Page 17 of Bound to the Minotaur (Hillcrest Hollow Shifters #2)

Grandma Liz blinked, then offered me a crooked, apologetic smile.

“Of course. Kess it is. You’ll have to forgive an old woman with too many opinions and not enough filters.

” She gave Gregory a narrowed look, her lips pursing as if she might swat him with one of those clinking bracelets.

“Though there are gentler ways to say it, you bull-headed brute.”

He didn’t flinch or respond, just folded his arms and stared off at the trees like he hadn’t just gotten verbally thwacked by a grandmother in rainbow bangles.

Her smile softened when she turned back to me.

“I stopped by because I thought you should know—there were strange men in town this morning. Real clean-cut types. Surveying the valley, asking too many questions with those sweet little fake smiles. You know the kind.” Despite the gentle smile, there was a hard edge in her eyes that made it obvious she was the mayor of this town for a reason, and it wasn’t because of her knitted scarves and home-baked cookies.

A hard knot formed in my gut. “Suits?” I instantly saw the endless parade of hard men who had come and gone through my home—first as a child, then as a woman.

Men who obeyed only one man: my father. The kind of man I’d been expected to marry, to cement who was next in line after him.

They were another reason I’d run. My skin crawled just thinking about them, and how they were closing in once again, right now.

She nodded. “Expensive ones. City smooth. Gave me a bad feeling all over.” Gregory had smoothly glided closer, his arm brushing against mine, not quite offering his full support or staking a claim, but letting me know I was not alone.

Yeah. That sounded like his people. I wrapped my arms around myself, the morning’s warmth and closeness with Gregory vanishing like steam.

It was tempting to lean into him, to burrow against his wide chest and beg him to make this go away—too proud to actually do it.

“That’d be my father’s idea of a warning shot.

” He liked to let his enemies know he was there, make them look over their shoulder, live in fear.

Then he’d strike like a cobra when you least expected it.

This sleepy, tiny town didn’t know what was about to hit it.

Did they even have a police station? A sheriff?

I hadn’t seen one on my single trip into town yesterday.

The mayor, standing in front of me, looked far too sweet to be dealing with an invasion of organized crime.

Grandma Liz tilted her head, eyes narrowing just slightly.

“You sure your father’s... human, dear?”

I blinked, the question catching me completely offguard. “What? Of course he’s—” Gregory made a noise. Low, strangled; almost a cough, but not quite. Both of us turned to look at him. Grandma Liz’s expression pinched with realization, then deepened into something between exasperation and disbelief.

“Oh, Gregory,” she said, the name coming out in a sigh that rattled her bracelets again.

“You haven’t told her?” Gregory rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze angled away.

His cheeks flushed faintly red under the stubble.

He said nothing. Liz gave a soft, almost pitying tsk.

“Well, it might be for the best. A Minotaur’s a lot to process on your first go. ”

“Minotaur?” I repeated, the word catching like a thorn in my throat. I stepped back, suddenly unsure if I was standing in a fairy tale or a fever dream. “ Minotaur ?” I said again, louder this time, my voice cracking. “As in… a bull-headed monster from Greek mythology?”

Gregory glanced at me, guilty as sin, still rubbing his neck.

He gave me a helpless shrug, like that explained everything.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked, throat dry.

My mind flashed back—horns, hooves, tail—the dream-maze, the heat, the growling.

“You’re not serious. Tell me you’re not serious.

” I could so vividly picture Gregory standing in the cold that first night and literally picking up my car with one hand, like it weighed absolutely nothing.

Two plumes of steam blasting from his nose, just like a bull.

Grandma Liz stepped between us—not unkindly—her many bangles chiming in the chilly air.

“Oh, honey,” she said, her voice warm and rich like molasses, “you’ve landed yourself in Hillcrest Hollow now.

And this place? This is where the strange things come to rest. We’re a sanctuary—for the supernatural, the outcast, the misfit, the myth. Your Gregory here is just one of many.”

I stared at her, open-mouthed. My brain scrambled to keep up with what had been said and what it wanted to believe, struggling to comprehend that maybe my dreams hadn’t simply been dreams after all—that maybe what I’d seen last night in the dark hadn’t been fantasy.

“Wait,” I said. “Supernatural?” My mouth was dry as ashes, the words coming out strangled and high-pitched.

