Page 87 of Mated to the Monster God
“I love you,” I whisper.
“And I you.”
And that’s all we need.
Because love—real love—is messy, loud, exhausting. But it’sours.
And right here, in this moment, under this sky, with this man?
It’s everything.
CHAPTER 27
SAGAX
It’s been nearly five cycles since the last Baragon scream faded into memory. Long enough for nightmares to scab over, for laughter to echo freely through Sweetwater’s groves. Long enough for roots to deepen, for families to bloom—ours especially.
The twins—yes, twins—have Esme’s fire and my appetite. Two wiry little storms of claws and sass that never stop moving, never stop devouring life with their bright, too-clever eyes. Steven plays the role of overburdened older brother with theatrical suffering, but I catch the way he watches over them when he thinks no one sees. Their shadows stay together even when their bodies don’t.
I patrol the perimeter every morning, more out of habit than fear. There’s peace here. Honest, enduring peace. The kind people used to think was a myth. But it exists—in wildflowers creeping through fence posts, in children’s games played barefoot in orchard dust, in shared meals that stretch from daylight into firefly dark.
The Combine has kept its distance. The Alliance sends envoys sometimes. The Coalition too. Smiling men and sharpwomen with velvet voices and golden promises. But we don’t owe them. Not our soil. Not our future. Not our children.
Today, the sky’s a bold cobalt, split by the silver glint of two shuttles descending side by side. Alliance banners ripple from one. Coalition stripes from the other. I click my comm once—no words, just alert.
The Council assembles in the grove’s center, where the old mess hall used to stand before it collapsed under vines and optimism. Esme stands beside me, arms folded, hair in a braid that coils like a question mark at her nape. Her expression is unreadable, but I feel her tension in the way she presses her shoulder against mine.
Rick mutters, “Let’s hope they brought booze.”
Blondie elbows him. “Let’s hope they don’t try anything stupid.”
They won’t. Not here. Not now. But still—I flex my fingers, just in case.
The Alliance envoy is a tall man in burnished armor, skin polished like glass. He speaks first, florid and confident.
“You’ve built something remarkable here,” he says. “A shining example of hybrid potential and post-war recovery. The Alliance would be honored to formally welcome Sweetwater into our jurisdiction.”
I see Esme’s jaw tick, just once.
The Coalition representative—a woman with oil-black eyes and a voice like static—steps forward next. “You could be the model colony. Fully funded. Strategically defended. Imagine what you could build with our backing.”
Esme looks at me. I nod once.
She steps forward.
“I don’t think you understand what we’ve built here,” she says, voice clear as glass breaking. “It’s not a model. It’s not a project. It’s home. And it stays free.”
The Alliance man chuckles politely. “Freedom is an illusion, my dear. Everyone answers to someone.”
“Not here,” she snaps. “Not anymore.”
The Coalition rep folds her arms. “You’d rather stay vulnerable? Ungoverned? Caught between giants?”
“We’d rather not be pawns in a war we didn’t start,” I growl, stepping forward. “We’ve buried enough of our people without your flags on their graves.”
A murmur stirs the crowd. Our people. Our colony. This is their fight too.
Rick leans in, whispering, “Nice one, big guy.”
