A Kiss From a Minotaur (Kiss From a Monster #9)

1. Bloom

BLOOM

“Iforbid you!” my father roars.

I grit my teeth against his edict. The mild-mannered man who never said a cross word to anyone in his life turns a startling shade of purple. Shame floods me. With his waning health, I shouldn’t be adding to his stress.

However, his health is the reason I’ve decided to set off in the first place.

I have to try—not just for my own sake but for my father’s as well. He has turned feeble over the last few years. We won’t survive the winter if our tithe continues to increase. I must do something to alleviate the harsh predicament we’ve found ourselves in.

There is a solution, an unwanted voice hisses in my ear. But you’re not going to like it.

I push the cloying words aside. I refuse to consider them. I’d rather take my chances in the Woods and throw myself at the mercy of him than ever agree to such a proposal.

“Think of the consequences, my dear,” Father continues. “Think of what could happen to you out there. He is the least of your concerns. The journey isn’t an easy one, and you’ve never left the village.”

I scrub a hand down my face and ignore the trembling of my fingers. I can’t let my fear show. I have to do this. My father knows it too, but that doesn’t mean he’ll agree without a fight.

His stubbornness was always endearing to me. As the moments trickle by and we remain at an impasse, I’m beginning to rethink my fondness for the trait.

“Father, consider what will happen if I don’t go.” I swallow thickly against the rising bile. “Pyke will press the issue and—”

“I will refuse him as I always do!”

“This time you won’t have a choice. Not if we wish to be spared.” I shake my head. “Going to him is our only option.”

My father’s lips part before settling in a harsh line. He slumps down into the old chair. It creaks under his weight. Propping his sore feet up on the stool, the fight goes out of him like a blown candle. The rage over my reckless decision cools in the face of a more unsavory truth.

I’m spared from any more conversation as the timer goes off.

With a sigh, I turn towards the large ovens. Warmth bathes my face as I remove the fresh loaves. They knock onto the worn countertop with hollow thuds. Their golden crust matches the sunlight streaming in from the open window. A mild, flower-rich breeze drifts in, gently tousling my unbound hair.

My stomach growls at the decadent scent of yeasty perfection.

Despite my affection for our comfortable spring, a part of me longs for the cooler months when Father and I make our cinnamon loaves. The house fills with the spicy smell, and we can hardly keep them in stock long enough for me to steal a slice.

I pray this winter is more fruitful than the last. Life has been hard as of late for all of us in Dew Hollow. The rains during the previous fall flooded the farmers' fields, making their wheat crop scarce and increasing flour prices.

Due to this, Father was forced to raise his prices for the first time since opening the bakery forty years ago. Many were not happy, and while our loaves are the best in the village, some preferred to try their hand at baking with coarsely ground flour to save a few coins.

The steaming loaves wink up at me.

My stomach growls, but I would rather they go to a paying customer than my dinner.

We can’t survive much longer without turning a profit.

Father’s health has been failing. The soreness in his limbs and weakening of his muscles have decreased our output.

There was a time when we stocked a wide variety of loaves and sweets that sold out before the afternoon.

Now, we’re lucky if someone offers us a few copper coins for day-old bread.

It’s why I have to leave.

Father can’t make the journey, and I’m not certain he would be in high enough spirits to make the proper appeal to him. I’m of a much sweeter disposition. A trait I inherited from my mother.

I’ve always been grateful for my ability to ingratiate myself with others.

It was helpful when business was booming, and people would stop by just to talk with me.

Lending an ear had been profitable, as more than a few ended up purchasing baked goods once their tale concluded. It was a blessing, or so I thought.

Unfortunately, my welcoming nature was the reason I caught his eye.

I wipe my hands on my apron, careful not to get flour on my dress. It is the nicest one I own. The fabric is pale gold with dark green stitching creating the illusion of a sprawling meadow along my corset. I hope it is pleasing to him.

As I got older, it became apparent that the male patrons were stopping less so for their interest in our sweet rolls and more so to look at me.

I grew accustomed to their curious stares, even when I didn’t understand them.

It wasn’t until one of the older women in the village warned me to be careful.

That attention from any man can be dangerous.

And I had caught the eye of the most powerful one.

Pyke Silvermist. He stared at me like all the others, but with a sense of propriety that made my skin crawl. He had done so well before my eighteenth birthday. It was surprising that he only started pressing the issue of marriage to my father two summers ago.

I’m twenty-seven and have spent almost ten years enduring his lingering gazes and wandering hands. I refuse to marry a man like that, no matter how rich he is.

I recoil at the memory of his hot words whispered against my ear last night. He intends for us to marry tomorrow evening before he sets off to deliver our tithes to Lord Rhydian. My hand will be Pyke’s payment to cover what my father and I owe to the lord.

Curling my toes inside my worn boots, I snatch one of the loaves from the counter and place it in my wicker basket. Lord Rhydian is my only hope. If I can persuade him to give my father and me more time with our tithe, I won’t be forced to accept Pyke.

No matter the fact that Father will never give Pyke consent to have me, the words of a frail baker mean little when it comes to a man as rich as Pyke.

He knows it too. Pyke is a serpent, biding his time until I was the most vulnerable to strike. I refuse to be bought, even if the cost of not paying the tithe is great.

It is why I must go to Lord Rhydian directly.

Pyke is the only one from our village who has contact with him. He is rumored to be fearsome, but I need only one chance to avoid a fate worse than death. I know what happens to those who don’t pay, and I refuse to let my father’s hard work go up in smoke.

If Lord Rhydian seeks a similar payment as Pyke does, then I suppose it will be easier to endure knowing I have secured more time for us to pay. I pray the stories we have heard of the lord have been grievously over exaggerated.

It’s foolish to get my hopes up.

If I could have one wish, it would be that Lord Rhydian is a gentle male who will be understanding of my plight. We pay a tithe every month. Surely he will survive it being a little light until the next full moon.

Glancing at my father, I see the fear creeping into our matching hazel eyes. His dark hair is streaked with silver, while mine remains the color of the night sky. He hates what I intend to do, but he can’t stop me.

I can be just as stubborn as him.

When I was younger, the idea of marriage and children thrilled me. A small kernel of that desire flickers within my heart, but I smother it. All my thoughts are with the bakery. It’s up to me to preserve my father’s legacy.

If it means giving up my maidenhead to do so, then that is a price I’m willing to pay.

Dreams of settling down with a nice man and spending the days working side by side, kneading dough and decorating fruit tarts are forgotten. I can’t afford to waver due to childhood fantasies.

I have to do this.

“Bloom,” my father whispers. “My darling. I beg you. You saw what he did two months ago to the Fosters’ farm. Burnt to a crisp in the middle of the night. The whole family barely escaped with their lives. That type of monster can’t be reasoned with.”

I shudder at the memory of being awoken by blood-curdling screams. Thick smoke choked me through the open window. It was a horrific sight. The Fosters left Dew Hollow shortly after with only the ash-stained clothes on their backs.

“I must try.” I shake my head and smooth the front of my dress with trembling hands. “I’m sure his desires are those of any other man.”

It is the wrong thing to say. The dark truth we both refuse to acknowledge. My father’s face turns red. His blunt nails dig into the arms of the chair.

“He is no man, Bloom. The moment you set foot on his land,” my father pauses, his eyes burning into mine, “the Minotaur Lord of Dew Hollow will kill you.”