Page 9 of Beast in the Badlands
Mate. The word claws at the edges of my mind, echoing Kairon’s lessons about bonds and connections—the way he described his own with Ava. But I’m not ready for this kind of vulnerability. Not now.
I try to push the thoughts aside as she busies herself with the med station, her movements efficient but tense. I watch her work, taking in the dirt-smudged skin and freckled face—how determination lines her brow as she tends to supplies that look almost as battered as we are.
“Renn,” she says hesitantly, drawing my attention back to the present moment.
A part of me bristles at how easily it rolls off her lips, yet another part revels in it—this woman knows my name now.
“You should rest,” she says without glancing at me.
Rest? I can barely keep my mind from spiraling into chaos with every thrum of awareness flooding my senses. Rest doesn’t come easy when your instincts scream at you to either run or fight.
“Easy for you to say.” I shift slightly on the table; even that minor movement sends pain racing through my legs—a reminder of how incapacitated I truly am.
“Doesn’t mean you get to ignore it.” She shoots back over her shoulder, a flicker of fire igniting in those fierce eyes.
There’s something about her defiance that stirs something deep within me—an urge to stand up and challenge fate itself—but I know better than to try now. Not while my body is still broken and tethered here by nothing more than bandages and fading adrenaline.
The bond hums again, tugging at threads buried deeper than flesh or blood—threads that tie us together in ways neither of us can comprehend just yet.
Kairon’s voice echoes in my mind, a deep rumble wrapped in authority.“You’re too deep, Renn.”I ignored him. The mission was supposed to be straightforward—get in, plant the beacon, get out. But here I am, lying on a table while another mission crumbles around me. Failed again.
I force myself to focus on Emry as she moves about the med outpost. She’s relentless, her hands flying over supplies with a practiced precision that makes me question how long she’s been doing this alone. Her body tells a different story—every slight limp as she shifts weight, every wince as she bends down for another piece of equipment.
She mutters under her breath, words half-formed and laced with frustration, but never once does she ask for help. It gnaws at me—this stubbornness of hers.
What drives her? Why push herself so hard? There’s an intensity behind those tired eyes that draws me in even more, igniting something inside me that I don’t quite understand. I want to reach out and offer support; instead, I’m bound by my own weakness. My legs may be broken, but it’s the ache in my chest that truly keeps me captive.
I test the waters, prodding at the unyielding edge of her resolve.
“Is this what your people do? Nurse the weak and fragile?” I ask, letting the words drip with mockery. “Pathetic, really.”
Emry’s head snaps up, her gaze sharp enough to cut through steel. “Weak doesn’t mean helpless, you overgrown metalhead.”
Her voice holds a fierce bite that surprises me. I expect a flinch or a retreat, but she stands her ground, hands on her hips like she’s ready to take me on in a brawl. She's so cute and small that the idea is truly comical.
For the first time in years, I actually laugh—deep and throaty, echoing off the ruined walls of this makeshift med bay. The sound hangs between us like a fragile thread, shocking both of us into silence.
She blinks, momentarily taken aback. The tension shifts, and for a brief moment, we share an understanding that runs deeper than words.
Clearing her throat, Emry busies herself with the remnants of my supplies as if pretending she didn’t just spark something real between us. “Here,” she says after a moment, retrieving a blanket from the corner.
“What’s this?” I squint at it as if it’s some alien artifact.
“It’s a blanket,” she replies flatly. “I know you’re an alien and everything, but that seemed pretty obvious to me.” Her snark dances in the air—part amusing and part infuriating.
I want to growl back at her about how my kind doesn’t need warmth or comfort—but the way she offers it catches me off guard. There’s an earnestness behind her sarcasm that makes my chest tighten again.
“You need to sleep,” she insists, rolling her eyes when I don’t immediately comply.
I snatch the blanket from her hands and tuck it beneath my head without further argument. It feels oddly comforting against my skin—a stark contrast to the jagged edges of my existence up until now.
The dim light flickers as I close my eyes, battling exhaustion and memories that threaten to drown me whole. Yet no matter how hard I try to push away thoughts of mission failures or old scars from battles fought long ago, another image presses forward—one that roots itself deep within me.
I dream of Emry then—of her skin against mine, soft and warm beneath my claws as I trace paths along freckled shoulders. The scent of earth after rain envelops me as we move together in harmony under an endless sky filled with stars.
But dreams twist quickly; they often morph into nightmares where pain coils tightly around us like chains—reminders of our respective burdens—the soldier turned medic and the monster trapped in flesh. I feel rage rising like bile in my throat mixed with longing that stirs something primal within me—a hunger I can barely comprehend.
Suddenly, I'm jolted awake by my own heartbeat hammering against my ribcage—a wild thing desperate for escape. Darkness surrounds me; only faint shadows dance across broken walls illuminated by flickering lights. Emry's still there; her silhouette leans against the wall nearby as she watches me carefully.
