Page 10 of Bound to the Minotaur
I opened my mouth to speak—to tell him goodbye, to hang up. But then Gregory moved. Faster than I could process, he reached out and took the phone from my hand, his fingers brushing mine for only an instant; hot, rough, and steadying. Then the phone was pressed to his ear, his shoulders squared like a storm rolling in.
“Go fuck yourself,” he said, his voice low and lethal. I gasped in surprise and was certain my dad was just as surprised on the other end of the line, even if he probably didn’t show it. There was a heartbeat of silence. Then Gregory dropped the phone—calmly, deliberately.
I watched it fall to the worn wooden floor, watched it land screen-up, a crack spidering across the glass like a frozen river. Then his boot came down. A sharpcracksplit the air—plastic shattering, glass fracturing. And for just a blink,justa blink—I could’ve sworn it wasn’t his boot that crushed it. For a moment, I saw something else. Something black and glossy and cloven.
Hooves.
I blinked again. Just boots—heavy, scuffed leather boots. Nothing more. That had to have been a figment of my imagination, a flash of insanity after the tension-laden momentsfrom before. And yet, something pushed at the back of my mind, some niggling doubt that I hadn’t imagined it at all.
Gregory’s jaw was clenched so tightly I could see the muscle twitching in his cheek. He didn’t look at me. Just turned and walked toward the kitchen, fists flexing at his sides.
My chest heaved. Ah, fuck, what had I done? The reality came crashing down on me, hard and fast. I’d mouthed off to my dad, called him out on his attempt at murdering me, and then I’d told him to get lost. That I was done with him. Gregory’s “Go fuck yourself” was the cherry on top. I knew with absolute certainty then that my father was already rallying his troops and coming to chase me down. To know that another man had me? That was the worst insult of all, and he wouldn’t let it stand. Gregory was in mortal danger, and it was all my fault.
Avis meowed softly and rubbed his head against my shin, anchoring me, pulling me back from the edge of whatever strange current had just passed between us all—pushing away the tide of absolute terror that rushed through me. We had time—a little. It wasn’t like he could make the sixteen-hour drive in the blink of an eye. We had half a day. I had half a day to warn this grumpy but kind man and run like hell.
The phone was in pieces, and my father’s voice—his reach—was gone, for now.
I sank back onto the couch, my hand still warm where Gregory’s had touched it. My eyes were wide on the man retreating from me, and the echo of that dream-maze hummed behind my ribs like a lure. I had to go—I knew that—to protect him, but it ached so badly knowing I had to leave. How could I have grown soattached to a man who barely strung two words together? After only a day?
I followed the smell before I realized I’d followedhim.
The kitchen was rustic, like the rest of the cabin—worn wood, steel pans, everything well-used but gleaming clean. There was no microwave, no digital anything—just a gas stove, an old cast-iron pot on the back burner, and the soft crackle of something beginning to roast in the oven. It felt timeless in here, like stepping into someone’s quiet, secret life.
Gregory stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, his back to me. His hands—those huge, work-worn hands—moved with unexpected precision over a tray of vegetables. He was slicing thick coins of golden zucchini, laying them next to glistening spears of purple carrot, fanned out like flower petals. The vegetables were…beautiful. Too shiny and perfect to have come from a store. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen any vegetables in the store today, either. But I couldn’t see Gregory tending to a vegetable patch himself, either. I just couldn’t.
He didn’t look at me then. As he arranged a cluster of oyster mushrooms with a reverence usually reserved for relics or old books, he asked, “Kestrel, huh?”
The name stopped me like a nail through the sole of my shoe. My stomach tightened. “How’d you—?” My name was often my best-kept secret because I had always refused to let anyone know just who my father was. Just the mention of my last name would make most people back in New York scurry the other way. And Kestrel? That was unique enough—and too often wielded by my father like a blade—to ever feel comfortable.
“Your dad used it. On the phone,” he said, still with his back to me. Avis had leaped onto the counter next to him, not to beg for a piece of cheese, but to lean against Gregory’s brawny shoulder with an affectionate gaze turned my way.
I hesitated, then crossed the kitchen slowly, the pads of my socks silent on the wood. “Yeah. That’s my full name. Kestrel Romano. But I go by Kess.” Ever since I was a child old enough to realize what a monster my father was, ever since my first friendships crumpled and failed because of his reputation, and others turned twisted and wrong.
