Page 18 of Screwed by the Minotaur in Hallow’s Cove (Hallow’s Cove #6)

Chapter thirteen

Lea

I didn’t want comfort, I didn’t want tenderness, I didn’t want to talk about it anymore—I wanted to drown out the mess inside me with something hot and vivid and visceral.

I wanted the hardness of his body pressed into mine, the kind of ache that had nothing to do with grief and everything to do with sensation.

I wanted to obliterate the sadness with pleasure so intense I wouldn’t be able to think, let alone remember what I had lost.

I pulled away from him and wiped my sleeve over my eyes. “Upstairs,” I said, and it came out cracked and low, more a command than a request. “Now.”

Rick’s brow furrowed, searching my face for signs of what I really meant, but I didn’t give him time to reason it out. I grabbed his hand and hauled him upright, ignoring the way my knees shook as I led him up the staircase.

At the end of the hall was my old bedroom, the same one I’d repainted pale blue when I was twelve and then cluttered with posters, plants, and the detritus of girlhood until Mom died and I couldn’t stand to sleep here anymore—I’d been staying with Britt since her funeral.

I shoved the door open, the air inside cool and still and threaded with dust motes.

The mattress was in the middle of the floor, stripped of linens, the window half open to let in the spring night.

It was bare and ugly and honest—just like I felt.

I turned, releasing Rick’s hand, and stared at him for a beat, daring him to ask if I was sure.

He didn’t. He only stepped closer, his golden eyes soft and consuming, waiting for whatever I’d do next.

I wished I could say I reached for him gently, but it was more like tearing at him: desperate hands under his shirt, fumbling with his belt, dragging him forward by the hips.

He let me, his arms caging me against the wall, his mouth hot and solid on my neck, his breath filling my ears.

He wanted me as much now as the first night, and thank god for that, because I needed him to devour me.

It was the only way I could prove to myself I was still here.

We shed clothing without ceremony, only the rawness of people who know each other’s bodies, each fault line and tremor.

My hands raked over his chest, nails digging into the dusting of fur there, and he hissed through his teeth, pinning my wrists above my head and grinding his hips into mine.

The length of him, already hard, pressed through denim and none of it felt polite.

Just hunger and the dark, low kind of want that didn’t care about pretty words or fresh bedsheets.

He kissed me with bruising force, and our bodies crashed together, knocking over the last box stacked beside the window.

I ran my tongue over his shoulder, tracing the line where skin met tawny fur and muscle.

He shuddered, tilting his head back, the cords of his throat thrumming under my hands. With every breath, I felt more alive.

His hands were everywhere at once—spreading me over the mattress, holding my hips, tangling in my hair.

I clawed at his waistband, dragging his pants down with frantic urgency.

He was huge and hot and ready and when he pressed into me, it was a shock of sensation, as if the world snapped back into color all at once.

I gasped, clinging to him, and his mouth crashed onto mine with a low, rumbling sound that was half a groan, half a snarl. I didn’t care if the neighbors heard.

I grabbed him by the horns—literally, wrapped both hands around the sweet curve of them—and pulled his face down to mine, kissing so savagely our teeth knocked together.

He fucked me slow at first, as if afraid I might shatter, but I wrapped my legs around his hips and bit his lip until he got the message.

Harder. More. I needed to disappear inside him.

He growled, the sound vibrating through his whole ribcage and into me, and I arched back, letting him take me. I wanted to be ruined by pleasure, to purge every trace of loss from my system through my fingertips, my thighs, my tongue.

He flipped me onto my stomach, hands braced at my hips, his movements purposeful and unyielding.

I moaned into the pillow, gripping the mattress for balance as he drove into me, deep and ruthless, every thrust a promise that I still belonged to the world, that I could still be wanted.

The bedroom spun, the entire house seemed to tilt, and I surrendered to the rhythm—the crash of our bodies, the slap of skin, the way my name sounded when he moaned it into my hair.

He bent over me, crushing his chest to my back, his hand fisting in my curls as if he could anchor me to the moment by sheer force. I reached back, clutching him, digging in with as much desperation as I felt.

He panted into my ear, “Lea, I want you. I want all of you.” The edge in his voice was sharp, torn between reverence and hunger.

He slammed into me, relentless, making me scream and then sob and scream again.

Every thrust was a desperate plea to god or the universe or maybe just my own battered heart to let me belong somewhere, anywhere. Here. Now.

I came hard, tears and snot and sweat all mixing as pleasure yanked me inside out.

I lost myself so completely in the moment that for a few seconds, everything else burned away, and I was nothing but a shriek of want and a trembling body.

He felt me clench, heard the way my breath broke, and followed me over the edge, collapsing with a shudder and a final, thunderous groan that rattled the old windows and shook the dust from the ceiling.

He stayed inside me as we fell, our limbs tangled, his face buried in the crook of my neck.

For a while, neither of us moved. The night air cooled the sweat off our backs, and outside, city lights flickered faintly through the window.

I felt the old house catch its breath around us, as if even the ghosts were stunned into silence.

He tried to kiss away the salt from my cheeks.

I let him. He whispered my name again and again, softer each time, until it was just a vibration through his lips.

