Page 57 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
“When we get married, are we doing a human ceremony or a minotaur one?”
I consider this. “Both, probably. My brother will never forgive me if we don’t include some of the old traditions.”
“What kind of traditions?”
“Well, there’s usually a demonstration of strength. Traditionally, the groom would fight other bulls for the right to claim his mate.”
Frankie props herself up on her elbow to look at me. “Please tell me you’re not planning to challenge Tom to combat.”
“I was thinking more like arm wrestling at the reception.”
“That I can work with.” She grins. “What else?”
“The bride traditionally wears flowers in her hair. Specifically, flowers that grow where the couple first met.”
“Lavender, then. From the meadow where you caught me falling off that ladder.”
“Perfect.” I tuck a curl behind her ear, marveling at how right this all feels. “And there’s a ceremony where the bride accepts the groom’s horns.”
“Meaning?”
“You touch them in front of the community. It’s symbolic. It means that you trust me completely, that you’re not afraid of what I am.”
Her hand comes up to trace along my left horn. “I think I can manage that.”
“There’s more, but we can figure out the details later.”
“Good, because right now I’m more interested in practicing for the honeymoon.”
I flip her onto her back in one smooth motion, and her delighted laughter fills the room. Outside, the bees are settling in for the night, the construction site is quiet, and Sunnybrook sleeps peacefully under the stars.
Tomorrow, we’ll call Sage and endure her excited shrieking. We’ll start planning a wedding that somehow incorporates both human and minotaur traditions. We’ll figure out how to blend our lives even more completely than we already have.
But tonight, it’s just us. The beast and his beauty, building something that’s going to last forever.
Bonus Epilogue
The Rest of Our Days
Frankie
Six Years Later
I stand on the wraparound porch of our expanded farmhouse, coffee mug in hand, watching my five-year-old son attempt to demolish another fence post with the single-minded determination that only a young minotaur possesses.
Mason charges across the yard, his soft brown fur catching the morning light and his tiny horns lowered with serious intent. They’re barely more than bumps but already sharp enough to leave impressive dents in our furniture. The chickens have learned to scatter at the sight of him, squawking indignantly as they flap toward higher ground. I’ve learned to keep a running tally of how many fence posts need replacing each week.
“Mason, no!” I call, but he’s already committed to his mission.
The sound of approaching hoofbeats makes me smile before I even see Raphael emerging from the far pasture, his massiveframe moving with surprising speed as he spots our son’s latest destructive endeavor. Even after six years of marriage, the sight of him still does things to my pulse.
“Mason Tauros,” Raphael’s deep voice carries easily across the yard, “what did we say about frightening the chickens?”
Our boy is too focused on his target to listen, tiny hooves digging into the dirt as he builds momentum. The chicken coop looms ahead like some great enemy fortress that must be conquered.
Raphael breaks into a run, and I hold my breath as he scoops up the giggling child mid-charge, spinning him around until Mason’s delighted squeals fill the morning air.
“Dad! Again!” Mason demands, his small hands gripping Raphael’s horns as he’s lifted high above his father’s head.
