Page 44 of Mated to the Monster God
I close my hand over the bone blade, blood dripping onto the forest floor.
“I protect you,” I say, voice low. “Always.”
She flinches, not recoiling but vulnerable in ways I’ve never seen before.
I wipe my blade on the moss, then meet her gaze.
“Esme,” I say again, trembling. “I will never stop.”
Her breath hits me—sour sweat, rain-damp earth, fear, love.
For a long moment, we just stand—blood and human fear binding us tighter than any fragment.
Then she wraps her arms around me, safe and fragile, and I realize saving her means holding not just our victories—but each other’s terrors.
The night is humid, velvet-dark, the glow of distant lights painting Esme’s silhouette in soft strokes. She lies beside me, shoulders barely brushing, tension humming between us like a storm just held back. I sense her pulling away—shivering notfrom cold but from the intensity of what happened, what could happen. She doesn’t touch me.
I lie still, half-afraid to move, to ruin the fragile boundary she’s drawn. My senses strain—her scent still lingers like jasmine and heat, but there’s a sharp note under it now: confusion, guardedness, a pulse of fear that coils around my heart.
I read her thoughts—not forcibly, but through that deepening bond. They’re fragmented: protector… predator… awe… terror… I taste the conflict in her blood, and all at once, my own heart twists with regret.
“Esme,” I whisper. My voice is half apology, half plea.
She doesn’t respond. Her eyes close. Moonlight dips across her cheekbone, tracing scars I’ve memorized. I want to wipe them away. I should have moved slower. Softer. I feel every thread of tension vibrate beneath us like live wire.
I curl around her, letting my body form a barrier she can lean on without having to ask. My scale-brushed arm wraps around her waist, thumb resting lightly against the curve of her side. She’s warm, trembling slightly.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur into the curve of her hair. My jaw tightens. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Her breath hitches. I close my eyes, breathing in her scent and that shifting current of thought—fear, yes, but also curiosity. It courses in me like a promise.
“I am trying,” I continue. “Trying to be what you need... even if it means holding back what I am.”
My voice is ragged. Layers of honesty tumble out: love, self-restraint, fear of losing her. The admission hangs in the air between us, thick and urgent.
Her fingers graze my arm. Feather-light. A response. A lifeline.
I press closer, chest dulling against her spine.
“I know you want time,” I whisper. “I’ll wait in silence, if you’ll let me.”
She shifts, and in that subtle breath, I feel trust returning. Not full confidence, but a fragile bridge forming.
I brush a stray curl from her face. Her lashes lift a fraction.
“I...” her voice is cracked, low. I hold my breath.
But she doesn’t push me away.
Instead, she settles further into my body.
I exhale quietly, relief and wonder flooding me. My fingers cradle her shoulder, careful, sacred.
The night presses in. Cicadas hum, leaves rustle, distant water weaves a lullaby. I hold her, silent, guarding. Protector and mate, tense and resolute.
CHAPTER 13
ESME