Gregory grunted, like he was testing the name against his palate. “Kestrel’s a bird.” So it was. I’d often wondered why my dad chose such a delicate creature to name me after. Maybe it was the influence of my mom, before she died—when I was too young to remember her as anything but warmth, a scent, the sound of her lullabies.
“Mmhm.” I leaned against the edge of the counter, keeping some distance between us. “A small one. Fast, but not strong. Used to dive-bomb my brother when we were kids.” Oh—I hadn’t even thought of my brother in so long that it was odd to suddenly remember him tonight. He’d gotten out, away from our dad when I was still in pigtails. Even mentioning his name had gotten me grounded, so I’d learned never to say it.
He snorted quietly and slid the vegetable tray into the oven, then turned toward the stove, lifting a cast-iron pan already sizzling with butter. The sharp scent of rosemary hit the air, followed by garlic and something richer—goat cheese, I realized. And mushrooms. He was sautéing them with the kind of instinctthat suggested he didn’t follow recipes. He just knew. Still not looking at me, he asked, “What were you doing in the city?”
I swallowed. There it was: the opening.
The slow unspooling of curiosity into suspicion. A man like him wouldn’t miss the way I panicked when my father called. He wouldn’t ignore the wreckage I carried behind me, like dragging chains through his neat, peaceful home. He hadn’t mentioned it, but I was certain he’d seen the pile of my belongings, meager as they were, inside my car. He knew I wasn’t just relocating for a job that wasn’t mine yet; I was running.
“I was working,” I said lightly, forcing the words through the knot in my throat. “Marketing. Business ops. Same thing I’ve done since grad school.” It was exactly the kind of job I’d almost snatched up in Des Moines, if not for my father’s interference. I was good at it, and it had always been the one thing that had met my father’s approval.
“Not what you love, though.” It wasn’t a question, and I caught his dark gaze for a fraction of a moment before he refocused on his cooking, his hands moving briskly, the grip on his spatula a little too tight.
“No.” I stared at his back. At the way his broad shoulders shifted under the worn cotton of his shirt. “I make jewelry. From scrap—metal, stone, junk. Stuff people toss out.” I didn’t know why I volunteered that information unprompted; it wasn’t something I told anyone. My fingers lingered on the necklace I’d made myself, hidden beneath the collar of my sweater. A clean one I’d put on earlier, after we’d gotten back from town. Gregory had lugged one of my suitcases inside and shown me to thebathroom. It lay open beside the couch, spilling its colorful insides.
“Pretty things from broken ones,” he murmured, almost to himself. I almost smiled.Almost.That was oddly poetic, coming from my grumpy host; and very apt. His glance said that maybe he considered me the pretty thing, made of broken parts. He wouldn’t be wrong. I felt like all kinds of broken bits and pieces, stuck together, badly glued, barely holding on. But he made me feel pretty anyhow.
Then he asked, “Why’d you leave?” The big question, the one that was going to make all of this unravel, make him turn away. My throat closed. He turned his head just slightly then, enough that I could see the edge of his jaw. The light from the overhead fixture caught a bluish gleam in his otherwise black hair, the line of his brow, his profile still and waiting.
The truth sat bitter on my tongue—acid, guilt, and dread. “My father,” I said, voice hushed. “He’s…not a good man.” That was an understatement. A huge, fat, whopping understatement that I struggled to wrap my tongue around.
“Was he the one who sabotaged your car?” So he knew, of course he knew. It tasted bitter in my mouth to know that it wasn’t just a reckless suspicion but the truth. My father reallyhadtried to kill me. Even after asking him, I couldn’t tell if it was the truth or not; my father always spoke in half truths, lying if it suited him, denying just as easily.
“I don’t know.” The lie sounded pitiful, even to me. “Maybe. Probably.” How did you admit that your own dad wanted you dead? What did that say about me, about him? A beat passed.The butter in the pan hissed as he stirred it. I watched his knuckles whiten on the wooden spoon. “He’s connected,” I added, almost whispering now. “New York mob. He holds a lot of power. He’s got people everywhere—watching, listening, threatening.”
