Page 73 of Mated to the Monster God
People part like water before him. I feel their eyes. The heat of their gazes on my face, my limp arms, the blood on my shirt.
A child says, “Mommy, is that the monster?”
“No, baby,” comes the answer. “That’s our guardian angel.”
I want to laugh. Or cry. Or scream. But I just keep breathing in his scent, letting his heartbeat steady mine.
We pass the burned-out husk of the watchtower. The place where Jimmy once dared me to climb to the top in a windstorm. The place where Sagax stood last night, silent and fierce, watching the sky.
I feel like a ghost in my own skin. Like I’m floating just behind my body, watching Sagax carry me home.
Home.
Sweetwater isn’t rubble. It isn’t ashes. It’s still here. We’re still here.
As we pass the clinic tent, Tara rushes over, brushing soot from her arms. “Bring her inside—let me look at her?—”
“She just needs rest,” Sagax says, his voice more gentle now. “But she’ll want to see her family.”
Blondie appears, dirt-streaked and wide-eyed. She reaches for me, then pulls back, unsure.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, finally finding my voice. “Just… tired.”
Sagax carries me all the way to my family’s habitat pod, sets me down like I’m porcelain, and pulls the blanket over me with careful fingers.
His hand lingers at my cheek. “Rest. I’ll be just outside.”
“Don’t go far,” I say, voice raw.
“Never.”
Then he’s gone, and I hear Jimmy’s voice somewhere outside, babbling to someone about what happened. About howthe ships rose like firebirds. About how I stood beside the monster that saved the world.
I let the warmth of the pod cocoon me. The mattress under me feels like a cloud. I sink into it, heart thudding slow and heavy.
The last thing I remember before the dark takes me is the sound of a heartbeat—not mine.
His.
I wake up to the antiseptic sting of med gel and the soft hum of field diagnostics blinking overhead. The lights are too bright. The sheets under me are too stiff. My skin feels like it’s wrapped in grit and sunburn.
For a second, I panic. That disoriented kind of terror where you don’t know if you’re safe or if you’re still dreaming. I sit bolt upright—and regret it instantly. My ribs protest, my shoulders scream, and my brain pounds like someone’s using it for target practice.
“Whoa there, speedster.”
Tara’s arms are around me before I can do more damage. She smells like iodine and smoke, and her cheek is damp against mine. She’s trembling, just a little.
“You scared the hell outta me,” she whispers.
“I’m okay,” I rasp. “Mostly.”
“You passed out cold, Es. We thought…” Her voice breaks.
I hug her tighter. We don’t do this often, me and Tara. Not since I was little and afraid of lightning storms. But I let her hold me now, and maybe I hold her back just as hard.
“I told them you’d pull through,” comes Blondie’s voice, firm and clear—but I can hear the guilt stitched behind it.
I look up. She’s standing at the foot of the medbed, arms crossed tight over her chest, her curls a frizzy halo of ash-blonde wildness. She looks like she hasn’t slept in a week.
