Page 8 of Mated to the Monster God
“I can feelyounow,” she says quietly. “Not just the words. The… edges of you.”
“Yes,” I reply, voice low in her mind. “I am tuning in to you. Our link strengthens with every moment of shared danger. Every ounce of blood exchanged.”
“That’s gross and weirdly romantic.”
I do not understand why, but her words please me.
I retreat slightly from her surface thoughts. Not entirely. Just enough to let her rest without the weight of me pressing in. But I remain aware—watching the tremors in the vines, the change in air pressure, the scent of rot thickening near the next bend.
More predators will come.
But so will understanding.
And I will not let her fall.
The clearing appears like a wound in the jungle—raw, open, unnatural.
Esme pushes through a final curtain of vines, and we both freeze. The air changes. It’s colder here. Sterile.Wrong.
My senses flare. Every nerve I’ve threaded into her pulses like a warning bell.
“No…” she whispers.
The terrain shifts from tangled roots to scorched ground. Dark, pitted soil, crushed under mechanical treads. The grass here is dead. Trees lean away, their trunks blackened at the edges like they’ve been poisoned by proximity alone.
At the center of it all squats a thing that defies every organic curve of this planet.
The ship.
Only it’snotwreckage. There’s no smoking fuselage, no crumpled hull. This vessel hasdeployed. Its outer plating unfurled like a metallic insect, legs planted into the earth like pylons. Platforms stretch from its sides like wings, glimmering with weapon nodes and sensor dishes.
It hums with power. With intent.
Baragon.
I recognize their design before she even breathes the word. The ship is fortress-class—an orbital lander that’s rooted itself like a cancer. It pulses with internal systems, its walls crawling with geometric lights. Not decorative. Not art.
Targets. Grids. Algorithms made manifest.
They’re here. Already digging in.
Baragon soldiers march in perfect silence between the landing struts, each one armored head to toe in polished chrome—featureless helmets gleaming like mirrors. No eyes. No mouths. Just walking weapons.
They move like a single mind. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
My host—my Esme—crouches low behind a rise of bone-thorn ferns. Her fingers dig into the mud. Her breath goes shallow. Her mind races, memories colliding like meteor showers.
“They’re not supposed to be here yet,” she murmurs. “They’re early.”
“No,” I correct her gently. “They areefficient.”
Her body trembles, but not from fear alone. Rage simmers under her skin. She hates them. Despises what they stand for. What they’ve taken.
I taste that hatred on her tongue. It is intoxicating.
One Baragon turns. Their helmet catches a glint of Esme’s movement. Instantly, they pivot. Raise a weapon—short-barreled, matte-black, compact.
I feel the charge build. Electroplasma accelerant. Directional.
