Page 9 of Misbehaving With Minotaurs
I expect him to say something else, but he falls into an uneasy silence, despite his pheromones telling me that he’s very excited to be together. It’s easy for me to read desire. What otherssaydoesn’t matter as much as what their scents reveal…and his reveals a lot. Unfortunately, he seems less inclined than some to act on a natural attraction.
We walk in silence across the parking field. By the time we enter the skyball stadium and hear faint shouts drift from the field, I’m a little surprised he hasn’t attempted to carry the conversation any further.
Encouraging myself not to be frustrated with the shy scholar, I lead him through one of the entry hallways until the field comes into view. Anticipation brews in my stomach as shouts echo from the field.
Iloveskyball. I’m a huge fan. Which is how Manorin and I met one another all those centuries ago. Our time together was hot and heavy, but I eventually went on to mate a male who was absolutely not right for me. I don’t think Manorin ever took a mate, if I recall correctly. I’ve seen him dozens of times during televised games, but it will be nice to see my old friend in person.
Well, perhaps “friend” isn’t the right word. We didn’t exactly keep in touch after we parted.
Vikand and I walk through the final archway, the clip-clopof his hooves ringing off the beautifully etched stone. I reach out and touch the wall, looking up at him as I do.
“Ohken built this entire stadium, and Abemet designed it. They did an absolutely lovely job, don’t you think?” I trail my fingertips along the rough-hewn wall, admiring the craftsmanship.
Vikand looks down at me, then over to where I stroke the stones, dark brows furrowed as he stares at my fingers. His scent deepens. Dark lashes flutter against his cheeks, highlighting elegant, high cheekbones.
“Oh…mmm, yes, I suppose so.” He looks up and around, tucking his hands at his lower back. After a quiet moment, he returns his focus to me. “It’s…quite lovely. Yes. Do I know Ohken or Abemet?”
I bite back a sigh as I nod. “Abemet is our former Keeper, the vampire your son replaced. Ohken was in the leadership meeting last week. The troll…perhaps you remember?” I beam up at him. “Or perhaps you were distracted?” It’s the perfect opening for him to say something complimentary.
He nods and halts just beside the skyball field, the team coming into view.
“I’m afraid I have difficulty concentrating during those meetings, that one in particular. I’ve been offered a job at the protector academy teaching a course on dark magic. I’ve been mulling over their offer. They’re expecting an answer by the end of the week.”
I must have a horrified look on my face, because he sputters, “I’m not certain I’ll take it, or if I’d stay in Ever or move if I do. It’s all up in the air still. Don’t worry!”
The statement irritates me for competing reasons. First, that he’d potentially begin dating me while considering a move, even if it’s simply a first date. Second, that he’d assume I’m worried about what he just revealed. It’s the age-old feminine need to bewanted and chased and pursued by a man, but only in precisely the way I want it to happen.
Frustration eats at the edges of my good mood, and I glance away to compose my thoughts. It’s not as if I expect Vikand to make a life choice based on one date with me, but this is going very poorly so far.
Figures rush across my field of vision, players chasing the skyball as someone drops it. A gargoyle bullets out of the sky and snatches the ball, bouncing off Ohken’s shoulders and leaping into the air as he swoops toward the opposite goalposts.
“Excellent, Alo. That was beautifully done!”
Time slows as I glance toward the voice—that voice—the voice I’ve only heard via televised games for the last few centuries.
A brutally handsome minotaur male walks toward the fray, even as his glittering red-and-black eyes follow Alo’s path toward the goal. Long, thick horns stick out from his head and then curve forward and up. Light brown fur covers most of his body, his ears sloping low beneath tan-and-chocolate mottled horns. At his back, his tail hangs low, just the tip swishing from side to side. He’s visibly irritated despite the compliment.
I shift from one foot to the other. Those horns used to make excellent handles, and they’re longer and thicker than before.
Absolutely beautiful.
He’s bigger everywhere else too. Manorin was always tall for a minotaur, but he must be approaching seven feet at this point, hundreds of pounds of bulky muscle. He’s usually dressed in impeccably tailored suits for skyball games, but today he wears thigh-hugging jeans and a collared polo shirt that does nothing to hide chunky chest muscles and steel-cut abs.
He seems to have hardly aged. If anything, Manorin’s even more handsome like this with a dash of white at his temples. The gold nose ring is new, but, gods, he looks good with it. Hewore a much smaller one back when we dated. That made a good handle too.
I resist the urge to wave away the heat flushing my skin.
“Goodness,” Vikand murmurs. “That must be the minotaur Arkan’s been raving about. He told me some stat or another that I can’t recall just now. Another skyball meathead, I suppose.”
I can’t recall any stats either, or respond to his insult, because Manorin’s crimson eyes flick to the sidelines and drift down my figure as he halts on the field. The players rush past him toward the opposite end of the pitch, but he keeps staring, the edges of his mouth curling into a barely-there smile.
Vikand says something, but I’m too busy deciding what the appropriate greeting is for an old lover to pay attention.
Manorin grins, revealing sparkling white teeth and short fangs. A shout from downfield pulls his attention, and he spins on a dime to jog away.
Vikand clears his throat. “Catherine?”
Blinking, I look up. “Hmm? Sorry, Vikand. Did you say something?”
