Page 44 of The Monster's Daughter
“You feel like fire,” I rasp. “Like coming home.”
She cries out as I start to move, slow thrusts that build in depth and power. Her pussy grips me like a vice, every ridge of my cock dragging against her walls. The sound of our bodies meeting echoes against the rock.
“Don’t stop,” she moans. “Don’t ever stop.”
I kiss her again, rough and claiming. My claws dig into the moss beside her head, holding myself back from taking her too hard. But she claws at my back, urging me on.
“Harder,” she begs. “Please, Kage—fuck me harder.”
I give her what she wants.
I fuck her like I never stopped loving her. Like the years we lost were just the start of forever. Each thrust sends us spiraling, her cries getting louder, my growls deeper.
Her orgasm rips through her like lightning. She screams my name, her pussy milking my cock. I roar as I follow, spilling deep inside her, claiming her all over again.
We collapse together, trembling.
Her head rests on my chest, her fingers tracing lazy circles on my scales.
“I missed you,” she whispers.
“I never stopped waiting,” I reply.
And this time, I don’t let her go.
I fall asleep dreaming of a child with her green eyes and my silver-marked scales, laughter echoing in the distance.
When I wake, the bed is empty.
The air still smells of her—sweat, soap, that sharp citrus she always carried—but she’s gone. Work. Duty. Always running.
But I’m not alone.
Natalie is curled against me, tiny body pressed into my chest, her hair tickling my jaw. Her hand—so small, so fragile—rests on my scales.
She blinks up at me, half-asleep, and whispers, “Mr. K… do you like secrets?”
The words slip into me like a blade.
Her smile is wide, innocent. But something in her tone—something in her eyes—makes the world tilt.
And I know.
I don’t want to know.
But I do.
CHAPTER 27
BELLA
Ikeep telling myself it isn’t a date. Over and over, like a mantra I don’t believe.
But I’m standing in front of the mirror with eyeliner in one hand and a razor on the sink, and that makes me a liar. My legs haven’t seen a blade in weeks, my hair’s actually behaving for once, and I’m wearing the only shirt I own that doesn’t smell faintly of saltwater and antiseptic.
“Not a date,” I mutter again, smearing on a line of eyeliner so sharp it could stab somebody. Maybe him, if things go sideways.
Natalie’s asleep at a friend’s house. The apartment feels too quiet without her. Too vulnerable. Like I’m leaving a piece of myself behind. Maybe I am.
