Page 23 of Kael (Monsters & Mates #2)

CHAPTER

TEN

Varek had sensed something before Kael and I left in search of Iris. His woo-woo ways had tipped him off to the possibility of a bond forming, but when I confirmed that the mating ritual—or whatever the hell it’s called—had started, he’d been concerned.

He didn’t say why.

And now, nearly twenty-four hours later, his concern is becoming more obvious. Maybe because, after completing one of the three bond stages, I haven’t seen Kael since. Not once.

Not when I swung by the medical room before turning in for the night—only to be refused entry. Talk about a kick in the nuts.

Not when I woke up this morning, chest aching like a bruise I couldn’t press my fingers to.

Not even when I stomped my foot in the privacy of my quarters, fuming like some jilted lover.

Which, technically, I’m not, because nothing has been sealed.

But still. I feel it. The hollowness where Kael should be. The pull of the bond, frayed at the edges, stretching thinner and thinner the longer we stay apart. And yes, I know poor Dawson is gravely ill. I know Kael is loyal to Prince Aelith. I get it.

But what about me? What about the connection we started?

Kael had whispered sweet words when we were alone, when there were no distractions beyond our survival. But now? Now he’s back to being Aelith’s lapdog.

My fingers twitch at the thought, curling into a fist before I shake them out.

I need to move. To hit something. To do something before this frustration eats me alive.

Which is why I’m currently stalking towards the training grounds, hellbent on hacking at one of the mannequins—made of some weird material that won’t dull my blade, won’t splinter beneath my daggers.

Maybe it’ll make me feel better. Or maybe I just need to stop thinking about Kael for five damn minutes.

The training grounds are alive with movement, the air thick with the sounds of combat—grunts, shouts, the unmistakable clash of steel and other, stranger weapons.

The space itself is an open-air compound, cordoned off by towering stone slabs that serve as both a barrier and a tactical advantage.

Some fighters use them for cover, others for vertical manoeuvring, leaping unnaturally high with the help of enhanced limbs or their species’ abilities.

The ground beneath my boots is a mix of packed dirt and sections of smooth, reinforced alloy—areas designed for heavier combat that could shatter stone or kick up debris dangerous enough to blind.

To my right, a Xelthari swings twin crescent blades, their shimmering edges slicing through the air with whistle-sharp precision.

Their four arms make it an impossible dance to track, each limb a blur as they carve patterns in the air.

Their scaled skin shimmers with each movement, as if drawing power from their own exertion.

Nearby, another Riftborn tests a weapon that looks like a fusion of a staff and a long-range rifle, the energy core in its centre glowing faintly. He’s sparring with someone wielding an orbital whip—a segmented weapon that snakes around its target before snapping closed like a wild dog trap.

The scents here are familiar—sweat, dirt, the metallic tang of weapons being tested and recalibrated. But layered beneath is something distinctly other—the faint crackle of energy in the air, an ozone-like sharpness that prickles against my skin.

I nod at a few rebels as I pass, exchanging brief greetings with some of the fighters I’ve trained with before. But there’s tension in the air beyond just the usual combat energy.

Taliah, a lean, dark-skinned female Frigthor with short silver-streaked hair, is wiping down the edge of her glaive when I reach her. She lifts a brow in greeting. “You hear?”

I pause, already reaching for my sword belt. “Hear what?”

She tilts her head towards a group gathered near one of the equipment stations. Their voices are low but urgent, shoulders tense.

“The Queen’s Guard hit one of our communication networks. Dismantled it.”

I exhale sharply, running a hand through my hair. That explains the frantic energy, the increased numbers here today. I glance at the others, catching snippets of conversation.

“—lost the relay completely?—”

“—no transmissions since last night?—”

“—Varek’s going to have to make a move?—”

My jaw tightens. That’s a direct hit against us. We rely on those networks to track movements, keep our supply lines steady, and maintain any kind of upper hand. And if the Queen’s Guard is actively tearing them down, they’re gearing up for something.

Which is why Varek wants Aelith on our side so badly.

I file the information away and roll my shoulders, refocussing on why I came here.

I head towards the training dummies—life-sized constructs made of reinforced fibres and adaptive plating, designed to withstand relentless strikes without falling apart. The one I choose is humanoid-shaped, lined with impact sensors that flash when a strike lands.

I grip my dagger, flipping it once before shifting into stance.

