Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The road to Rion’s house twisted through the woods like something from a fairy tale, each curve revealing new wonders as the late afternoon sun dappled through the trees.
My little car hummed along, occasionally protesting when I took a turn too sharply.
I’d driven this route several times now, but today felt different.
The butterflies in my stomach weren’t just doing their usual fluttering—they were performing a full aerial acrobatics show.
Tonight might be the night. Or it might not.
I’d spent an embarrassing amount of time deciding what to wear. The floral sundress I’d eventually chosen was casual enough for dinner but pretty enough to make me feel confident. I’d even worn matching underwear, which was something I usually reserved for laundry day coincidences.
Not that he’d necessarily see it. Maybe he would. Oh god.
The grocery bag on my passenger seat contained two bottles of wine—one red, one white, because I still wasn’t sure which Rion preferred—and the container of brownies I’d rescued from Mark’s intrusion yesterday.
The memory of Rion’s jealousy still made my heart do a funny little sideways skip.
Not that I wanted him upset, but there had been something undeniably thrilling about seeing that flash of possessiveness in his eyes.
Rion’s house—no, his labyrinth—appeared around the final bend, and my breath caught as it always did.
The structure was even more beautiful in the golden hour light, all clean modern lines intertwined with curves that somehow reminded me of ancient Crete.
How had I gotten so lucky to find someone whose mind created such wonders?
I pulled into the driveway, parking beside Rion’s enormous truck. My phone buzzed with a text as I gathered my things.
Brenda: Have fun tonight! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do… which leaves literally everything still on the table
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile as I typed back:
I’ll be perfectly respectable, thank you very much.
She replied immediately:
Boooooring. But you packed the good underwear, didn’t you?
I dropped my phone back into my purse without answering. Brenda knew me too well.
The front door opened before I could knock, and there stood Rion, filling the doorframe with his massive presence.
He wore dark jeans and a slate blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his muscular forearms covered in that short, dark fur.
The sight sent a jolt through me that was equal parts nervousness and desire.
“Hi,” I said, immediately wanting to kick myself for such a mundane greeting.
“Clara.” The way he said my name—low and a little reverent—made my knees weak. He stepped back to let me enter, and I caught the scent of something delicious cooking.
“I brought wine.” I held up the bag. “And the brownies. They survived yesterday’s… incident.”
His expression darkened slightly at the mention, but he nodded. “Thank you. Dinner’s almost ready.”
I followed him through the intricately designed hallways.
My first few visits had left me hopelessly lost, but I was starting to learn the patterns now.
Left at the geometric tile inlay, right at the recessed bookshelf, straight past the fountain.
His home was a testament to his brilliant mind—complex yet harmonious, intimidating yet welcoming.
The kitchen opened up before us, spacious and gleaming. Everything was oversized to accommodate Rion’s height and build, making me feel like I’d stepped into a giant’s castle. Which, in a way, I had.
“It smells amazing,” I said, setting the wine and brownies on the counter.
“Coq au vin,” he replied. “With my grandmother’s modifications.”
I tilted my head. “You learned to cook from your grandmother?”
He nodded, turning to stir something on the stove. “She believed in passing down traditions. Said it was important to remember where you came from, even if the world wanted you to forget.”
The simple statement held so much weight. I wanted to ask about his family, his childhood, all the things we hadn’t yet discussed in depth. But something in his posture—a slight tension in his broad shoulders—told me not to press just yet.
Instead, I moved to stand beside him, peering into the pot. “Can I help with anything?”
“You can open the wine.” He gestured to a drawer. “Corkscrew’s in there.”
I found it and set about opening the red wine, figuring it would pair better with the chicken. The domestic normalcy of the moment struck me—here we were, a woman and a minotaur, making dinner together as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
And maybe it was.
Rion served the food with surprising delicacy, his large hands capable of remarkable precision. We carried our plates to the dining room, where he’d set the table with candles and actual cloth napkins. My heart gave a little flip at the effort he’d put in.
“This is lovely,” I said as we sat. The table was custom-built, like everything in his home, perfectly proportioned for him yet not making me feel dwarfed.
