Page 55 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
“Think they will?” Raphael asks.
Tom considers this with the gravity of someone who’s dealt with bureaucracy for decades. “Might’ve, before. But word’s gotten around about what you’re doing here. Hard to justify slowing down a project that’s helping local families.”
It’s true. The cooperative has generated more genuine enthusiasm than anyone expected, partly because it addresses a real need and partly because it represents something larger: proof that the changes in Sunnybrook don’t have to mean loss of the agricultural heritage that defines the community.
That evening, Raphael and I walk through the expanded apiaries as the sun sets behind the hills. The hives are thriving, the bees content among the lavender and wildflowers he planted to extend their foraging range. It’s peaceful in a way that still catches me off guard sometimes.
“Penny for your thoughts,” he says, his deep voice cutting through the evening quiet.
“Just thinking about how different everything is.” I pause beside one of the newer hives, watching the last few foragers return home for the night. “Not too long ago, I was facing foreclosure, and you were hiding from the world. Now…”
“Now we’re building something that matters.”
I look up at him, this massive creature who’s somehow become the center of my world. His dark eyes are warm in the fadinglight, and when he kisses me, surrounded by the gentle hum of our bees and the sweet scent of lavender in the cooling air, I taste the promise of all the tomorrows we’re building together.
Not perfect, maybe. But real, and honest, and ours.
Epilogue
Horn Over Heart
Raphael
I’m standing in my grandmother’stea room, checking the porcelain arrangement for the third time in twenty minutes. My hooves keep shifting against the hardwood floor, and I have to force myself to stop fidgeting before I knock something over.
The delicate cups gleam in the candlelight I’ve arranged throughout the intimate space. Her collection sits perfectly arranged on the antique table she brought from the old country. What’s left of it, anyway, after years of my clumsy hands and oversized frame. The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m about to propose marriage using the same teacups that taught me not to destroy everything I touch.
The ring is hidden at the bottom of Frankie’s favorite cup, a delicate piece with hand-painted roses that somehow survived my childhood. The amber stone catches the light like captured honey, which seemed poetic when I bought it. Now it just lookssmall and fragile, much like everything else in this room that wasn’t designed for someone like me.
I check my watch. Frankie should be here any minute, expecting our usual evening tea and probably wondering why I’ve lit the candles for this particular time.
My hands are actually shaking as I adjust the sugar bowl again. Ridiculous. I’ve negotiated million-dollar deals without breaking a sweat, but asking the woman I love to marry me has me completely rattled.
The front door opens, and I hear Frankie’s voice echo through the foyer. “Raphael? What’s with all the candles? Did the power go out, or are you being romantic again?”
“Tea room,” I call back, my voice coming out strained.
She’s definitely going to know something is amiss.
Her footsteps approach, and then she’s standing in the doorway wearing a simple blue dress that makes her hazel eyes look like sea glass. Her dark waves are loose around her shoulders, and she’s got that slightly suspicious expression she wears when she knows I’m up to something.
“You’re being very mysterious,” she says, settling into the chair across from me. “And you look nervous. Should I be worried?”
“Just… humor me tonight.”
She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push, watching as I go through the traditional tea service my grandmother taught me as a child. The ceremony has specific steps: warming the pot,measuring the leaves, timing the steep. It’s meant to create a sense of reverence, of importance.
“Well,” Frankie says, accepting her cup with both hands the way I’ve taught her. “What’s the occasion?”
“Drink your tea first.”
She gives me a look that clearly saysyou’re being weird, but I love you anywayand takes a careful sip. The blend is Earl Grey with honey and bergamot, her favorite. I watch her face as she drinks, noting the way her lips curve slightly at the taste.
“It’s perfect,” she says, then tilts the cup to drain the last drops.
The ring clinks against the porcelain.
Frankie freezes, staring down into the empty cup. The amber stone glows against the white china, and I watch her face transform as understanding dawns.
