Page 31 of Mated to the Monster God
“Not unless you’re sure,” I say, voice gravel-thick with restraint.
Her eyes search mine. I wait. For agreement or denial. For resolution.
Sunlight from distant tunnels glints off her eyelashes. She doesn’t answer. Her silence is selection.
I stand, steadying both of us. The night hums in promise.
We remain—wounded but unbroken.
The supply cache is gone before we even glimpse it—stripped bare, its weathered wood cracked and splintered, contents vanished. I step into the hollow where it once hid, senses flaring with loss.
Esme’s response is feral. Her fist slams into the tree’s resin-laced trunk, and bark explodes in shards like flinching light. A guttural scream rips from her throat, rich with frustration, fear, betrayal. The forest shivers at the sound.
“Why?” she demands, voice cracking. “Why would anyone do this? After everything...”
I approach carefully, familiar with grief’s rigid spine. The scent of torn mulch and sap saturates the air. My hand rests on her sweat-slick shoulder. Her breath is jagged, pulse hammering through my fingertips like a war drum.
“This was someone else, not your fault,” I say, pressing closer.
Her back curves, and a tremor ripples through her. “Everything is falling apart out there.” Her voice is small now, crumbling.
I cradle her. Arms coil around bruised limbs and battered armor. My scales press against her—solid and calming. She leans in until her temple presses against my chest, where my heartbeat is steady, a sentinel.
The heat of her ear warms against my neck. Her hair smells like crushed wildflowers and burnt adrenaline. Her breath rasps at my collarbone.
“I should’ve seen it,” she whispers. “I should’ve secured it better.”
“You’re not invulnerable,” I say softly, mouth grazing her temple. “No one is.”
She lifts her face—eyes glossy in the moonlight, dusk dusting her cheeks. “It’s just... I’m trying so hard to keep us alive. And then this happens.”
I pull her closer. Her pulse is thunderous in my ears. A riot of warmth blossoms in my chest.
“I’m here,” I murmur into her hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her breath catches. Something deep shifts in her expression—resignation, release, trust.
“Thank you,” she breathes.
I cradle her cheek. She tilts her head, seeking my mouth, but the weight of night and survival and fear holds us still.
My scent melds with hers—garlic root, sweat, vision, hope.
She fights sleep. I feel her eyelids droop, pulse slowing like tidal pull.
“Not yet,” she breathes. “Stay.”
I nod. Her head settles fully against me, and I wrap both arms around her—and stay. I don’t close my eyes. I let her rest.
Her breathing smooths, her body eases into mine. She is so small in my arms, so real.
I stay awake, senses sharp—protective coals simmering under skin.
The world around us is broken, but this moment isn’t.
It’s real.
CHAPTER 9
