Page 57 of Mated to the Monster God
It’s not sex. It’s a pact. A fusion of flesh and soul. A surrender even fiercer than combat.
Lightning flashes through the broken metal above. We shudder as one.
I gasp again, wet and wild. “Forever?”
He stands taller, body anchoring me. “Always.”
My legs vanish under his strength. I wrap around him, voice thin but certain: “I always was.”
Rain has softened into silver threads through the cracked canopy above the satellite dish’s wreckage. The world beyond feels distant—cracked battlefield, jagged machines, terror and blood. But here, in this broken metal cradle, everything that matters is slow, quiet: his breath, my heartbeat, the drumming of rain against rusty steel.
Sagax and I lie side by side on dried moss and rain-washed stones, cocooned in the hollowed arc of that fallen dish. My spine curves into him, his tail curls around my legs in a protective loop that vibrates with warmth and promise.
I trace lazy patterns on his chest, each fingertip feeling the ridges of his scales—the map of all the places he’s held himself together for me. He doesn’t pull away; he leans into the touch with a gentle hum.
We drift hours in and out of silence, broken only by raindrops and murmured words.
“What will we do?” I ask soft, each syllable a drift of breath. I mean the colony, the war, the relentless Baragon. But what I’m really asking is: what happens to us when it’s done?
He exhales, soft as thunder. “Not even the Combine would reach this place.”
I smile despite the tremor in my chest. “Thank you,” I whisper.
“It’s more than survival,” he says, voice low and resonant in the damp hush. “You deserve more than running.”
I taste the faint ache behind that vow.
“What if we left?” I ask, voice stronger now. “Not because we have to, but because we want to?”
Sagax’s tail tightens around me. I feel his smile against my temple. “Where would you go?”
I trace the line of his jaw. “Someplace green. Somewhere your scales would blend in—with tall forests, fresh air—not jungle cat territory.” I laugh, breath trembling. “Maybe a cabin on a lake where the water smells like lilies and cold stone.”
His hold loosens, but only enough for me to slip out a giggle. “No jungle predators?”
I shake my head. “No predators. Just—peace. Morning light. Books. A kayak.”
He chuckles low. “That’s strangely domestic.”
“I’m trying to imagine us not fighting,” I say. “And not running.”
He looks at me—distance and dawn mixing in his gaze. “Then let us stay. For now.”
I press a kiss against his scaled forearm. The rough texture—ancient wood, living bark. “Promise me we’ll stay in it long enough to build that.”
He wraps both arms around me, holding me with calm gravity. “Promise.”
The air shifts—the hush grows, the distance between us disappears, the dish becomes not a ruin, but a sanctuary. My heart unravels the last of its knots.
“I love you,” I say, voice soft, like offering a raw gem.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t pretend. He stays still with me, letting that vibration settle between us.
Rain hisses off rusted metal. The forest leans in.
I realize I’m not just burning with desire. This is love. Flesh-deep and soul-wide. It’s the surrender I choose daily.
I tilt my head up into his chest. The world doesn’t demand anything from us right now except breathing, loving, staying.
