. There’s no satisfaction in watching someone destroy themselves. Instead, I focus on Frankie’s hand in mine, on the way the community has rallied around us instead of turning away.
She looks up at me and says quietly, “Take me home.”
Home. Not to her grandmother’s farmhouse, but home to the mansion we share, to the bed where she belongs to me completely, to the life we’re building together.
But as we walk toward the parking area, people reach out to touch my arm, to offer quiet words of thanks, to make it clear that what happened tonight has changed something fundamental about how they see me. How they see all of us.
“Raphael,” Frankie says softly as we reach the SUV, and something in her voice makes me pause.
I turn to face her, taking in the sight of my brave woman with her dress torn and dirty, her waves escaping their pins, her hazel eyes bright with something I can’t quite read.
“When that thing had its claws in you,” she says quietly, “when I saw the blood and thought for a second that you might not…” She swallows hard. “I realized I’ve been an idiot.”
“What do you mean?”
She steps closer, her hands fisting in the torn fabric of my shirt. “I love you. And I almost lost you without ever saying it.”
The words stop me cold. In all my years, through all the violence and loneliness and careful control, no one has ever said those words to me.
“Frankie—”
“I know it’s crazy,” she continues. “I know we’ve only known each other a short time, but when I thought that thing might kill you, all I could think was that I’d never told you how I really feel.”
My hands frame her face, thumbs brushing away tears. “I love you too,” I say, the words feeling both foreign and inevitable. “I’ve loved you since the moment you fell into my arms and looked up at me without fear.”
She laughs, a sound caught between a sob and relief. “We’re both idiots, aren’t we?”
“Probably,” I agree, leaning down to kiss her.
When we break apart, she presses her forehead against my chest, her arms wrapping around my waist despite the blood staining my clothes.
“Let’s go home,” she whispers.
As I drive us through the quiet streets of Sunnybrook, her hand finds mine across the center console. For the first time in my life, the word “home” means something more than just a place to sleep.
It means the woman beside me, and the love we’ve built together, and the future stretching out ahead of us like an open road.
Chapter 18
Strength in the Gentle Things
