Page 8 of The Monster's Daughter
“You always this chatty, or just saving your words for dramatic effect?” she calls, light but forced.
I grunt, low in my chest, and keep moving.
“Cool, love the strong silent type thing you’ve got going. Very mysterious. Bet you’re real popular at parties.”
The bond hums in my veins, alive, restless. I can feel her gaze pressing between my shoulder blades, silver lines along my scales warming as if responding. Every time she looks at me, it’slike the tether between us pulls tighter, heat and weight coiling in my ribs.
I want to believe it’s a trick. That the jalshagar’s fire is a cruel lie. That I can ignore it until it fades. But it doesn’t fade. It grows.
And when she called me a huge asshole earlier… it didn’t pierce like her words about my parents. It almost… settled in me. Like truth. Like the kind of insult you only throw at someone you see, not just fear. It felt—familiar.
I hate it.
I hate how much I don’t hate it.
We make camp in what used to be a transport hub, glass teeth biting up from the floor, steel beams groaning above. I sit against a cracked pillar, claws loose on my knees, and watch her through the gloom. She curls in on herself, jacket pulled tight, but her eyes flick toward me more often than she thinks.
When she drifts to sleep, I stay awake. My body doesn’t want rest—it wants vigilance, and something else I don’t name.
Her face softens when unconsciousness takes her. The sharpness dulls, sarcasm gone, leaving something… unguarded. Her lips part slightly, a soft sound escaping now and then. She mutters, half words that make no sense. “Don’t—no, wait—” A whimper. A twitch of her hand like she’s reaching for someone I’ll never know.
I clench my claws into the stone beside me, resisting the pull to reach out, to smooth the tension from her brow. Totouch.
Her apology plays again in my mind.Sorry.Green eyes like moss slick on stone, sharp even when softened, cutting through me like nothing else. And the spark when her skin brushed mine, the jolt that nearly staggered me—electric, undeniable.
Everything in me screams this is wrong. Impossible. A human. An IHC medic, sworn to the very machine that broke my life apart. My enemy.
And yet my body knows the truth my mind rejects.
She is mine.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
Morning drags itself over the ruins, pale light filtering through a collapsed ceiling. She stirs awake, blinking blearily, hair a wild halo of tangled red. She catches me staring.
“What,” she croaks, rubbing her eyes, “never seen bedhead before?”
I almost snarl. Almost tell her to shut up. But instead, I find myself asking the question that’s been gnawing at me. “The insignia.”
She frowns. “What?”
“On your jacket.” I point with one claw. The IHC sigil, faded but clear. “What does it mean?”
She blinks, then snorts. “Really? You drag me through rubble, tie me up, threaten to kill me, andnowyou want a lesson in military patches?”
“Answer,” I growl, sharper than I mean.
She sighs, leaning back. “Field medic. Non-combatant, technically. Under treaty, you’re not supposed to touch me. We’re neutral.”
A low laugh rumbles from me, bitter. “Treaties. Made by men who never bled in the streets they write about.”
“Yeah, well, tell that to the five hundred soldiers I patched up who’d be dead without medics.” Her eyes narrow. “You think I’m out here for medals? For the hell of it? I’m out here because I can save lives. Doesn’t matter which side.”
I stare at her. She holds my gaze, unflinching, even though her hands tremble in her lap.
I should remind her she’s still my captive. Should tell her neutrality means nothing to me. But the words die in my throat.
Something’s changed.
