Page 46 of The Monster You Made
I’m close, so close, the pressure building like a storm in my core. He feels it, knows it, and his thrusts grow harder, faster, relentless. “Come for me, Vera,” he demands, his voice a low growl, his hand sliding up to grip my throat, not choking but holding, a reminder of his control. The possessiveness in his touch, the way he fills me, owns me in this moment, it’s too much. I shatter, my climax ripping through me like a blade, sharp and overwhelming, my body clenching around him as I cry out, his name a broken thing on my lips.
He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, just drives into me harder, chasing his own release. His grip tightens, his breath hot against my neck as he buries his face there, teeth grazing my skin. Ifeel him tense, his rhythm faltering, and then he’s coming, a low groan tearing from his throat as he spills inside me, hot and pulsing. The sensation drags another shudder from me, an aftershock that leaves me trembling, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth.
We stay like that for a moment, panting, sweat-slick and spent, his weight pinning me to the chimney. The night air is cold now, stinging against my flushed skin, but I don’t care. His forehead rests against mine, his breath uneven, and for a second, I see it, the loyalty, the need, the man behind the monster. He pulls back, eyes searching mine, and I want to say something, anything, but the words won’t come. Instead, I shove at his chest, a half-hearted push, and he smirks, that infuriating, knowing look that makes me want to hit him and kiss him all at once.
He eases me down, my legs shaky as they hit the roof, and I pull my jeans up, wincing at the soreness already settling in. He watches me, silent, his own clothes righted with a casualness that belies the intensity of what just happened. The city hums below, oblivious, and I feel the weight of our secrecy, the danger of this stolen moment. It’s not love, not in the way people write songs about, but it’s ours, raw, violent, and achingly real.
***
We gather what we can—rations, water, and the whispers of discontent spoken in taverns and alleys. People here live beneath the Crown’s shadow, but some are restless. They murmur of villages burned, of soldiers taking what little remains. They lower their voices when speaking of rebellion, but the hunger is there, waiting.
Rourke drinks more than he should, but he listens too. One night, he returns with word of a man, a smuggler who runs goods past the Crown’s patrols, who knows the hidden paths through hills and valleys. A man who might help us strike where Declan is weakest.
We meet him in a cellar beneath the fish market, the air thick with salt and damp. He is lean, scarred, with eyes that are quick and wary. His name is Jannik. “You want blood,” he says, his voice low, “but blood brings the Crown down hard. They burn villages for less.”
Lucian’s stare is unflinching. “Then we burn first.”
The smuggler studies him, then me, then Abigail clinging to my hand. At last, he nods. “There’s a supply train three nights from now. Supply trucks bound for the western forts. Grain, powder, rifles. Guarded, but not enough to stop a fire if it starts. You want to hurt the Crown? That’s where you strike.”
The plan takes shape in shadows and whispers. We will leave the city at dusk, move through the hills, and strike the supply trucks at the valley’s throat. Quick, sharp, vanish before the Crown can close its jaws.
***
The night of the strike is cold, the moon veiled by clouds. We move like ghosts through the hills, Jannik guiding, Rourke muttering curses, Lucian silent as shadow. I clutch the hatchet Marta gave me, the weight familiar now, terrible in its necessity. Abigail remains in the city, left with the innkeeper’s daughter. Her wide eyes when we left haunt me still, but she is safer there than here.
We reach the valley’s edge before dawn. Below, the supply trucks creak along the path, lanterns swaying, wheels groaning. Soldiers march beside them, rifles slung, their voices faint in the night. Grain, powder, rifles, Declan’s lifeblood.
Lucian signals. We descend.
The attack is swift, brutal. Rourke’s shot cracks the air, dropping the lead driver. Jannik hurls a light onto a supply truck tarpaulin, fire catching quick, bright. I rush forward, hatchet swinging, the world a blur of steel and smoke. Soldiers shout, rifles rise, but Lucian is among them before they can fire, blades flashing, precise and merciless. Fire spreads, powder catches, the supply trucks erupt in flame. The valley glows red, smoke curling into the dawn.
We vanish into the hills before the Crown can rally, the fire at our backs, the sound of rifles fading into the distance. Behind us, the supply train burns, a wound carved into Declan’s net.
***
Back in the city, whispers spread fast. The Crown’s supply trucks, destroyed. Grain and powder, lost. Soldiers dead. Some say rebels did it. Some say ghosts. All know only this: the Crown bled.
In the tavern, voices are louder now, sharper, edged with something dangerous. Hope. People glance at me when they whisper, at Lucian, at Rourke. Not openly, not yet. But the spark has caught.
That night, Lucian lays the satchel on the table once more. His eyes meet mine, fire in their depths. “This is only the beginning.”
I nod, though fear twists within me. Fire spreads quick. And once it burns, none can control it.
Chapter 19 - Lucian
The city breathes in whispers. At dawn, its streets stir with merchants setting out baskets of bread and barrels of salted fish. Children run barefoot through alleys, their laughter brief as sparrows before the weight of silence settles again. Eyes follow me wherever I walk. Not openly. Not with defiance. But with something sharper, expectation, fear, a hunger that gnaws even deeper than the hunger of empty bellies.
Word of the supply train spreads faster than fire. Some whisper it was brigands. Others swear it was the Crown itself, burning its own supply trucks to hide some secret. But most believe what they need to believe: that the Crown bled, and someone drew that blood. Already, the people shape us into ghosts, rebels, saviors. They look at me as if I carry answers I do not yet hold.
We cannot linger here long. The Crown’s eyes stretch far, and already riders scour the hills. But the satchel is heavy with maps, and each day we breathe is a day Declan’s grip weakens. To run is not enough. To fight blindly is death. We must shape chaos into a blade.
The morning after the strike, I walk the city’s edge, the walls rising cold behind me. Rourke limps beside me, his rifle slung, his face gray from pain, though he will not admit it. Vera remains at the inn with Abigail, her voice soft as she reads old stories reshaped into lullabies. For the first time since I’ve known her, her shoulders seemed to rest, if only for an hour.
Rourke spits into the dust. “You see the way they look at us? Like we’re wolves that wandered into the pen. Half of themwant us to tear the shepherd apart. Half want us gone before the Crown comes hunting.”
He is not wrong. Every face I pass carries both hope and fear. Hope burns fast, but fear lasts longer. “It doesn’t matter what they want,” I say, though my voice is low. “It matters what they’ll do when the fire spreads.”
Rourke barks a humorless laugh. “Fire spreads both ways. You know that.”