“I don’t entertain often.” His eyes met mine. “Almost never, actually.”
The admission settled warmly in my chest. “I’m honored to be the exception.”
We ate and talked, the conversation flowing more easily with each glass of wine. Rion was reserved by nature, but I’d discovered that asking about his work unlocked him. He spoke about architecture with passion, his deep voice growing animated as he described a current project.
“The challenge is creating something that will last centuries while still being relevant now,” he explained. “The Greeks and Romans understood this. They built for eternity.”
“Is that what you want?” I asked. “To build something eternal?”
Something vulnerable flickered across his face. “When you’re… like me… you think about legacy differently. What I create may be the only proof I existed at all.”
The sadness underlying his words made my throat tight. I reached across the table and placed my hand over his much larger one.
“I see you, Rion. You’re not invisible.”
His fingers curled around mine, careful but strong. The touch sent a shiver up my arm.
After dinner, we moved to his living room with our wine glasses and the container of brownies.
The space was dominated by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the forest and a fireplace large enough that I could have stood inside it.
Rion lit the fire with practiced movements, the flames casting his silhouette into sharp relief.
I sank into the corner of his sofa, which was sized for him but plush enough that I didn’t feel swallowed by it. He sat beside me, leaving a respectful distance that somehow felt both considerate and frustrating.
“These are good,” he said after taking a bite of brownie. “You made them?”
“From scratch.” I nodded. “My mom’s recipe. Extra chocolate chips and a dash of espresso powder.”
“The secret ingredient.” His lips curved into a rare smile.
“Exactly.” I took a sip of wine, liquid courage warming my veins. “Thank you for dinner. It was perfect.”
“It wasn’t much.”
“It was to me.” I set my glass down and shifted closer to him. “You’re always doing things for me—fixing the ladder, helping at the library. I want to do things for you too.”
His eyes, those warm brown depths, locked onto mine. “You already do.”
“What do I do?”
“You see me.” His voice dropped lower. “Not what I am. Who I am.”
The simplicity of it broke my heart a little. How lonely he must have been, how isolated, to value being truly seen so deeply. I reached up, my hand hovering near his face, asking silent permission.
He nodded almost imperceptibly, and I touched his cheek, feeling the softness of his fur against my palm. He closed his eyes briefly at the contact.
“Rion,” I whispered, and he opened his eyes again. “I meant what I said yesterday. You’re the one I want.”
Something shifted in his gaze, a restraint giving way to hunger. He leaned forward, and I met him halfway, our lips connecting in a kiss that started gentle but quickly deepened. His mouth was warm, and I could taste the wine and chocolate on his tongue as it slid against mine.
My hands moved to his shoulders, feeling the impressive breadth of them beneath his shirt. He was so solid, so real under my touch. One of his large hands came to rest at my waist, the other cupping my face with exquisite gentleness.
When we broke apart, we were both breathing harder. His eyes had darkened, pupils dilated.
“Clara,” he murmured, my name a question and a plea all at once.
In answer, I slid onto his lap, the position bringing us eye to eye. His hands settled at my hips, steadying but not restraining.
“Is this okay?” I asked, suddenly uncertain.
“More than okay.” His voice had roughened. “But I need to know what you want.”
I threaded my fingers into the thicker fur at the nape of his neck. “I want you. All of you.”
He groaned softly, the sound vibrating through me.
His hands tightened on my hips, pulling me closer as he claimed my mouth again, more urgently this time.
I pressed against him, feeling the hard planes of his chest through our clothes.
The kiss deepened, and I shifted in his lap, drawing another groan from him when I inadvertently rubbed against his growing arousal.
“Sorry,” I gasped, not sorry at all.
“Don’t be.” His breath was hot against my neck as his lips trailed down my throat. “But perhaps we should move somewhere more comfortable.”
My heart pounded at the implication. “Your bedroom?”
He nodded, then in one fluid motion stood up with me still in his arms. I let out a surprised laugh, wrapping my legs around his waist for stability.
“Show-off,” I murmured against his ear.
“Practical,” he corrected, but I could hear the smile in his voice.