Page 9 of Married to the Manticore (The Monster Matrimony Files #1)
O ne week into our official cohabitation, and the desert homestead no longer felt foreign to me.
The thick adobe walls absorbed the day’s heat and released it slowly through the night, keeping the interior pleasantly warm despite the temperature drop that came with sunset.
I had come to love the way the light changed here—how it painted the clay walls gold at dawn, harsh white at noon, and deep orange at dusk.
So different from the perpetual gray-blue artificial lighting of the human quarter where I’d spent most of my life.
The kitchen filled with the rich scent of cinnamon and honey as I pulled another tray of flatbread from the stone oven. Sweat beaded along my hairline from the heat, but I didn’t mind. There was satisfaction in creating something with my hands, in seeing the dough transform under my care.
“You’re getting better at this,” Vuhr observed from where he stood grinding spices with a mortar and pestle, the muscles in his forearms flexing with each methodical movement. “The first batch was edible. This one might actually be good.”
I shot him a mock glare, then broke off a piece of the steaming bread and popped it into my mouth. The flavor burst across my tongue—sweet with honey, warm with cinnamon, and underneath, the nutty taste of the desert grain we’d harvested yesterday from the small field behind the house.
“It’s perfect,” I declared, tearing off another piece and holding it out to him. “Try it.”
Instead of taking it with his hands, Vuhr leaned down and captured the bread directly from my fingers with his mouth, his sharp teeth grazing my skin in a way that sent a pleasant shiver down my spine. His eyes, those mesmerizing amber pools, never left mine as he chewed thoughtfully.
“Perfect,” he agreed, the word carrying weight beyond simple culinary approval.
We worked in comfortable silence after that, moving around the kitchen in a dance we’d already perfected.
I kneaded more dough while he prepared a stew with desert hare and root vegetables.
Our hands occasionally brushed, his tail sometimes curled briefly around my ankle as he passed, small touches that grounded us to each other.
Later, as the stew simmered and the bread cooled, I stepped outside onto the flat roof terrace where I’d taken to practicing my strength exercises.
The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly, but my skin had already begun to tan rather than burn, adapting to this harsh new environment as readily as the rest of me had.
I moved through the series of postures Vuhr had taught me—stances designed to build core strength and balance.
My muscles, once soft from city living, had begun to define themselves.
My arms no longer trembled when holding the positions.
My lungs no longer burned with the effort of controlled breathing in the thin desert air.
Like the adobe walls of our home, I was changing—absorbing the harshness of this place and turning it into something sustaining.
From below, I heard Vuhr’s voice calling me to eat. I finished my sequence and made my way down the ladder from the roof, arriving in the kitchen just as he was ladling stew into carved wooden bowls.
“You were up there longer today,” he noted, setting my portion before me.
“I added ten more repetitions,” I said, unable to keep the pride from my voice. “And I barely felt it.”
His answering smile was small but genuine. “Soon you’ll be strong enough to spar with me.”
I laughed, the sound ringing freely through our home. “I don’t think human strength ever quite reaches Manticore levels, no matter how many exercises I do.”
“You’d be surprised,” he murmured, settling across from me. “Humans are remarkably adaptable.”
We ate in companionable silence, the stew rich and hearty, perfect with the flatbread. When I finished, I pushed my bowl away with a satisfied sigh.
“I’ve been thinking,” I began, feeling a flutter of nervousness despite our newfound ease with each other. “About the southern field. It gets good morning light, and the soil seems richer there. I thought perhaps we could plant some of those sweet tubers we tried at the market last week.”
Vuhr tilted his head, considering. “You’re planning for next season already?”
“Well, yes,” I said, then realized the implication of my words. I was thinking months ahead, assuming I would still be here, still be with him. “I mean, if that’s?—”
“I like it,” he interrupted, his tail swishing with what I now recognized as pleasure. “The southern field would be perfect for tubers. And perhaps the western corner for those blue flowers you admired. They’re drought-resistant and would add color.”
The tension in my shoulders released. “I’d like that. A garden just for beauty, not only for sustenance.”
“A home should have both,” Vuhr said simply.
As evening settled over the desert, we moved to the broad window seat that overlooked the expansive landscape.
The sun sank below the horizon in a spectacular display of crimson and gold, the sky darkening to reveal stars in quantities I’d never seen in the city.
Vuhr settled behind me, his massive frame curled protectively around mine, his wings folded but partially extended to create a cocoon of warmth.
I leaned back against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “I never thought I could love a place like this,” I admitted softly. “It’s so different from everything I’ve known.”
His tail coiled around my waist, a gentle pressure that felt like belonging. “And yet you thrive here,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “You were meant for more than city walls and artificial light.”
Later, as night fully claimed the desert, we retired to our sleeping chamber—a large room with a nest-like bed built into the floor, piled high with soft furs and cushions. I shed my day clothes and slipped beneath the covers, sighing as Vuhr joined me, his body radiating heat like a furnace.
He gathered me close, one wing extending to drape over us both like the finest blanket.
His tail, that fascinating appendage I had once feared and now cherished, wound possessively around my thigh.
I traced the smooth scales with my fingertips, marveling at how something so alien had become so familiar, so comforting.
“Are you happy here, Mira?” Vuhr asked, his voice a low rumble in the darkness.
I thought about the question, about how much had changed in such a short time. About how I no longer jumped at sudden movements or hoarded food as if each meal might be my last. About how my voice had grown stronger, my laughter more frequent, my opinions more freely given.
“Yes,” I answered, pressing a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. “I’m happy here. With you.”
His arms tightened around me, and I felt rather than heard his answering purr of satisfaction. As sleep claimed me, wrapped in fur and scales and the scent of cinnamon and wild things, I realized that I had found something I never expected when I signed that first cohabitation agreement.
I had found home.
When morning light spilled through the high windows of our chamber, I woke still entwined with Vuhr, his tail a possessive weight across my body. I watched dust motes dance in the golden beams, listening to the deep, even breathing of the Manticore beside me.
Once, I had been quiet. Careful. Always gauging risk against reward, always looking for the next threat. Living in the margins, speaking in whispers, hoping not to be noticed.
Now, I stretched luxuriously against Vuhr’s sleeping form, feeling the pleasant ache in muscles grown stronger, the confidence in a body that was learning its own power. I no longer whispered. I no longer hid.
In this sun-baked adobe home, with this fierce, gentle creature who had chosen me as I had chosen him, I had found my voice. And I intended to use it.