Breathe in.

Move.

My first strike is quick, my dagger slashing across the dummy’s midsection before I twist into a second strike, aiming higher, slicing upwards in a brutal arc. The clang of metal against reinforced plating echoes in my ears, and I feel the vibration through my arm.

My footwork is precise, honed from hours of practice.

I move fast, light on my feet, slipping into the close-quarters combat that suits my smaller frame.

I may be shorter and leaner than most here, but my muscles are defined, built for speed and efficiency.

Where others rely on brute force, I focus on technique—slipping past defences, striking in quick, and what I hope are devastating, bursts.

Heat builds in my limbs, sweat slicking my skin as I lose myself in the rhythm of the fight.

Jab. Slice. Pivot.

A feint, followed by a deep slash—my dagger catching the dummy’s “neck” in a brutal finishing move.

I exhale, stretching my arms and neck, before reaching for the hem of my shirt and pulling it over my head.

The cool air hits my skin, but it does little to chase away the heat burning beneath.

I toss my shirt onto a nearby bench, stretching briefly before resetting my stance—only to hear a sharp snort of laughter behind me.

“Should’ve known the royal guard had a type.”

I still, my grip tightening on my dagger before I turn.

Zeyv.

Of course it’s Zeyv.

His species—something between reptilian and humanoid—gives him an unsettling, scaled appearance. His elongated pupils gleam in the midday light, forked tongue flicking briefly as he smirks.

I don’t bother to hide my irritation. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

His grin widens, showing serrated teeth. “Small. Pretty. Obedient.”

A few of the others nearby pause in their training, sensing the tension.

I arch a brow. “You clearly don’t know shit about me if you think obedient is anywhere on the list.”

Zeyv shrugs his thick shoulders. “Not what I heard. Word is, you’ve been getting real cosy with the prince’s pet.”

Gossip travels fast. Too fast. And it’s clear that despite Varek’s efforts to keep the prince’s presence quiet, the community knows.

I exhale sharply, forcing my stance to stay relaxed. If I react too quickly, I lose.

Zeyv circles me slowly, watching. “Didn’t think a Riftborn would be so quick to roll over and become some royal lapdog.”

And fuck if I didn’t think the same thing earlier about Kael. Ouch . Talk about having my words thrown back in my face. My blood boils, but I keep my face blank. Because I know exactly what Zeyv is trying to do.

And fuck him. I’m not giving him the satisfaction.

The tension thickens like a brewing storm, the air practically vibrating with it.

Around us, a few more fighters pause in their training, turning just enough to catch the exchange without making it obvious they’re paying attention.

Some pretend to stretch, others busy themselves with adjusting weapons, but I see the sideways glances, the subtle shifts of weight.

Zeyv circles me like a predator sizing up prey, but I don’t move, just watch him with a bored expression. I’ve dealt with enough arrogant pricks to know exactly how to handle one.

“Roll over?” I repeat, tilting my head slightly. “Interesting choice of words. You spend a lot of time imagining me on my back, Zeyv?”

The low murmur of interest from our audience is immediate. A few let out short, surprised huffs—half amusement, half intrigue.

Zeyv’s smirk twists, his forked tongue flicking briefly.

His species—whatever the hell it actually is—doesn’t blush per se, but the darkening of his scales at his throat makes it clear my words landed.

“I wouldn’t touch you if I was starving and you were the last scrap of meat left in a dying dimension,” he sneers.

I place a hand over my chest in mock devastation.

“You wound me.” Then I glance at his stance, the way his muscles coil, the irritation leaking through his usually cocky posture.

“Wait—you are starving, aren’t you?” I add, my tone dripping with false realisation.

“For attention, I mean. And what, you thought I’d be an easy target? You really don’t know me at all.”

His pupils slit further, his tail flicking behind him in agitation.

Yeah, I hit a nerve.

“I know you,” he snaps, stepping closer. “Varek’s little project. The runt he scooped up and decided to play favourites with.”

Ah. There it is.

I cross my arms over my chest, tapping a finger against my bicep. “Ohhh, this is about Varek. You’re still salty he didn’t take you under his wing?”

“I don’t need anyone to carry me,” Zeyv growls.

I hum. “Right. Because you’re a big, strong, independent lizard-man who definitely isn’t still crying over the fact that Varek didn’t see whatever potential you think you have.”