Page 49 of The Monster You Made
The camp is hidden deep, its fires shielded, its voices low. Dozens of them live here, men and women, young and old, scarred by loss but sharpened by it. They listen when I speak, when I unroll the maps, when I trace the lines of the Crown’s net. They murmur when Vera speaks, her voice steady, her words of truth cutting through the dark. They laugh at Rourke’s curses, slap his back when he drinks deep, and call him brother. Abigail plays with others her own age; her laughter is louder now, freer.
Chapter 20 - Vera
The rebel camp smells of smoke and pine, of leather oiled and blades sharpened. It feels alive in a way I have not felt since before Old Vienna burned, alive with purpose, with people moving not in fear but in defiance. Fires crackle low, cloaked by canvas screens. Men and women sharpen knives, mend boots, clean rifles. Children chase each other between tents, laughter a strange counterpoint to the weight of war. For a moment, I let myself breathe. For a moment, I believe.
The woman who found us, broad-shouldered, scarred, her face marked by fire, calls herself Elira. Her voice carries like a drum. “You burned their supply trucks,” she tells the camp that first night. “You bled them where they thought themselves safe. These are not wanderers. These are sparks. And sparks feed fire.”
They cheer, not loud, not reckless, but fierce, controlled. I feel their eyes on me, on Lucian, on Rourke. On Abigail, who hides behind my cloak, wide-eyed, clutching her doll. I touch her hair, grounding myself. If we have become sparks, then I must remember what fire costs.
***
In the days that follow, we learn the rhythm of the camp. Scouts leave at dawn, returning at dusk with word of Crown patrols. Hunters bring in lean deer, berries, roots. Blacksmiths hammer steel from scraps, forging blades that gleam sharp even if they do not match. The rebels are not many, fifty, perhaps sixty, but they are sharpened by survival, bound by loss. Each carries scars, and each carries fury.
Lucian studies the maps each night by firelight, drawing lines, marking paths. His silence is heavier here, as if he feels the weight of every life around us pressing on his shoulders. Rourke finds easy company among the rebels, his curses turning to laughter as he drinks with them, his limp ignored when he arm-wrestles men twice his size. Abigail grows bolder, running with others, her laughter echoing through the trees. For the first time since I took her hand in the ruins, I see her smile.
And me? I sit by the fire, listening. I listen to their stories: villages burned, brothers hanged, daughters taken. Each tale etches itself into me like a brand. Each fuels the quiet storm that has grown inside me since Old Vienna. Declan’s lies may bind cities, but truth still lives here, carried in every scar, every word.
***
On the fourth night, Elira sits with us. Her eyes are sharp, her hands scarred from years of war. She studies Lucian for a long while before she speaks. “You carry yourself like one who has worn chains.”
Lucian does not flinch. “I have.”
Her gaze flicks to me, to the satchel by my side. “And yet you carry maps, knowledge the Crown would kill to reclaim. How?”
I tell her of Marta, of the pages smuggled from Old Vienna, of fire and blood and escape. Her face hardens as she listens, her jaw clenched. “Then you carry more than fire,” she says at last. “You carry the tinder for an army.”
Her words ripple through me. I have told myself that truth is my weapon, that words can cut chains. But when she saysarmy, I feel the weight of it settle on my shoulders. Army means blood. Army means graves. But perhaps it is the only way.
***
Days become weeks. We train with the rebels. Lucian teaches them how to fight with precision, how to strike not just hard but clean. I show them how to hide truth in story, how to spread words that slip past the Crown’s nets. Abigail learns to carry water, to gather kindling, her laughter weaving into the camp’s rhythm. Even Rourke, drunk more often than sober, sharpens into something steadier. For the first time, I feel less like a fugitive and more like part of something larger.
The river runs cold and fast tonight, its rush drowning out the camp’s murmurs. I’m alone, or so I think, scrubbing dirt from my arms in the shallows, my shirt discarded on the bank, my skin prickling in the night air. The water’s bite is a distraction, something to ground me against the chaos Lucian stirs in my blood. I splash my face, letting the cold shock me into focus, but then I hear it, a twig snapping, deliberate, close. My hand flies to my hatchet, resting on the rocks, but I already know who it is before I turn.
