Page 43 of Mated to the Monster God
Her eyebrow quirks upward. “You? A protean alien?”
I offer a slow smile. “I’ve learned.
Tension snaps loose in her shoulders—and mine. She leads me to the workshop. As we walk, I sense the swirl of her thoughts: gratitude, disbelief, comfort—and beneath it, that wild thread of desire we've woven. She doesn’t chase it. But it’s there.
We don’t break stride when Jimmy grins from under tangled wires. Blondie offers Esme a nervous smile when she sees me. In those gestures, I taste the quiet acceptance building around us—she’s a part of their lives now, just like I am.
Something shifts inside me: pride, yes—but deeper than pride. Resolve. I may be made of fragments, but with her, I’m cohesive. Even when jealousy tugs. Especially when?
She laughs softly at Morty’s hardware joke. The sound is bright as sun on steel. My skin flushes. I tense, afraid I’ll shatter something fragile between us.
She catches me watching. Her eyes meet mine—calm, warm, mischievous. No fear. No distance. Only her.
Whatever human emotions have tangled inside me, they’re anchored by that moment.
I step forward—no longer looming behind, but beside her.
Her presence quiets the ache. Her hand brushes mine as we turn a corner into the dim light of a cracked lamp.
I draw a deep breath—a promise.
The night air hums with tension. The jungle presses in around us, dark and ripe with danger. Esme’s steps beside me are steady but cautious—I can feel the tremor in her voice when she spoke earlier about needing more defenses. I nod, matching her stride, sensory systems tuned to every whisper, every flicker in the brush.
We round a bend and I smell them before I see them—Baragon patrol scent, cold and clinical, metal grinding on flesh, danger masked as calm. Three soldiers move in formation, light pooling off mirrored helmets. Esme stops.
“They’re close,” I murmur.
She nods, eyes searching mine. I give her the signal—cocked head, brief lean toward deep cover.
I step out first, silent.
I move like lightning through bone and shadow. My hand flexes, pulling forth the blade forged from my own bone—sharp, pale, impossible. The first soldier falls without noise. No ceremony. Just death.
The others whirl, rifles raised.
I don’t hesitate.
I hurl the bone-blade like a javelin. The gold-flecked muscles in my arm glow with momentum. It flies, grazes the second soldier in the leg, twisting as he runs. He doesn’t stop. I follow, claws tearing suit mid-sprint, throat exposed in panic.
He collapses, but another pushes back with shimmering armor.
I strike again—fisted, cruel, decisive. The third crumbles to dust in a crunch of dark metal and bone.
I stand alone among the silence. The forest exhales around me, soaked in night.
I return to Esme—blood-slick, triumphant.
She’s waiting just beyond the clearing, eyes wide and amber in the dim light.
I drop to my knees, breathing hard.
“Esme…” I start, voice raw.
She places a trembling hand on my chest.
“Why didn’t you?—”
She can’t finish. Fear—sharp and raw, not pity—fills her eyes. That look cuts me harder than any blade ever could.
