Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“You’re driving too fast,” I said, clutching the door handle as Rion’s truck barreled down the country road towards my parents’ house.
“I’m going exactly the speed limit,” he replied, his large hands gripping the steering wheel with an intensity that betrayed his nerves.
“Well, it feels too fast.” I reached over and placed my hand on his thigh. “And you’re tense. They’re going to love you, Rion. I promise.”
He shot me a skeptical look, one eyebrow raised. “Most parents don’t dream of their daughter bringing home a seven-foot-tall minotaur.”
“My parents aren’t ‘most parents,’” I insisted, though my stomach twisted with anxiety. “They’re open-minded. Progressive.”
“In theory,” Rion said, echoing my own unspoken worry. “Everyone’s progressive until their daughter starts dating a monster.”
I squeezed his leg. “You’re not a monster.”
“Tell that to my horns.” But he managed a small smile, covering my hand with his much larger one. “I’m sorry. I’m making this harder than it needs to be.”
“No, you’re being honest.” I turned my hand over to link our fingers. “And I’m nervous too. But I know my parents. Once they see how happy we are together, they’ll come around.”
Rion nodded but remained silent as we turned onto the tree-lined lane leading to my childhood home. The familiar sight of the two-story white farmhouse with its wraparound porch sent a mixture of comfort and trepidation through me.
“It’s beautiful,” Rion said as he pulled into the gravel driveway. “Just like you described.”
“Wait until you see inside,” I said, trying to inject enthusiasm into my voice. “Mom’s probably been cooking for days. She stress-bakes.”
“Like someone else I know,” he teased, and I felt myself relax slightly at his attempt at normalcy.
Before we could exit the truck, the front door swung open and my mother stepped onto the porch, my father close behind her. They stood side by side, frozen in place as they took in the sight of Rion unfolding his massive frame from the driver’s seat.
Here we go.
“Deep breath,” I murmured, more to myself than to Rion, and climbed out of the truck.
“Clara!” My mother’s voice sounded higher than usual as she descended the porch steps. Her eyes darted between me and Rion, who was now standing awkwardly beside the vehicle.
“Hi, Mom.” I moved towards her for a hug, which she returned on autopilot, her body stiff. Over her shoulder, I caught my father’s wide-eyed stare.
“And you must be Rion,” my mother said as we separated, her smile strained but present. “Clara’s told us so much about you.”
“Mrs. Bellweather.” Rion stepped forward, careful to keep a respectful distance. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Clara speaks very highly of you both.”
My father finally seemed to find his voice. “Well, this is… unexpected.”
I felt my cheeks heat. “Dad—”
“I mean, Clara told us you were tall,” he hurried to clarify, “but I wasn’t quite picturing…”
“A bull?” Rion supplied, his tone carefully neutral.
An awkward silence fell over us. I resisted the urge to bury my face in my hands. This was going even worse than I’d feared.
“Minotaur,” my mother corrected suddenly, surprising me. “Half-man, half-bull. From Greek mythology, yes?”
Rion blinked, clearly caught off guard. “That’s… yes, that’s correct.”
“I remember the myth from my college literature class,” she continued, her scholarly interest apparently overriding her initial shock.
“Asterion, the Bull of Minos, confined to the labyrinth and fed Athenian youths until Theseus slew him. Though I assume the historical accuracy of that account is questionable.”
“Mom!” I hissed, mortified. “Maybe don’t bring up the part where my boyfriend’s mythological counterpart was murdered?”
“Oh!” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, that was insensitive.”
Rion’s lips twitched in what might have been amusement. “No offense taken, Mrs. Bellweather. The Greeks weren’t known for their happy endings.”
My father cleared his throat. “Why don’t we all go inside? Your mother’s made enough food to feed an army.”
“Or a minotaur,” my mother added, then immediately looked aghast at her own words. “I mean—”
“It’s fine,” Rion assured her, a real smile finally emerging. “I do have a healthy appetite.”
As we followed my parents up the porch steps, Rion bent to whisper in my ear. “They’re trying. That’s something.”
I nodded, grateful for his perspective. They were trying, in their awkward, well-meaning way. It was a start.
Inside, the house smelled like roast chicken and freshly baked bread—the comfort foods of my childhood. Rion had to duck to enter through the doorway, his horns just barely clearing the frame.
