Page 5 of Bound to the Minotaur (Hillcrest Hollow Shifters #2)

Kess

I stood in Gregory’s kitchen, still holding the empty mug as if it might refill itself if I wished hard enough. My palm was cold against the ceramic, but I couldn’t move. The phone call echoed in my head as though it had been shouted into a canyon.

No job, no new life, no escape.

The finality of it hadn’t settled yet. It hovered over me like the moment before a wave crashed, a heavy wall of inevitability.

My chest ached in that hollow way grief does when it’s fresh—raw, not yet shaped into understanding.

And then Gregory, hulking and broody, stomped out the front door with all the subtlety of an earthquake.

His declaration—blunt and gruff as it was—had surprised me more than the call.

You can come with me.

I didn’t know what he meant by that, but something about the way he’d avoided looking at me, the way his voice had cracked under the weight of his own discomfort, made something in my chest unfurl.

Something soft. How much had he overheard?

And was he looking out for me beneath all that grumpiness?

It caught me by surprise how desperately I wanted that.

There hadn’t been anyone to watch my back in so long that I’d forgotten what it felt like when someone cared.

Maybe Gregory was the same way, maybe that’s why it had taken him so long to even trust me with his name.

Avis meowed and brushed against my legs. “Yeah, yeah,” I murmured to him, setting the mug down. “We’d better follow your owner before he broods himself into a ditch.” I couldn’t risk that he’d drive off without me, either; I wouldn’t put it past him if I took too long.

I slipped on my boots by the door, shouldering my bag as Avis twined around my ankles in excitement. The cat, at least, was uncomplicated in his affection for me. It felt as if I had him as my ally, though that was rather fanciful to think.

Outside, the chill slapped me full in the face. My breath came out in a white puff. I tugged my coat tighter and stepped onto the porch, then stopped cold—not from the weather this time, but from the view.

The world spread out before me, quiet and crisp in the morning light.

The dirt road that wound from Gregory’s cabin and shop led gently down a sloping hill into the heart of Hillcrest Hollow.

Everything looked like a postcard come to life.

A white town hall stood proudly at the center, its fresh coat of paint practically glowing against the backdrop of evergreens.

A bell perched atop it like a crown. Beside it stood a scattering of homes—some cabins like Gregory’s, others cottages with ivy crawling up their sides, wreaths already hanging on the doors.

It was the kind of town you imagined when you were young and dreaming of safety.

I didn’t realize I was smiling until Avis gave an approving trill.

The spell broke only when the wind picked up and bit at my ears.

I hurried down the porch steps and toward Gregory’s battered old tow truck.

The cab sat high off the ground, and for a second, I hesitated.

He was watching me. I could feel him watching me from the other side of the vehicle.

Maybe he was debating whether he should help.

Maybe he didn’t know how. I didn’t give him time to decide.

I hiked up my leg, grabbed the side handle, and hauled myself in—less gracefully than I would have liked, but I made it.

Avis leapt up behind me, a fuzzy gray missile of judgment and smugness, and settled on the seat between us as if he owned it.

The cab smelled of motor oil, leather, and something darker and more animal underneath. Gregory didn’t say a word. He just started the engine and pulled us onto the road, gravel crunching under the tires like a warning.

The silence between us was loud. I tried not to fidget, but my thoughts refused to settle. The phone call gnawed at me. I knew I hadn’t misunderstood the tone in the recruiter’s voice last week. They’d all but told me the position was mine. And then this morning? Cold. Short. Final.

Only one person had that kind of reach: one man whose money and name turned people to dust if they crossed him.

Daddy dearest.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d found a way to pull the rug out from under me.

His methods were rarely direct but always effective.

Whispered threats to employers. Anonymous donations followed by careful retractions.

He didn’t just want me to come back. He wanted me to fail.

I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood. Don’t cry. Don’t give him that.

Instead, I stared out the window as the town drew closer.

