Chapter 9 #2
He pointed out a sixteenth-century volume of Vitruvius, and I carefully pulled it down. The margins were filled with notes—some antique, some far more modern in a precise hand I assumed was his.
“You’ve read this many times.”
“It is foundational.”
I replaced the book gently, very aware of him standing close beside me. At some point, his presence had stopped feeling intimidating and started feeling… grounding.
“Your home is extraordinary,” I said, turning to face him. “Not just as architecture. It feels like a complete expression of who you are.”
His eyes widened slightly.
“Few would see it that way,” he said.
“Then they aren’t looking properly.” I smiled a little. “Every curve, every material choice, every sound shift—it all says something. It’s like reading your autobiography in concrete and light.”
For a moment he simply looked at me, all of that usual reserve falling away. What was left beneath it was quieter and far more dangerous to my peace of mind.
“You see a great deal, Clara.”
“I’m a librarian. It’s practically a job requirement.”
“Is that all it is?” he asked, his gaze dropping to my mouth for a fraction of a second. “Professional habit?”
My pulse kicked.
“No,” I admitted.
The air between us changed.
He stepped closer, not enough to crowd me, just enough that I had to tilt my head back to keep looking at him. His scent wrapped around me again, and my thoughts dissolved into static.
Then he said, “Your ladder. At the library. You still need a solution.”
I blinked. “Oh. Right. Yes. The display is still doomed.”
“I could help,” he said. “As I said, I could build something suitable. Or I could come to the library and assist you directly. After hours, perhaps.”
The image of Rion in my library hit me all at once—moving through the stacks, reaching the upper shelves with ease, his careful hands handling books.
“That would be wonderful,” I said, perhaps a little too quickly. “Though we might have to avoid giving Mrs. Abernathy a heart attack.”
A low rumble left him, and it took me a second to realize it was a chuckle.
“I am accustomed to discretion,” he said.
“I bet you are.”
His gaze lingered on me.
“Tomorrow night?” I asked. “I close at nine. The library will be empty.”
“Tomorrow night,” he agreed.
We stood there for a moment in the quiet of his private sanctuary, surrounded by books and light and all the evidence of his brilliant, careful mind.
It struck me then, with unsettling clarity, that this wasn’t just fascination anymore.
It wasn’t just curiosity about a minotaur, or admiration for an architect, or amusement over a texting mistake.
I wanted to know him.
“Would you like to see the terrace?” he asked.
“I’d love to.”
He led me down another corridor, narrower than the others.
I pressed myself slightly towards the wall to give him room, acutely aware of my own tendency to trip over air.
Despite my precautions, his arm brushed against mine as he passed—just the lightest contact, his fur unexpectedly soft against my skin.
A jolt of something electric shot through me, and I sucked in a startled breath.
The brief touch lingered, warm and unsettling.
If he noticed my reaction, he gave no indication. He continued forward, his movements fluid and controlled despite his size. I followed, my skin still tingling where we’d touched, trying to process my response.
It’s just because he’s a minotaur, I rationalized. Anyone would be hypersensitive to touching a mythological creature.
But as I watched his powerful body moving ahead of me, I wasn’t entirely convinced by my own explanation.
The passage opened onto a dramatic terrace suspended above the slope of the land. Glass railings left the view untouched. Forest spread below us in green waves, and in the distance a wide river gleamed like a silver ribbon under the afternoon sun.
“Oh,” I breathed. “This is spectacular.”
He moved to the edge. “This is why I chose the site. Privacy, yes. But also the relationship to the landscape.”
I joined him, careful to keep a little space between us even though every nerve in my body seemed intent on getting closer. From here I could see how the house emerged from the hillside, not imposed on the land so much as drawn out of it.
“You really did create something remarkable,” I said. “Not just a home. An experience.”
He turned to look at me. “Most humans do not understand that distinction.”
“I’m not most humans.”
His gaze held mine. “No. You are not.”
I had to look away first.
A breeze lifted my hair, carrying the scent of pine and stone and whatever strange magic had apparently taken over my life.
A week ago, if someone had told me I’d be standing on a modernist terrace beside a minotaur architect, trying very hard not to develop a crush on him, I would have recommended therapy.
Instead, I found myself smiling.
“Why did you bring me here?” I asked.
He was quiet long enough that I thought he might refuse to answer.
“Curiosity,” he said at last. “You are the first human who has wanted to see my work because they were interested in the architecture rather than the novelty of a monster’s lair.”
“It’s hardly a lair,” I said. “More like a masterpiece.”
Something opened in his face again at that, small but unmistakable.
“Would you like to see more?” he asked, his voice softer now.
I looked up at him, at the horns and the solemn face and the eyes that had become far too easy to lose myself in.
“Yes,” I said. “Show me everything.”
As he led me back inside, I tried to remind myself that I was here for the architecture, not to develop an impossible crush on a minotaur.
But as I watched him move gracefully through the space he’d created, I wasn’t sure my heart had received that particular memo.