“Let me show you around,” I said, taking his hand and leading him through the entryway. “This is the living room…”
I guided him through a quick tour, watching as he took in the cozy, slightly cluttered spaces of my childhood. Family photos lined the walls—me at various ages, always with a book in hand. Academic awards. Vacation snapshots. The accumulated evidence of a loving, ordinary family life.
Rion paused at a particularly embarrassing photo of a teenage me at a science fair, hair in a messy ponytail, proudly displaying a project on mythological creatures in literature. The irony wasn’t lost on either of us.
“Even then,” he murmured, a soft wonder in his voice.
“I had no idea,” I replied, squeezing his hand.
My mother appeared in the doorway, still looking slightly shell-shocked. “Dinner’s ready whenever you are.”
The dining room table was loaded with food—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, three different vegetables, fresh rolls, and what appeared to be at least two desserts waiting on the sideboard. My mother’s anxiety had clearly been channeled into cooking.
Seating presented a momentary challenge. The dining chairs, sturdy as they were, weren’t designed for someone of Rion’s proportions. After a brief, awkward shuffle, my father disappeared into the basement and returned with an old wooden bench that he placed at one side of the table.
“This should hold you,” he said, thumping the solid oak. “It’s from my workshop. Built it myself.”
“It’s perfect,” Rion said, settling onto the bench, which creaked but held. “Thank you, Mr. Bellweather.”
“Call me Richard,” my father replied, the first genuine warmth entering his voice. “Anyone who can appreciate good craftsmanship is all right in my book.”
I caught my mother’s eye across the table and saw a glimmer of hope there. Dad’s workshop was his pride and joy; his willingness to share even a piece of it with Rion was significant.
As we began passing dishes, the initial awkwardness gradually gave way to the familiar rhythms of a family dinner. My mother, ever the English teacher, couldn’t resist asking Rion about the historical and literary aspects of his existence.
“So the labyrinth—is that a cultural inclination or a personal preference?” she asked as she refilled his water glass for the third time.
“Both, I suppose,” Rion answered thoughtfully. “There’s something in my nature that’s drawn to complex structures, but I’ve also developed it into a skill. My architectural work tends towards the intricate.”
“Clara mentioned you’re quite accomplished,” my father said. “What sort of buildings do you design?”
Rion relaxed visibly at the shift to professional territory. “Primarily residential and small commercial properties. I specialize in sustainable designs that work with the natural landscape rather than imposing upon it.”
“That’s fascinating,” my mother said, and I could tell her interest was genuine. “Do you have photos?”
“On my phone, yes.” Rion glanced at me, as if seeking permission.
“Show them your lake house project,” I encouraged, grateful for this opening.
Rion pulled out his phone and brought up images of one of his recent designs—a stunning house built into a hillside overlooking a lake, its spaces flowing naturally from one to another in a subtle labyrinthine pattern that never felt confusing or disorienting.
My parents leaned in, genuinely impressed, and the conversation flowed into safer waters—architecture, design, my father’s woodworking, my mother’s garden. By the time we moved to dessert—apple pie and chocolate cake—the atmosphere had shifted from tense to merely slightly awkward.
“So,” my mother said as she cut generous slices of both desserts for Rion, “how did you two meet? Clara’s been rather vague about the details.”
I felt my cheeks heat. “It’s kind of a funny story, actually.”
“I’d like to hear it,” my father said, settling back in his chair with his coffee cup.
Rion glanced at me, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “You tell it. You’re the storyteller.”
I launched into the tale of my ladder emergency and misdirected text, watching as my parents’ expressions shifted from polite interest to genuine entertainment. By the time I reached the coffee shop meeting, my mother was leaning forward, completely engaged.
“You didn’t know?” she asked, incredulous. “You had no idea he wasn’t human when you agreed to meet him?”
“Not a clue,” I admitted. “I was expecting Mark from next door.”
“The one with the loud motorcycle and the protein powder obsession?” my father clarified.
“That’s the one.”
My mother turned to Rion. “And you just… showed up? Knowing she wasn’t expecting a minotaur?”
Rion looked slightly abashed. “In my defense, I tried to warn her. But Clara can be… persistent.”
“That’s one word for it,” my father muttered, but his eyes were twinkling.
“What happened when you saw him?” my mother asked, turning back to me.
I reached for Rion’s hand under the table. “I was surprised, obviously. But mostly I was just… fascinated. Here was this incredible being who’d been helping me all week, who clearly cared about doing things properly, who went out of his way to meet me even though it put him at risk of exposure.”
“Risk?” My father’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean, risk?”