Page 17 of Mated to the Monster God
I nod. “Not as clearly as you do. It is fragmented. Prioritized based on emotional weight, sensory strength, and repetition. But yes. I know your thoughts.”
She winces. “So you know about—oh no.”
I tilt my head. “About what?”
Her cheeks redden, and she shakes her head. “Nope. Not talking about it.”
“Then I will not press,” I say, though her discomfort draws my curiosity closer than I’d like to admit.
A beat passes before she sighs, louder than necessary. “Fine. It’s probably already in your brain anyway. I had this stupid crush on Harwin Jax when I was fifteen. There. It was a phase.”
I pause mid-step, confused by the sharp twist in my chest. Harwin. From her memories, I know his face—too-perfect features, smirking lips, hands that lingered longer than they should have. He was taller than most boys in the colony. Confident. Cocky.
Esme never told him how she felt. But she thought about it. Often.
Something ugly coils inside me.
“Why him?” I ask before I can stop myself.
She raises an eyebrow. “Why not him?”
My jaw tightens. “He was... arrogant. Disrespectful. He once asked Tara if her med scanner could tell how many men she’d kissed. He’s unworthy.”
Esme blinks. “You sound jealous.”
I freeze.
The word lands with a weight I didn’t anticipate. Jealousy. It tastes bitter in my mouth. I know the term from her memories, but experiencing it... this is different. This is raw and irrational and hot behind my ribs. I do not want her to think of Harwin Jax. I do not want her to remember anyone’s hands on her but mine. The thought of her blushing for someone else makes my vision narrow.
“I am... unfamiliar with this emotion,” I admit, slower than usual. “But it is unpleasant.”
“Yeah,” she says dryly, “welcome to the club.”
I continue walking, now more aware of the silence between us. She glances at me from time to time, thinking I won’t notice. But I feel the tension in her limbs every time her eyes land on my chest, the way her breath hiccups when I adjust my grip. She watches the curve of my jaw when I speak, traces the lines of my shoulders with stolen glances.
She doesn’t think I see.
She’s wrong.
I say nothing, letting her believe she has her secrets.
She shifts again, nestling closer without realizing. Her thigh brushes mine. The contact lingers. I breathe deeper, just once, letting her scent anchor me.
“You always this warm?” she murmurs, voice sleepy.
“Yes,” I say. “It is a biological result of my energy expenditure. My core regulates metabolic transformation with an internal bioplasmic furnace.”
She snorts. “You’re a space heater.”
“I prefer ‘living weapon.’”
She laughs. It’s the kind that crackles under her breath and warms the cold places in me. My chest tightens again, but not from jealousy this time.
We press forward. The sun arcs behind thick clouds, dyeing the world in copper and green. We’ll need shelter again soon. Somewhere she can sleep without fear. Somewhere I can sit beside her and guard her dreams like a sentry of scaled steel.
She yawns and rests her head on my shoulder.
This journey is dangerous. The Baragon are closing in. Every step could be our last.
