Page 55 of Mated to the Monster God
When we break apart, the cave echoes with our ragged breathing. My arms wrap around her as though she might vanish if I loosen my grip.
She presses her forehead against my chest, her breath tinny against my heart armor. “I’m here,” she whispers. Exhaustion, relief, love bleeding through her voice. I can feel her pulse jump beneath my palm—wild, strong, tethered to mine.
“I won’t let go,” I promise, voice low, shaking. I taste tears in the back of my throat.
She pulls back, eyes shining brighter than any star. “Not because I need you—but because I choose you.” Her words land like prayers, jagged and perfect.
I trace her jawline, fingertips slick with rain and tears. “Then I vow,” I whisper, “to choose you back for all time.”
We stay wrapped in that silent hymn of shared breath, rain drumming above us, wet stone giving in to our heat, storm outside met by storm within.
Seconds stretch into worth more than lifetimes. I tune into every tremor beneath her skin. I want to know each fear she’s buried, each hope she’s dared to breathe. Not to own them, but to walk beside her.
“I thought loving you would scare me,” I admit—voice small in the vast hush of rock.
She smiles, soft and sure. “It does. But I’d rather be terrified with you than safe anywhere else.”
Her leg collapses. Our bodies align—scales and flesh. The cave holds us, cradle of stone, water, and new beginnings.
Rain begins to trickle through a fissure in the rock above, ghost droplets landing on my hair, my neck. It’s as if the storm is blessing us—washing away pieces of the world that tried to break her, trying to break us.
We kiss again, this time not desperate, but tendered with new understanding. Her lips are wet warmth in the cold.
I murmur against her mouth, “I will not let anyone—no one—touch you.”
She pulls back enough to meet my eyes. “I know.”
My heart lodges in an avalanche of relief. The promise is sacred, and we’ve cast it under the rain, carved it into stone, sealed it with breath and blood.
In that dark crevasse, with rain sounds like lullaby and our blood pulsing in harmony, the fire begins to burn again.
CHAPTER 17
ESME
We take shelter under the broken grandeur of the satellite dish, its rusted arcs forming a cathedral of fallen dreams above us. The curved ribs of metal overhead catch the rain in melodic drips, each drop a slow heartbeat against the cavern’s ceiling. The air is thick with ozone, earthiness, and the volatile whisper of spent adrenaline. Every sound—lick of water, scrabble of boots, distant thunder—feels amplified, as if recorded in a theater of bone and sky.
I settle into the nest of Sagax’s arms, anchored, alive. Rainwater beads in rivulets across my jacket, soaking into skin, chilling me. Yet I’m warm, centered, held together not by shelter or steel, but by this creature beside me. His scent swells in the cold air—resin, rain, something unmistakably him. My pulse slows; mine no longer races with fear, but hums with the steadfast rhythm of rescue and connection.
Sagax’s gaze remains fixed on me—molten gold shimmering with what I always feared I might not earn again: devotion, wonder, something brazen and unashamed. He watches with hunger tempered by tenderness, and my breath catches in my throat at the unspoken promise in those eyes.
I wander away from the edge of the dish’s curved wall, letting my fingers brush over its cold, dented surface—memory of human architects and broken signals. The metal hums, echoing with whispers of past transmissions, a reminder that hope is fragile but persistent.
He shifts, bringing me closer. My cheek rests against his scaled shoulder. Rain threads through moss and metal overhead. Earth breathes under me. Sagax’s heartbeat vibrates through the center of my back, steady and reverent.
I nudge free enough to turn and face him, chest heaving with very real emotion. The world around us has not calmed—but inside me, something is forging a new pulse.
“Sagax…” My voice breaks, trembles. It’s not a question—but an offering. A reckoning. Everything between us used to be danger or devotion born from chaos. Now it’s a deliberate choice.
His jaw relaxes. “Yes,” he echoes softly.
I press my hand to the curve of his neck, feeling the flow beneath his scales—strength and warmth and promise. “Take me again,” I murmur. Voice nearly swallowed by rain, by nerves, by everything.
He tilts his head, rain dripping into his ear. Eyes searching mine—no question there, only awareness.
When he leans in, the kiss is not quiet. It’s a scream of everything I’ve felt and everything I hoped could be real. Rain mingles with the taste of earth and my own need. His arms encircle me, fangs and bones trembling with careful fervor.
As tongues brush, thunder rattles the dish overhead. Our lips meld with something pure—not escape, not solace, but defiant, intimate choosing. I press closer, all questions drowning in the fire of contact, the joining of breath, skin, and soul.
