Page 67 of Mated to the Monster God
Sagax appears behind me, body shadowed relief, and his presence—scale warmth and promise—anchors me.
“You saw it,” I murmur, voice raw.
He nods, voice a scratch of metal, “He knows what I am. What you are.”
I turn into his arms, feeling his chest tighten like spring steel. “I’m not a pawn.”
His tail wraps around me like living armor. “You’ve never been.”
Heat warps behind my ribs. His faith is not hollow. But mine… I exhale, mind widening with resolution.
I step back. “Then I won’t be your victim.”
Blood hammers in my skull—myrth and dread and a feral kind of courage roil. My fists tighten. I can’t accept the quiet terror of waiting for war to come for me.
He stares blank for a second—like his heart sees what mine just embraced.
“You—” he breathes.
“It ends here.” My voice is ragged, alive.
He smiles—something fierce and wet with emotion. “I stand with you.”
I nod. Brief, fierce.
I race into the lab’s supply stash. Medivacs, bandages, syringe-laced medigel—185 vials, all synthesized and pulsing with healing power. I grab them like they’re talismans.
I slip out, calling Tara. She’s there—eyes stained with soot, biting her lip stiff with adrenaline. I grab her, voice low. “I’m going after Krenshaw directly.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re bleeding.”
I look down—blood from earlier tendril tracing my side. I pack it into my pocket. “Then let me bleed for them.”
She exhales, face torn. “Don’t.”
He materializes by my side. His presence aches at me—promise, steel, fury. “I won’t let him touch you.”
I meet his eyes. Just that, and something fierce clicks inside me. Not tears. Not weakness. Justice awakened.
I grab the medivac belt. “I’ll meet you at the ridge.”
He nods, stepping forward. Rain hammers through crumbling walls—and with every drop, every breath we share, I know what I am now.
Not a prototype. A warrior, forged by love, seeded in sacrifice, thriving under scale and bloodlust and devotion.
I walk out into the storm, rain drenching rage and purpose onto teeth and bone. Moonlight slices through the storm clouds as I slip away from Sweetwater. Rain lashes my hair into heavy strands, plastering it to my face as if conspiring with shadows. Behind me, trench lights flicker and silhouettes shift—maybe someone notices my absence, maybe they follow the decoy trail I’ve meticulously set up. Vials scattered in the mud, footprints leading far away, footsteps in reverse—all distractions to give me a chance.
My heart is heavy with betrayal and hope. I reach a broken section of the outer wall—charred logs and jagged planks stained with mud and sweat. I duck through the gap and vanish into the storm-wracked jungle.
Every step closer to Krenshaw’s stronghold rouses panic in me that tastes like rust. Still, I press onward. A fraction of me fears this sacrifice—offering myself as specimen for his twisted experiments—but another part knows this is what must be done.
I crouch beneath a rock outcropping, unspooling a small communicator. My fingers tremble. I press record.
“Sagax,” I whisper, voice tight. “If you find this—know I love you more than anything. Don’t follow. You fight here. I… I have to do this. I’ll return if I can. But don’t come. Not for me.”
I swallow the despair that wells in my throat. Stop recording.
I rise, wading through waist-high ferns drenched with rain—every footstep a vow. The Baragon command ship hovers ahead, looming and humming with pulsing red light. I step onto its metal ramp—slick with rain and human sacrifice. The locks buzz, doors swing open.
