Page 89 of The Monster's Daughter
Some are predictable. Hate mail. Threats. Digital bile.
But others... surprise me.
One message reads: “I didn’t know. They said it was salvation. But I see her eyes. I see your daughter. And I can’t follow anymore.”
Another: “My brother died in the Ascension Pit. They said it was necessary. You showed me it wasn’t.”
One by one, fragments break loose from the shattered cult identity. A few renounce publicly. Others go dark. Some even share locations, caches, survivor camps.
Kage reads the logs with narrowed eyes. “A handful out of hundreds,” he says. “Not a revolution.”
“No,” I agree. “But it’s something.”
Even with the responses, I don’t stop preparing.
I reinforce the home’s perimeter grid. Install directional EMP bursts in the front hedges. Upgrade the turret drone nest on the rooftop. Natalie thinks it’s all a game—calls it “House Fortress Ultra Extreme.” She makes us all badges. Mine says COMMANDER MOM in glitter paint.
Kage catches me calibrating a plasma turret late one night.
He leans in the doorway, arms crossed. “You know, most people unwind with tea. Maybe a book.”
I glance over my shoulder. “Turrets are cheaper than therapy.”
He chuckles low in his throat, then strolls over, hands brushing against the frame as he surveys my work.
“You’ve got the targeting cones dialed wrong,” he murmurs, tweaking a dial. “It’ll overshoot anything under 4'2”.”
“I was aiming to miss toddlers,” I deadpan.
He grins.
“Still think you’re not a soldier?” he asks, not unkindly.
I smirk. “Nah. I’m a mom. Way scarier.”
Later, we sit on the balcony, mugs steaming in our hands, watching the stars blink like ancient eyes.
Natalie is asleep inside, one of her wings curled protectively around a stuffed toy shaped like a turret. I can hear her little snores through the baby monitor. It’s a sound that steadies my breath.
Kage nudges me with his shoulder. “You scared?”
“Terrified,” I admit. “But not of them.”
He tilts his head.
“I’m scared of losing who I became,” I say. “Of going back to the woman who only knew how to fight.”
“You’re not her anymore,” he murmurs.
“No,” I whisper, leaning against him. “But part of her built this. And I think I need her now and then.”
He wraps an arm around me. “Then let her out. Just don’t forget to let her rest, too.”
And for once, I don’t feel like running. Not from war. Not from peace. Not even from myself.
CHAPTER 50
KAGE
