Page 50 of The Monster You Made
“Get up,” he says, already tucking himself away, his voice cold again. I hate him for it, for the way he can shut it off. I pull my torn pants up, my body still trembling, and grab my hatchet. The river keeps rushing, indifferent, and I follow him back to camp, my skin burning with his touch.
***
It’s late, the camp asleep except for the sentries. I’m in the armory, the air thick with the scent of metal and leather. The rebellion’s growing, and so is the tension between us, between me and Lucian. He’s been distant since the river, his eyes avoiding mine, but I feel him watching when he thinks I’m not looking. It’s a game, a dangerous one, and I’m tired of waiting for him to make the next move.
The door creaks, and I know it’s him before I turn. He fills the doorway, his frame blocking the moonlight, his eyes dark and unreadable. “You shouldn’t be here alone,” he says, his voicelow, a warning wrapped in a threat. My pulse spikes, my body already waking at the sound of him.
“I can handle myself,” I shoot back, my hands steady despite the heat curling in my gut. He steps inside, closing the door, and the air shifts, heavy with intent. He’s not here to talk, and neither am I.
He’s on me in a heartbeat, his hands grabbing my hips, slamming me against the wall. The impact jars me, but I laugh, sharp and taunting, because I want this, want him to lose control. “What’s wrong, Lucian?” I hiss, my fingers digging into his chest. “Scared you can’t keep up?”
His eyes flash, and he kisses me, hard and possessive, his teeth scraping my lips. I bite back, and he growls, his hand fisting in my hair, yanking my head back. “You’re gonna regret that,” he says, and I feel his cock, hard and straining against me. I reach for it, palming him through his pants, and he hisses, his grip tightening.
“Make me,” I challenge, and it’s like flipping a switch. He spins me around, bending me over a crate, my hands braced against the rough wood. My pants are yanked down, the cold air hitting my skin, and I hear his belt clink, his zipper rasping. I’m already wet, aching, and when his fingers find my cunt, he laughs, low and cruel.
“Fucking soaked,” he says, and I hate how right he is.
His fingers thrust inside, rough, relentless, and I moan, pushing back against him. He pulls them out, and I feel the blunt head of his cock at my entrance. He doesn’t ease in, just slams into me, filling me so completely I gasp, my nails scrapingthe crate. He’s merciless, each thrust hard and deep, the crate creaking.
His other hand grips my throat, pulling me back against his chest, his cock still buried in me. He fucks me slower now, deliberate, each thrust dragging against my walls, making me shake. I’m close, so close, but he stops, holding still, and I whimper, hating myself for it.
“Say it,” his voice a low snarl, his fingers teasing my clit, keeping me on the edge. I fight it, fight him, but my body’s betraying me, trembling with need.
“I like it,” I gasp, and he rewards me with a hard thrust, his fingers working my clit until I’m screaming, my orgasm ripping through me, my cunt pulsing around him.
He doesn’t let up, fucking me through it, his grip on my throat tightening just enough to make my head spin. When he comes, it’s with a guttural groan, his cum spilling inside me, hot and claiming. He holds me there, still inside me, his breath ragged against my neck. For a moment, his lips brush my skin, soft, almost gentle, and my chest aches with something I can’t name.
Then he pulls out, stepping back, and the cold rushes in. “Clean yourself up,” he says, his voice flat, but his eyes linger, a flicker of something softer before he turns away. I fix my clothes, my body still humming. The armory feels smaller now, the air thick with what we’ve done. I slip out into the night, his touch still burning on my skin, knowing this isn’t over. It never is.
***
Scouts bring word of patrols pressing closer. Villages around the forest have been burned, their people scattered. Refugees stumble into camp, eyes hollow, hands empty. Among them, a boy no older than twelve carries his baby sister wrapped in rags. He sets her down by the fire, his face hard though his eyes glisten. “They killed everyone,” he whispers. “They said the rebels brought fire, so they would answer with ash.”
The camp falls silent. Even the fires seem to dim. Elira’s face is stone, but I see the tremor in her hands.
That night, I can’t sleep. I walk the perimeter of camp, the forest whispering around me. Lucian follows, his steps silent. He does not speak until we stand beneath the pines, away from the fire’s glow.
“They will come here,” he says. His voice is low, steady. “The Crown does not leave sparks alive.”
I wrap my cloak tighter, though the night is not cold. “Then what do we do? Run again? Leave these people to burn in our place?”
He looks at me, his eyes catching faint light. “No. We make our stand.”
The words cut me. I think of Abigail sleeping by the fire, of the boy with his baby sister, of the people who have already lost too much. A stand means graves. A stand means fire consuming all. Yet I know he is right. To run is to die slow. To stand is to choose the ground of our death, and perhaps the ground of our beginning.
***
Preparations begin at dawn. Trenches dug, barricades raised from logs and stone. Scouts sent farther, signaling with birdcalls when danger nears. The rebels sharpen their blades, mend their boots, whisper prayers to gods long silent. Children are hidden deeper in the woods, guarded by those too old or too wounded to fight.
Even Abigail protests when told she cannot stay by my side. Her eyes glisten, her voice sharp. “But I can help.”
I kneel, pressing her hands in mine. “You will help,” I whisper. “By surviving.”
***
The day the Crown comes, the forest trembles. Drums beat like thunder, horns echo through the trees. Gray-cloaked soldiers march in lines, rifles gleaming, banners snapping. I count dozens, then scores, then more than I can number. The forest floor shakes with their boots.
Elira’s voice cuts through the camp. “Steady! They bleed like we do. They burn like we do. Hold your ground.”
