Page 27 of Mated to the Monster God
“It’s not,” she admits. “But it’s true.”
My hands curl on my knees, claws retracting. I breathe in her scent, now tinged with a new layer of warmth and comfort. My vision blurs slightly—not from damage, but from something deeper. Something rising inside me that has no name.
“I do not know what to do with this,” I whisper.
“You don’t have todoanything,” she says. “Just... be here.”
CHAPTER 7
ESME
Ilead Sagax through the makeshift tent lit by dangling energy globes that hum with bluish light. The air smells of antiseptic and sweat—Blondie’s feverblooms mixed with disinfectant. Inside, the colony’s nerve center thrums with urgency. Charts and ration schedules are pinned with desperation to the walls. Med supplies pass through hands that are both steady and shaking.
“Most people assume we left when the Alliance shut down our IHC aid line,” I explain, gesturing to a half-full bin of medigel cartridges. “Standard evacuation procedure, evacuation ships, you know the protocol. But our colony—Sweetwater—chose to stay. Parents. Scientists. Builders. We just... refused.”
Sagax listens, head tilted. His iridescent eyes absorb every detail—my words, the medical supplies, the expression flickering on my face.
“Why?” he asks, voice gentle. He genuinely wants to know.
I rest a finger on the edge of a ration chart. Our supply shipments have dwindled, and each day’s forecast is tighter than the last. “Because we built this world ourselves. We came when I was seven. Pristine land, alien flora. We wrestled it, wrangled it, made gardens out of it. My parents—Mom’s an exobiologist,Dad’s a zoologist—they believed in adaptation. In endurance.” My voice catches. “This is our proof that humanity can thrive where no one else would try.”
Sagax’s hand flexes, shifting the darkness into a ripple. “And your people stayed, even though they knew no help was coming?”
I nod. “We knew the Alliance made us neutral. That meant no military defense if the Coalition invaded. No aid drops.” My gaze finds the hologram flickering overhead, mapping enemy ship movements. Each blip a threat. “We stayed because this is home. And because if we run now, we lose more than land. We lose trust. We lose purpose. We lose soul.”
Sagax steps closer, his presence pulsing warmth in the cold glow. “You feel trapped.”
My breath hitches. I hadn’t meant to say it out loud. But there it is, laid bare.
He watches me, curious, unafraid. Which is what draws me in.
“I do,” I confess, pulling my hair into my fist. “I’ve spent too many nights dreaming of distant cities, free skies—not stuck on red-dust agricultural flats. But I also can’t leave—my people depend on me. Morty, Jimmy, Tara and Rick... I’m the glue holding them together.”
Sagax tilts his head, processing. “You’re torn.”
“I am,” I whisper, voice brittle. “Duty says stay. Heart says run. And I don’t know if there’s room for both.”
He doesn’t move, but the energy around him shifts. The lavender light from the globe catches the edge of his face, outlining strength, scars, and something softer behind his eyes.
After a long beat, he says, “Then I will be your wings.”
The phrase lodges in my chest—impossible, monstrous, beautiful. I stare at him, breathing slow.
He means it.
He means more than just flight.
The dawn light is shaky, like it's still half-asleep. It filters through cracked windows across Sweetwater’s courtyard, where soldiers and scavengers alike grab tools and weapons at the first hint of danger. Sagax and I move through the scattered shadows—his size fitful, yet quiet, like he’s part of the air now. We’re heading toward Rick’s workshop, intent on reinforcing the solar array, when a sharp voice fractures the morning peace.
"Esme! What in the trident alliance is that?"
The words drop like bombs. My heart lurches. The flashlight beam pins Sagax against the wall, revealing his form in stark relief. He stands still, contours shifting softly under his adaptive skin. But the beam shines long enough.
“Calvin,” I hiss. Calm, Esme. Don’t let him dart into saber mode first thing in the morning.
Calvin Wren, with too many stripes and zero vision for nuance, raises his pulse rifle with trembling hands. His morning breath smells of burnt synth-coffee and nerves.
Sagax takes a careful step forward. I feel the snap of his energy—resolute, barely held. His claws flex in his pockets.
