Page 47 of Mated to the Monster God
I wrap my arms around his waist, and hefolds easily into me. The kiss deepens, sweeter, needy yet tender. My chest presses into his. I can hear my heart in his quiet ribs. It’s a symphony—uneasy notes settling into harmony.
When we break, breathless and still, I lay my forehead against his chest. His heartbeat is a slow tide. The world has paused—the rain, the jungle, even the distant shouts of repair efforts—for a heartbeat just for this sanctuary.
I lean into the safe, steady rhythm beneath me. His scent—spiced earth, something ancient and whispering—soothes the gap between my fear and his love.
“I don’t know what this means,” I confess, voice muffled against his scales.
He strokes my hair. “It means you’re brave enough to love someone who couldn’t love himself fully before knowing you.”
That strikes me with silent force. I feel the gravity of what this connection cost him—and cost me, too. Unraveling, healing, remaking ourselves in half-light.
I lift my chin, gaze layering over him: moonlight, rain-spattered, steady. “What does it make me... if I love you?”
He answers with his mouth on mine, gentle and solid reassurance. But when he leans back, his lips curve faintly. “It makes you... extraordinary.”
Bewilderment blooms in my chest. “Extraordinary doesn’t feel right.”
He brushes my lips again, whispering, “Then let me tell you what it makes you.”
And I do something dangerous, something paradoxically thrilling: I tell him exactly where I stand. “I’m falling in love with a parasite,” I say, voice trembling on the edge of confession. “What does that make me?”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t wince as though the word bites him. Instead, he shifts me gently until our foreheads meet again, breath intermingling with the rain-slick night.
“You’re the only one who ever made me feel human,” he replies, pressing his forehead to mine.
His honesty is the kindling that sets something smoldering alight inside me. A tether threaded through uncertainty—but fierce and irrevocable.
In the hush between us, I taste salt and promise, and a future that’s terrifying but real.
I don’t whisper anything after that. I don’t need to.
I just lean into him, trembling and solid, falling deeper into what we are becoming together
CHAPTER 14
SAGAX
Isense the shift before anyone sees it—the way the air thickens, a prelude like the jungle inhaling. It isn’t the wind or the humidity. It’s something unnatural slicing the sky. I spring into the treetops, muscles silent, tail wrapping like a vine as I climb.
The canopy parts to reveal it: a sleek luxury shuttle, shimmering like molten silver. It tears through the clouds and lands on the open burn-patch like a slash of light. Sweetwater's heart halts for a breath.
Below, the colonists crowd around the landing. Fear tangles with relief. Anxiety pulls at me. Instinct screams: danger.
Esme stands at the center, tense and poised. Her jaw is tight. Her fingers form anxious fists at her sides. I sense every pulse, every bead of sweat along her neck.
The shuttle’s hatch opens. A figure steps out—Krenshaw. The man in a body that’s more machine than flesh. His face is stretched like synthetic skin over metal bone, eyes fluttering with unnatural awareness. The skin moves—microexpressions swelling and receding, Frankenstein in a silver suit.
“Director Krenshaw,” a voice calls out below. Esme’s voice—steady, brave.
I slip lower on a branch, venom-cool eyes trained on Krenshaw's entrance. He glides forward, each step oozing arrogance. His metal joints make unrealswik-swiknoises, echoing in the silent air.
“How gracious of you to welcome me,” he says, voice smooth as oil and colder than Galfridan ice.
Esme steps forward. “We didn’t invite you.”
He tilts his head, synthetic eyes flicking to her. “Youdid,implicitly—when you stayed. The Combine has interests here, Miss Cruise.”
A thorn twists in my gut at the way he says her name—as any excuse to speak to her. She flares her shoulders. “Our interests do not include being enslaved.”