I pressed my palms to his chest, feeling the aftershocks of his heart.

There was a soreness inside me, a warmth, and for the first time in days, I didn’t feel empty.

After a while, he rolled off, pulling me with him so we ended up side by side on the dead mattress. We stared at the ceiling. He traced lazy circles on my thigh.

He was the first to speak. “You know we’re both a mess, right?”

“Obviously.”

He snorted, his hand moving to rest heavy and comfortable across my stomach. “We could open a support group. ‘Emotionally Disastrous But Smoking Hot.’ Meetings every Tuesday.”

“First rule is no feelings,” I said, lips twitching. “Second rule is absolutely no crying. But the third is that anyone who shows up late buys the pizza.”

A silence fell, but it wasn’t the bad kind.

More the kind that seeps in after the worst storm, when everything is debris but also—somehow—lighter.

I felt the heat of him at my back, the ridiculous comfort of his arm anchoring me.

It was weird how quickly I’d adjusted to needing him next to me, like my bones and muscles had been waiting for this shape to press into.

I was just beginning to drift into a haze of thoughts when Rick’s voice cut through the fog. “Let me help.”

“Hmm?” I turned my head slightly, raising an eyebrow in his direction. His offer could pertain to any number of things; after all, I felt like a tornado had swept through my life, leaving chaos in its wake.

“Let me help with the shop,” he continued, his voice firmer, like he already knew I’d try to shut him down. “I mean it. You’re not doing this alone. Not the cleanup, not the house, not any of it. I can fix things—I’m good at it. It’s kind of the only thing I’ve ever been good at. Let me try.”

I opened my mouth to protest, maybe to tell him I didn’t want to be a charity case, or that he didn’t owe me anything just because we were—whatever we were. But the words wouldn’t stick. He was watching me with those honey-dark eyes, steady and stubborn, braced for resistance.

“Yeah,” I whispered, shifting onto my back so I could see him properly. “You can help.”

Rick didn’t say anything, just pulled me into his arms, holding me in the safety of his embrace.

We lay in the dark, the house humming gently around us.

I felt the words forming before I even knew I’d say them.

“I’m going to sell it,” I said, voice thin and shaky.

“The house. It’s just… too much. I can’t do it all, not like this.

I will use the money to fix up the store here and finish the Hallow’s Cove shop—really be able to start fresh.

” I didn’t know if I was saying it for him or for myself, but as soon as I said it, the choking weight in my chest loosened by a fraction.

Rick nodded, quiet and certain. “You’ll make it work.

I know you will. And if you need me to haul boxes, or get you an awesome deal on materials, or just…

be there, I’m your man.” He grinned, sheepish and a little bashful.

“And if you need something demoed? Hell, I’ll bring Randy and his whole crew. We’ll knock it out in a day.”

I turned to look at him, incredulous. “Seriously? You’d drive a crew all the way down here for this disaster?”

He shrugged, as if it was obvious. “I get a kick out of demolition. Plus, you should see the look on city contractors’ faces when a bunch of ogres and lizardmen stroll in like they own the place.”

I couldn’t help it—I laughed, the sound strange and new in this house. “God, I’d pay to see that.”

Rick’s arm tightened around me, the weight of it warm and steady. “So let me do it,” he said. “Let me help. Not just for you, but for your mom, too. We don’t leave things half-done in Hallow’s Cove. It’s the code.”

I pressed my face into his shoulder. “Okay,” I said. “We’ll do it your way. Tomorrow, we call Randy. And then we start over.”

“Hell yes,” Rick said, voice muffled by my hair. “We’ll level the place and build it back up to something even better. Just like the one in Hallow’s Cove.”

His optimism was absurd, almost reckless. I found myself wanting to believe it.

After a while, when the quiet had gotten heavy again—this time with the promise of sleep, not the threat of old ghosts—Rick yawned, long and loud, then poked me gently in the side. “So.”

“So?”

He shifted, propping himself on an elbow. “I’m not letting you get away with this, you know. You owe me a date.”

It took me a moment to catch on, then I remembered our pact to kick things off with an actual date. The idea of acting like it was our first date, after everything we’d been through, made me chuckle.

“I usually like to go on several dates before I let someone witness me sobbing like a raccoon who lost its trash can.”

He huffed, nipping at my neck. “You have to set the bar low. Otherwise I get nervous and say dumb things, and then you’ll realize I’m not nearly as cool as I look.”

I snorted, rolling to face him properly. “You have literal horns. You could show up in a clown suit and I’d still think you’re cool.”

He blinked, like he didn’t quite believe me, but there was a lopsided, unguarded smile on his face I’d never seen before. It was like watching the sunrise find a window it hadn’t ever touched.

“Seriously,” I said, needing him to hear it. “You’re more than enough, Rick. Even on your worst day.”

He looked away, and for a second, I wondered if I’d pushed him too far into the open.

But then he pulled me in, tucking my head under his chin, breathing me in like I was a bouquet that could only ever be beautiful, and not just a person who came with a damp house and unexpected emotional baggage.

I let myself be held, let the quiet say what we couldn’t.

Tomorrow would bring tools and noise and mess, but for now, we just existed—awkward, wrecked, but together.