Lucian stands at the edge of the water, his silhouette massive against the moonlit trees. His shirt is gone, his chest broad and scarred, glistening with sweat from training. His eyes are fixed on me, unblinking, and the heat in them makes my stomach twist. I straighten, water dripping down my bare torso, my breasts exposed to the chill and his gaze. I don’t cover myself. I won’t give him that.
“Get out,” I snap, my voice sharp but unsteady. My heart’s already racing, betraying me. He doesn’t move, just steps closer,boots crunching on the gravel. His silence is worse than words; it’s a challenge, a claim. My fingers tighten on the hatchet, but I don’t lift it. Not yet.
“You don’t want me to,” he says, voice low, rough, like gravel dragged over iron. He’s right, and I hate him for it. My body’s awake now, heat pooling low in my belly, my nipples hardening under his stare. I want to spit at him, to drive my blade into the ground between us, but instead, I step out of the water, closing the distance. I’m daring him, same as always, pushing to see how far he’ll go.
He moves fast, faster than a man his size should. His hand grabs my wrist, wrenching the hatchet free, and it clatters against the rocks. I snarl, shoving against his chest, but it’s like pushing a mountain. He grips my other wrist, pinning both behind my back with one massive hand, his body crowding mine. His scent, sweat, leather, and something darker, fills my lungs, and I’m dizzy with it, with him.
“You think you can fight me?” he growls, his lips brushing my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. His free hand grips my jaw, forcing my eyes to his. They’re burning, all anger and want, and I feel it mirrored in me, a hunger that’s half rage, half need. I spit in his face, a last act of defiance, and his eyes darken, a feral edge to them that makes my cunt ache.
He doesn’t wipe the spit away. Instead, he crashes his mouth into mine, brutal, punishing. His tongue invades, claiming, and I bite him, tasting blood. He groans, a low, animal sound, and yanks me closer, his erection pressing hard against my stomach through his pants. I struggle, not because I want to escape, but because I need to feel his strength, need to know he’ll take what I won’t give freely.
“Fucking stop me,” he snarls, pulling back just enough to rip my pants down, the fabric tearing in his hands. I’m bare now, exposed, the cold air biting my skin, but his heat is a furnace, burning away everything else. He shoves me down onto the grassy bank, not gentle, and I land hard, my breath catching. He’s on me in an instant, kneeling between my thighs, his hands forcing them apart. I fight him, kicking, clawing, but it’s a game, and we both know it. My cunt’s dripping, betraying my defiance, and when his fingers find me, rough and unyielding, I can’t stop the moan that tears from my throat.
“So wet,” he mutters, his voice thick with lust.
His fingers thrust inside me, two, then three, stretching me, and I arch, half pain, half pleasure. He’s not gentle, and I don’t want him to be. I want the burn, the edge, the way he makes me feel alive and broken all at once. His thumb finds my clit, circling hard, and I’m shaking, already close, but I won’t let him have that yet. I grab his wrist, trying to pull him away, but he’s stronger, always stronger.
“You don’t get to decide,” he says, and his hand leaves my cunt to free his cock. It’s thick, heavy, the head slick with precum, and the sight of it makes my mouth water, even as I curse him. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t wait, just lines up and thrusts, burying himself in me with one brutal stroke. I scream, the sound swallowed by the river’s rush, my nails digging into his shoulders, drawing blood. He fucks me hard, each thrust a punishment, a claim, and I meet him, hips rolling, taking everything he gives and demanding more.
“Harder,” I gasp, my voice raw, and he obeys, his hands gripping my hips, lifting me to meet his brutal pace. The ground is cold and rough beneath me, but I don’t care. All I feel is him,filling me, breaking me, his cock hitting that spot inside that makes my vision blur. His hand slides up, wrapping around my throat, not choking, just holding, a reminder of his control. I hate it. I love it. I come undone, my orgasm crashing through me, my cunt clenching around him as I scream his name.
He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, just fucks me through it, his growls vibrating against my skin. When he comes, it’s with a roar, his cum hot and thick inside me, marking me in a way that feels permanent. He collapses over me, his weight crushing, grounding, and for a moment, his lips brush my temple, soft, almost tender. It’s gone as fast as it came, and he pulls out, leaving me empty, aching.
