Page 54 of Mated to the Monster God
I can’t think. I can only do.
I crash into the shelter of the forest where moss clings to everything like promised home. I collapse on my haunches and lay Esme gently against the damp earth. Rain rattles through the canopy above us. My scales prickle with fear and primal need.
Her breath is ragged. Eyes fluttering. She’s conscious, but slipping. The poison—whatever it is—is consuming her blood, her life, draining color away.
I press my palm to her cheek. Fingertips ice and trembling. “Hang on,” I murmur. Yet even as I say it, I feel my resolve harden like armor.
Desperation surges. I reach into my chest—someway, somehow. Not metaphoric—I know where strength lies. My veins pulse with life and sacrifice.
The bone blade I carry slices into my thigh. Pain blooms, white-hot, and every cell fires awake. My blood pours—rubied rivulets against pale skin. I don’t flinch. Each drop is precious. I tread carefully, scooping the blood up in a makeshift vial I carry for emergencies—this is the emergency.
I steady myself. Each breath a promise. Every heartbeat a vow. I draw it closer to Esme’s arm, fingering the needle.
“Stay with me, Esme,” I whisper.
Her fingers flutter, reaching for me.
I stab gently. The sting is nothing compared to what I imagine she’s feeling—the spiral of envenomation stealing her away.
The blood floods in. It’s hot, too hot, a fever. But I embrace it. I pulse it through her veins—life itself.
Her body shudders. Eyes snap open. The pallor drains. Her breath steadies and color blooms in her cheeks like dawn after a long darkness.
I watch, mesmerized, as life returns. Tears streak her face—rain mingled with relief.
“Sagax?” she gasps—voice cracked gold.
I’m burning from the inside out with relief and love.
I release the vial and wrap her close. Her heartbeat pulses against me—strong.
In that sacred silence, rain still hammering above, something seismic shifts between us. Not just survival. Something deeper. Love forged in betrayal, pain, blood. Now reborn in shared strength.
Her pulse matches mine.
Her eyes lock on me.
New life—our life—leans into being.
I carry Esme into the crevasse, the cave’s entrance narrow and jagged, carved by ancient water and bone. It’s narrow enough that the rain can’t wet us here. Inside, it’s silent, except for the distant drip of water pooling into subterranean hollows—tiny rhythms that echo like memory. Stone walls press in, cool to the touch, slick with moss and condensation. Earth smells ancient, a testament to time beyond human reckoning.
I lay Esme down, her body exhausted but alive. She’s wet, her skin flush and trembling, chest rising on soft, ragged breaths. Her lashes rest against her cheek where blood and rain have mingled. I taste iron when my mind conjures what Krenshaw injected her with. Poison. He tried to steal her from me. But I delivered her back to life with my own blood.
Beneath me, the rock rattles under my weight. I am a creature of strength, but in this hollow, I feel brittle.
“I—” My voice rattles like the pebbles echoing in the darkness. I can’t sit. Every part of me hums with guilt and reliefand something darker—obsession, fear, pride. “If I had been a second slower…”
Esme lifts her head. Her fingers, still slick, trace the moisture on my scaled jaw. She’s alive. In that touch, she offers forgiveness and demand. “You were fast,” she says softly, voice cracking on the word fast.
I let her warmth seep in. My body shudders—rain melting into memory.
“I don’t know how to be…” I start, and the words twist. What am I without her fear tethering me? Without her survival humming through me?
She reaches up, pressing both hands against my face. Her palms are cool, trembling. “You are my protector.”
I inhale the scent of her—the scent of resilience and earth and wildflowers crushed under rain.
Without a word, she leans forward and kisses me. Not soft, not hesitant—but raw, fierce, claiming. It’s fire in the wet cave, lightning between flesh and scale. Every nerve wakes. Desire thrums in my chest. She tastes like rain and fear turned to strength. I hold her like she’s fragile glass—and somehow infinite.
