Page 6 of Bound to the Minotaur (Hillcrest Hollow Shifters #2)

“So,” I said after a beat, my voice low.

“What exactly are we doing here?” A nervous energy filled me, one that was half fear of the future and half butterflies from being across from Gregory in a setting like this.

Almost, this felt like a date, but there was no way my strange, surly companion would ever want that.

“Breakfast,” he said shortly, proving that my company was not as pleasant to him as his seemed to be to me. I was an idiot for enjoying his presence, the way he made me feel safe.

I blinked. “Oh.” Of course we were here for breakfast—why else?

I gazed around the cozy, shabby interior of the diner and wondered how busy it got in here.

Probably not at all, considering the low traffic on the road and the almost abandoned feel of the town.

There was still no sign of a waiter or waitress.

Gregory turned toward the counter and raised two fingers in a way that clearly meant more than it seemed to. The Norse-god of a cook gave a small nod, then disappeared through the swinging door like some kind of culinary specter.

When Gregory turned back, he looked at me briefly—just long enough to judge something, maybe the shadows under my eyes or the fact that I hadn’t tried to make small talk.

Then he said, “Double stack of pancakes. Syrup. No bacon.” I wasn’t sure if he was ordering food or simply telling me what we were going to get.

“No bacon?” I blinked. “Seriously?” Who didn’t eat bacon with their pancakes?

Especially a guy as big as him? Pancakes did sound good.

My stomach eagerly rumbled at the thought, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten a bite since my last sandwich, late yesterday afternoon.

There hadn’t been any place to stop and get dinner once I’d gotten off the highway.

He leaned back in the booth, broad shoulders barely fitting against the cracked vinyl. “I’m a vegetarian.” He gave me a look that dared me to make fun of that—sharp, cutting, and confident, as if he didn’t really care what I thought of it anyway.

The statement pulled a laugh from me before I could help it. “You? You’re the size of a barn. I figured you ate your enemies.” That I could picture, him munching on some femur while glaring at a cowering, shadowy figure. If anyone had the killing glare down pat, it was him.

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t start.” But there was a tilt to the corner of his mouth, as if he was amused, pleased.

I couldn’t quite see it, but I felt it in my gut, that he liked that I’d spoken up, that I hadn’t just nodded and accepted it.

That I’d teased him. I hadn’t pegged him for a guy who liked banter; he didn’t appear to like conversation, period.

“Just saying. You’re full of surprises,” I told him, and that faint tilt at the corner of his mouth seemed to stretch a little further—devastatingly sexy, hinting at dry wit and humor.

From behind the counter, I heard the faintest snort.

Gregory’s head snapped toward the kitchen door like a gunshot.

“Stay in your freaking kitchen, Sven,” he barked.

“And don’t start.” He made the name “Sven” sound like an insult, a mockery.

The reply was silence, but I swore I could feel the amusement radiating from behind the door.

I bit back a grin. “You’re popular here.

” He didn’t respond, just folded his arms across his chest and glared at the salt shaker.

A few minutes later, Sven emerged carrying two plates.

He dropped a large salad—yes, salad, for breakfast—in front of Gregory with a muttered word in a language I didn’t recognize, but that was definitely said with judgment.

Then came the pancakes. Two towering stacks, steaming and golden, drowning in syrup.

Apparently, when Gregory had announced that to me, the cook had heard.

My stomach growled audibly once again, and two pairs of eyes plus a cat turned my way to stare.

I noticed that the pocket on the towering cook’s pristine shirt didn’t say Sven, it said Mikael.

So Sven wasn’t even his name; that was some kind of joke between these two men.

Gregory took his fork, stabbed into one stack with surgical precision, and slid it toward me. “Eat,” he ordered firmly. My stomach gurgled a third time, eagerly agreeing with the demand. The chef, Mikael, smiled once before turning and walking away on silent feet.

I stared at him. “You…don’t want them?” I asked.

I didn’t know why, but I hadn’t considered even once that he’d been ordering food for both of us—or that breakfast had included me.

I figured I’d ask for a menu when I got the chance and order the cheapest thing on it to tide me over.

Usually, the guys I’d hung out with assumed the salad was mine too, if we ate.

And I’d never managed to fit the rail-thin image my father had wanted of me, no matter how many salads I ate or how many pancakes I forwent.

“I ordered them for you. So eat,” my grumpy companion said, his eyes leaving my face to focus on his own stack of pancakes and the overflowing salad.

He dug in as if he hadn’t eaten in as long as I had, and half of it was gone before I’d even begun.

Avis had materialized beside the booth like a summoned demon.

He yowled once and jumped up, pawing at my thigh for a piece.

Gregory shot him a look, and the cat sat down reluctantly, tail twitching with offended dignity.

I picked up my fork and took a bite. They were divine.

Slightly crisped edges, buttery and soft inside, and the syrup was maple—not that corn syrup nonsense.

I let out a soft, involuntary moan of appreciation.

Gregory’s jaw ticked, and I couldn’t stop myself from doing it again, just to get a response.

Still chewing, I watched him with narrowed eyes. “You sure you don’t want bacon?”

He gave me a flat look. “Eat your damn pancakes.” I did, slowly, savoring each bite, trying to stretch the moment.

Maybe I didn’t know where my life was going, maybe my future had just been torched by my mobster father from three hundred miles away, but here, in this weird little town, with a pancake-offering tow truck driver and a food-obsessed cat, I didn’t feel like a victim.

I felt...weirdly okay.

The bell over the diner door jingled behind me.

I turned to look, curious who else would frequent this place.

A woman stepped in first—tall, graceful, with skin like polished obsidian, all bundled up against the crisp autumn cold.

Beside her, a man with copper-toned skin and dark eyes scanned the room protectively, his arm slung around her shoulders in a way that said, mine .

“Gregory,” the man greeted, lifting two fingers.

They clearly knew each other, but I wasn’t sure if they were friends or enemies, with the way Gregory’s face went tight as he nodded.

The woman’s gaze swept toward me. She stilled.

Her eyes narrowed, just a fraction. Surprise.

Then calculation. Her gaze was a vibrant green that couldn’t possibly be natural and was breathtaking in its beauty.

Gregory’s fork clattered onto his plate with a loud noise.

I snapped back in my seat, turning to him.

His plates had been all but licked clean—so had mine—but when he stood abruptly, reaching for me, I wasn’t ready to go.

My fork hitting the table sounded even louder when he grabbed my arm and pulled. “Up,” he grunted.

“What?” I managed, still chewing on my last delicious bite. We were leaving? But things had just started to get interesting. It caught me by surprise how badly I wanted to know these people and how my strange protector fit into their lives.

“Now!” he snarled. Before I could argue, he pulled on my wrist again—more gently this time, but firmly—and dragged me from the booth.

Avis gave a startled yowl and launched after us as Gregory hustled us to the door, moving like a man suddenly very aware of how many people could ask the wrong questions.

The last thing I saw as the door swung shut behind us was the woman and man staring after us, their interest now fully piqued.

Whatever peace I’d had was gone—replaced by a familiar flutter of adrenaline.

It all felt like trouble, and my sense of safety washed away, replaced by the fear that I’d stepped into something just as troubling as what I’d been trying to escape.