“Indeed.” She looked pleased, as if this were the part of the conversation she always enjoyed.

“Shifters. Spirits. Old gods. Magic that forgot it had a name. We’re the safe place at the edge of the map.

And you, sweetheart…” She reached out and patted my hand.

“You couldn’t have run to a safer place. ”

I should’ve laughed. Should’ve told her that she was nuts. But I thought of Gregory’s heat, pressed to mine; the beast in the trees; the way he growled like thunder right before he kissed me; the maze in my dream. Instead of laughing, I whispered, “But I’m not one of you.”

Grandma Liz’s smile turned sly, like she knew something I didn’t. “Maybe. Maybe not.” Beside me, Gregory’s shoulders hunched as if he were bracing for impact. That’s when I realized something cold and real and terrifying: there was so much more I didn’t know.

The clever old woman turned to me with a wink.

“Well, I suppose it’s time you see the beast, proper-like.

I can do the honors, if you like. My own beastie’s a touch friendlier-looking than this one here.

” She waved a hand at Gregory, and her colorful bangles clattered cheerfully together.

I tried to imagine what that meant—what she was—but couldn’t come up with anything.

A poodle, perhaps, but that seemed ridiculous.

Beside me, my grumpy mechanic shifted forward on the balls of his feet, towering over the small older woman. “Don’t,” Gregory growled, voice low and sharp. “I’ve got it.”

The mayor only chuckled, utterly unbothered by his tone. She touched his arm lightly, affectionately, like she knew exactly what hid beneath all that scowling and muscle. “Still as charming as ever, I see.” He didn’t answer, just jerked his head in a not-so-subtle dismissal.

“Alright, alright, I’m going,” she said with a grin, pivoting on the heel of her suede boots. Her bangles clinked like wind chimes with every step. “But don’t take too long, Gregory-boy. She deserves the truth before it blindsides her. You know better.”

She sauntered down the porch steps and crossed the yard toward the narrow dirt road.

Parked there—absurdly small and low to the ground—was an olive-green Volkswagen Beetle that looked like it had driven out of a 1970s postcard.

She climbed in with surprising grace for someone in so many flowing layers.

Gregory called after her, “Tell your wolves to watch those men!” Wolves?

My mind whirred. Was he talking about werewolves?

After what I’d just learned, that seemed less impossible than it had two days ago.

Still utterly bizarre and fantastical, but…

what if it was true? I eyed the older woman anew and still couldn’t see it.

A wolf, hiding beneath that friendly exterior?

The Beetle's engine sputtered to life. Grandma Liz leaned out the window, grinning like a loon. “What do you think they’re doing already, city boy? Playing poker?” And then she was gone with a wave, the rattling song of her bracelets trailing behind.

The silence she left behind felt suddenly heavy.

The trees no longer swayed quite as playfully, and the wind had a bite that hadn’t been there earlier.

Gregory stood, facing away from me, arms braced on the porch railing.

His whole frame was tight, shoulders hunched, like he’d been carved from stone.

And me? My brain was buzzing, whirring; a cacophony of everything I’d just heard. A sanctuary. Supernaturals. A minotaur. My dream. The maze. The way his skin heated like fire and his voice made my spine melt. It was all connected, and I didn’t know how to piece it together.

Avis brushed against my ankle, tail flicking, gaze fixed on me with more awareness than any cat had a right to possess.

“Oh, fine,” I muttered, glaring down at the feline as if he’d put me up to this mess.

But I took a breath and marched right over to that big, silent man, jabbing him in the side with my finger—harder than necessary.

He jerked, more in surprise than pain, and turned to glance at me, his brow drawn low.

“You owe me a hell of a conversation,” I said.

“And you don’t get to grunt or growl your way out of it this time.

” He blinked at me, and, of course, he still didn’t speak.

So I poked him again, just to be sure. “Say something. Tell me I’m crazy.

Or dreaming. Or… or that there’s a perfectly rational explanation for all of this. ”

His mouth opened, then shut. He looked at me like I’d grown horns myself. Which, considering everything, maybe wasn’t such a stretch anymore. “Please,” I added, quieter now. “Don’t leave me in the dark.”

He inhaled deeply, his chest rising and heaving like bellows. Then he looked at me fully, his eyes flickering with that odd amber light I’d only ever seen in shadow—or in my dreams. “You’re not crazy,” he said at last. “And no… you’re not dreaming.”