CHAPTER NINETEEN
The road to Rion’s house twisted through the woods like something from a fairy tale, each curve revealing new wonders as the late afternoon sun dappled through the trees. My little car hummed along, occasionally protesting when I took a turn too sharply. I’d driven this route several times now, but today felt different. The butterflies in my stomach weren’t just doing their usual fluttering—they were performing a full aerial acrobatics show.
Tonight might be the night. Or it might not.
I’d spent an embarrassing amount of time deciding what to wear. The floral sundress I’d eventually chosen was casual enough for dinner but pretty enough to make me feel confident. I’d even worn matching underwear, which was something I usually reserved for laundry day coincidences.
Not that he’d necessarily see it. Maybe he would. Oh god.
The grocery bag on my passenger seat contained two bottles of wine—one red, one white, because I still wasn’t sure which Rion preferred—and the container of brownies I’d rescued fromMark’s intrusion yesterday. The memory of Rion’s jealousy still made my heart do a funny little sideways skip. Not that I wanted him upset, but there had been something undeniably thrilling about seeing that flash of possessiveness in his eyes.
Rion’s house—no, his labyrinth—appeared around the final bend, and my breath caught as it always did. The structure was even more beautiful in the golden hour light, all clean modern lines intertwined with curves that somehow reminded me of ancient Crete. How had I gotten so lucky to find someone whose mind created such wonders?
I pulled into the driveway, parking beside Rion’s enormous truck. My phone buzzed with a text as I gathered my things.
Brenda: Have fun tonight! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do… which leaves literally everything still on the table
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile as I typed back:
I’ll be perfectly respectable, thank you very much.
She replied immediately:
Boooooring. But you packed the good underwear, didn’t you?
I dropped my phone back into my purse without answering. Brenda knew me too well.
The front door opened before I could knock, and there stood Rion, filling the doorframe with his massive presence. He wore dark jeans and a slate blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his muscular forearms covered in that short, dark fur. The sight sent a jolt through me that was equal parts nervousness and desire.
“Hi,” I said, immediately wanting to kick myself for such a mundane greeting.
“Clara.” The way he said my name—low and a little reverent—made my knees weak. He stepped back to let me enter, and I caught the scent of something delicious cooking.
“I brought wine.” I held up the bag. “And the brownies. They survived yesterday’s… incident.”
His expression darkened slightly at the mention, but he nodded. “Thank you. Dinner’s almost ready.”
I followed him through the intricately designed hallways. My first few visits had left me hopelessly lost, but I was starting to learn the patterns now. Left at the geometric tile inlay, right at the recessed bookshelf, straight past the fountain. His home was a testament to his brilliant mind—complex yet harmonious, intimidating yet welcoming.
The kitchen opened up before us, spacious and gleaming. Everything was oversized to accommodate Rion’s height and build, making me feel like I’d stepped into a giant’s castle. Which, in a way, I had.
“It smells amazing,” I said, setting the wine and brownies on the counter.
“Coq au vin,” he replied. “With my grandmother’s modifications.”
I tilted my head. “You learned to cook from your grandmother?”
He nodded, turning to stir something on the stove. “She believed in passing down traditions. Said it was important to remember where you came from, even if the world wanted you to forget.”
The simple statement held so much weight. I wanted to ask about his family, his childhood, all the things we hadn’t yet discussed in depth. But something in his posture—a slight tension in his broad shoulders—told me not to press just yet.
Instead, I moved to stand beside him, peering into the pot. “Can I help with anything?”
“You can open the wine.” He gestured to a drawer. “Corkscrew’s in there.”
I found it and set about opening the red wine, figuring it would pair better with the chicken. The domestic normalcy of the moment struck me—here we were, a woman and a minotaur, making dinner together as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
And maybe it was.
