Page 16 of Mated to the Monster God
“And you turned into a living fantasy?”
“I turned into a protector.”
She’s quiet a long time. Her breathing slows. I can feel it, the unspoken thing thrumming between us, deep and full of friction. Not just want.Recognition.
I lean closer, close enough that the heat of her body brushes mine. “Would you like me to step outside?”
She blinks, surprised. “What?”
“If my presence is overwhelming. I can remove myself until your nervous system recalibrates.”
She stares at me.
She laughs. A real one, short and bright.
“Gods, Sagax,” she says. “You’re the only guy I’ve ever met who offers to leave when he knows I’m too flustered to make eye contact.”
“I was not attempting to seduce you.”
“That’s what makes it worse.”
I lower my voice. “Do you want me to seduce you?”
She chokes on air.
I do not move. I do not press. I merely wait.
Her face is fire. Her thoughts are static.
But I know the answer.
I feel it in her bones.
The jungle is no longer merely terrain. It is enemy, ally, and test, all at once. We move through its humid breath like whispers in a warzone, every step chosen with precision, every breath shallow and careful. The canopy presses down from above, filtering sunlight through webs of emerald and gold. Roots claw up from the earth in twisted spirals, seeking to trip us, entangle us, consume us if we’re not vigilant.
Esme walks with a stubborn fire, refusing to ask for help even when the terrain breaks her stride. Her muscles tremble from exertion, her boots catch in the thick undergrowth, and I can feel the burn of fatigue in her thighs and calves like it’s my own. Her pride refuses to bend, even as her body screams for reprieve.
I offer no words. Not yet. Instead, I wait for the moment when her weight shifts just a little too far, when her breath hiccups with exhaustion, when her knees falter. Then I reach for her, gently but decisively, sweeping her into my arms before she has the chance to protest with more than a sharp inhale and a glare that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I can walk,” she mutters, but her head lolls against my shoulder seconds later.
“I know,” I say, keeping my voice quiet. “But I can carry.”
She doesn’t answer this time.
I hold her with the same care I imagine ancient warriors once held relics of their gods. Her warmth seeps into me, her scent swirling with soil, sweat, and that delicate floral trace that lingers behind her ears. Her heartbeat thuds against my chest in a rhythm that’s become more familiar than my own.
As we move, the jungle shifts again. A Baragon patrol slides through the distance like a blade through flesh. I crouch behind a curtain of hanging moss, stilling my breath, body shieldinghers. Their mirrored helmets flash like lightning between the trees, their movements mathematically efficient, each step calculated, soulless.
Esme stiffens in my arms. Her fingers clutch my bicep, nails biting into scaled flesh. I lower us slowly, curling around her beneath the foliage, silent as the graves these soldiers leave in their wake. Her breath fans against my throat, quick and hot, but she doesn’t make a sound. I feel pride swell in my chest—an unfamiliar, pleasurable ache. She is afraid, but she is also brave. Always.
The patrol passes.
We remain still long after their steps fade, just to be certain.
When the silence becomes too heavy, she speaks.
“So... you remember everything I remember?” Her voice is soft, curious. “Even... personal stuff?”