The road dipped into a sleepy main street, dusted with frost. On our left, a ramshackle building with a sign that read “Ted’s Plumbing & Repairs” leaned slightly to one side.

Next to it was a tidy general store with a chalkboard out front advertising eggs and canned peaches.

The diner sat across the street, its neon “Open” sign flickering like it needed convincing.

The town hall loomed past them, with a few other buildings trailing off—some shuttered, some with faded signs and dusty windows.

One in particular caught my eye: a little B&B painted pale blue with lace curtains and flower boxes still bravely holding on to a few dried mums. A neatly carved wooden sign swung from its porch: Halvers’ Haven.

I blinked, then turned slowly to Gregory.

“You said there weren’t any,” I murmured.

He grunted, of course, that was all the response he deigned to give me.

I quirked an eyebrow, daring him to meet my gaze.

He didn’t, but his cheeks pinked slightly beneath the curl of his black hair, and he huffed.

A literal huff, like steam from a bull’s nose in winter.

The truck squealed as he parked beside the diner, gravel spitting under the tires.

Before I could open the door, he had leaped out and slammed his shut.

I was still struggling to open mine so I could plunge down to the ground when he popped up at my side.

Like last night, he yanked the door from my grip and held it open.

Unlike last night, he stayed standing right there in front of me, almost blocking the way out.

I took a deep breath, and my lungs filled with his scent, leather, motor oil, something all male.

Warmth filled the space between us, heating my legs through my jeans as I swung them around toward him so I could get out.

He stepped back—barely—and my shoes thumped onto the pavement with a jar that vibrated up my legs.

Then he caught me by surprise again, when he reached down with his hand and caught my wrist.

It was warm and strong—calloused fingers curling around me as if to tether me to the moment, to him. He didn’t tighten that grip, letting me feel his strength without making me feel shackled. Then he turned and began pulling me across the road without a word.

Avis was ahead of him somehow, though I’d missed when he’d jumped from the truck.

Tail high, he blazed the way with prancing steps and a perfect flounce.

Gregory was less graceful as he stomped away, pulling me with him.

I scrambled after them, heart thudding a little too fast, questions on the tip of my tongue.

Gregory didn’t look back. He just hauled open the diner door, like it had offended him, and held it long enough for me to pass through. So I did. And, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel quite so alone.

The door creaked shut behind us with a mechanical wheeze and a faint jingle that sounded like it hadn’t been tuned since the eighties. I paused just inside, letting the warmth of the diner chase the cold from my fingers and took in the space with a slow sweep of my eyes.

It was like stepping into a snow globe from another era.

The red vinyl booths were cracked along the seams, duct-taped in places, and the checkerboard tile floor had more scuff than shine.

The walls were a soft yellow that had probably started life as cream, dotted with framed photos of townsfolk and faded articles clipped from the local paper.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly, and one in the back corner flickered every third beat, like a dying firefly. It should’ve felt rundown.

Instead, it felt…lived-in. Cozy, even—like this place was a corner of the world where people came when they needed familiarity more than perfection.

No waitstaff buzzed about—just a towering figure behind the counter, wearing an apron smeared with what I hoped was batter.

He was even larger than Gregory, which I hadn’t known was possible.

Blond hair, pale beard, skin like driftwood, and eyes that pinned me in place from across the room.

Scandinavian, unmistakably. He had the presence of a man who’d once held an axe professionally.

Gregory didn’t say a word to him, just walked toward the nearest booth and slid into it, like gravity pulled him there. I hesitated for half a second, then followed.

He let go of my wrist as soon as I sat. I hadn’t realized he was still holding it until the warmth vanished. Under the table, I rubbed the spot absently. My skin still tingled where his fingers had been. I could feel the shape of them like a phantom bracelet.

He looked anywhere but at me. His shoulders were tight with tension, one arm spread along the back of the booth like he intended to claim the place.

His coveralls clung tightly to his broad chest, the open V at his neck offering a glimpse of his upper pecs.

The pocket—the one that said “The Pit Stop”—strained over his left pectoral.