Page 7 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
The smart thing would be to stay as far away from me as possible.
But she steps inside.
“Your home is beautiful,” she says, though her voice carries a note of uncertainty as she takes in the soaring ceilings and pristine furnishings. “It’s like something from a magazine.”
“That’s the problem,” I admit, closing the heavy door behind her. “It doesn’t feel like much of a home.” Not wanting to let the dour note linger too long, I gesture toward the hallway that leads deeper into the house. “Follow me.”
She falls into step beside me, though I notice she maintains a careful arm’s length of distance as we walk.
I don’t blame her.
The formal living room sprawls before us like a showpiece, all pristine white sofas and spindly antique chairs that look like they’d collapse under my weight. Everything is positioned at precise angles, not a cushion out of place.
“Oh, wow…” Frankie trails off, her fingers hovering over the arm of a white leather sofa before she pulls her hand back without touching it, like she’s afraid she might leave fingerprints. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s also completely useless.” I gesture to the delicate settee that probably cost more than most people’s cars. “I’m afraid to sit on anything here.”
That gets a genuine laugh from her, and the sound does something dangerous to my chest.
We move through an archway into the dining room, where a mahogany table stretches beneath an elaborate crystal chandelier. Twelve chairs surround it, each one perfectly positioned and utterly unused.
“This table is enormous,” she murmurs, trailing her fingertips along the polished surface. “Your dinner parties must be something.”
“What dinner parties?” I move to the opposite side of the table, watching her face. “You’ll be the first person to eat in this house besides me.”
Her eyes widen. “Really? But you moved in six months ago.”
“Six very quiet months.” I start walking slowly around the table, and I notice how her gaze tracks my movement. How herbreathing shifts when I get closer to her side. “Turns out the locals aren’t eager to socialize with the mysterious monster who bought the old Whitmore estate.”
“You’re not a monster,” she says quietly, and I’m not sure if she believes it or if she’s just being nice.
“Tell that to the rest of Sunnybrook.”
She’s quiet for a moment, still taking in the unused grandeur around us. “It’s beautiful,” she says finally. “But it feels…”
“Lonely?”
“I was going to say sad.” She looks at me again, and this time there’s something soft in her expression. “All this space for entertaining, and you’re eating alone every night.”
The observation hits closer to home than I’d like to admit.
“Sorry,” she says suddenly. “That was rude of me.”
“You don’t have to censor yourself,” I insist.
“It’s not that. It’s just… I’m nervous. I’ve never been in a monster’s home before. So… if I say something stupid…”
I take a step closer. “There’s no need to be nervous.”
For a moment, neither of us moves, and the same electric charge I felt when I caught her, when she touched my horns… it returns tenfold. And from the way she’s holding her breath, I think she feels it too.
Then she seems to remember where we are, what we’re doing, and takes a careful step back.
But not before I catch the faint, unmistakable scent of arousal beneath her nervousness.
It feeds a dark hunger in my chest, a hunger I’ve spent years trying to keep under control.
She swallows hard, and I change the subject, for both of our sakes. “How about I show you my favorite room?”
