Page 13 of Mated to the Monster God

SAGAX

M y chest tightens like steel wire each time I watch Esme from a distance.

I follow her through the clearing, masked by shifting shadows, rooted to the ground yet tethered to her movement.

She’s checking on her family—Tara smoothing bandages, Blondie arranging plant samples, Jimmy tinkering with damp wires.

Every one of them matters, but none more than her.

A coil of jealousy knots beneath my ribs—jealousy of those who get to joke with her, touch her, rely on her without the wild current that hums between us. It's not envy, exactly. It’s protective, possessive. The human emotion tastes sharp in my throat—fear intertwined with pride.

She moves, hand brushing a frond of feverbloom, and I edge closer, every sense attuned to the way tension loosens in her posture. The sun falls behind the treetops, draping gold over her hair. I want to fold into her shadow, not just stand behind her but be part of her world.

My skin itches with a familiar longing—itching for her nearness, for the warmth of her laugh, for the sacred intimacy we found.

The smell of cooling rain and moss is thick tonight, and I carry that scent like a promise.

But there’s something more—her scent. Still sweet and strong, even from a small distance.

I grip a broken shard of bark, letting its rough grain press into my palms. It grounds me better than the real weapon rattling inside my bones: longing.

“Esme!” Her mother’s voice calls out.

I spring forward unbidden, toe barely touching control. She turns at the sound, concern pulling across her face. I almost break. The moment trembles between us.

“Everything okay?” I ask, stepping into the clearing.

Tara nods, relief flooding her expression. “Just a surprise storm last night. Most of the tents held, but we lost power to the med bay. We need spare panels.”

Esme exchanges a look with me. I flick my fingers toward my gear. The weight in my vest holds the extra patch kit.

“Let me help,” I say gently.

Her eyebrow quirks upward. “You? A protean alien?”

I offer a slow smile. “I’ve learned.

Tension snaps loose in her shoulders—and mine. She leads me to the workshop. As we walk, I sense the swirl of her thoughts: gratitude, disbelief, comfort—and beneath it, that wild thread of desire we've woven. She doesn’t chase it. But it’s there.

We don’t break stride when Jimmy grins from under tangled wires. Blondie offers Esme a nervous smile when she sees me. In those gestures, I taste the quiet acceptance building around us—she’s a part of their lives now, just like I am.

Something shifts inside me: pride, yes—but deeper than pride. Resolve. I may be made of fragments, but with her, I’m cohesive. Even when jealousy tugs. Especially when?

She laughs softly at Morty’s hardware joke. The sound is bright as sun on steel. My skin flushes. I tense, afraid I’ll shatter something fragile between us.

She catches me watching. Her eyes meet mine—calm, warm, mischievous. No fear. No distance. Only her.

Whatever human emotions have tangled inside me, they’re anchored by that moment.

I step forward—no longer looming behind, but beside her.

Her presence quiets the ache. Her hand brushes mine as we turn a corner into the dim light of a cracked lamp.

I draw a deep breath—a promise.

The night air hums with tension. The jungle presses in around us, dark and ripe with danger.

Esme’s steps beside me are steady but cautious—I can feel the tremor in her voice when she spoke earlier about needing more defenses.

I nod, matching her stride, sensory systems tuned to every whisper, every flicker in the brush.

We round a bend and I smell them before I see them—Baragon patrol scent, cold and clinical, metal grinding on flesh, danger masked as calm. Three soldiers move in formation, light pooling off mirrored helmets. Esme stops.

“They’re close,” I murmur.

She nods, eyes searching mine. I give her the signal—cocked head, brief lean toward deep cover.

I step out first, silent.

I move like lightning through bone and shadow. My hand flexes, pulling forth the blade forged from my own bone—sharp, pale, impossible. The first soldier falls without noise. No ceremony. Just death.

The others whirl, rifles raised.

I don’t hesitate.

I hurl the bone-blade like a javelin. The gold-flecked muscles in my arm glow with momentum. It flies, grazes the second soldier in the leg, twisting as he runs. He doesn’t stop. I follow, claws tearing suit mid-sprint, throat exposed in panic.

He collapses, but another pushes back with shimmering armor.

I strike again—fisted, cruel, decisive. The third crumbles to dust in a crunch of dark metal and bone.

I stand alone among the silence. The forest exhales around me, soaked in night.

I return to Esme—blood-slick, triumphant.

She’s waiting just beyond the clearing, eyes wide and amber in the dim light.

I drop to my knees, breathing hard.

“Esme…” I start, voice raw.

She places a trembling hand on my chest.

“Why didn’t you?—”

She can’t finish. Fear—sharp and raw, not pity—fills her eyes. That look cuts me harder than any blade ever could.

I close my hand over the bone blade, blood dripping onto the forest floor.

“I protect you,” I say, voice low. “Always.”

She flinches, not recoiling but vulnerable in ways I’ve never seen before.

I wipe my blade on the moss, then meet her gaze.

“Esme,” I say again, trembling. “I will never stop.”

Her breath hits me—sour sweat, rain-damp earth, fear, love.

For a long moment, we just stand—blood and human fear binding us tighter than any fragment.

Then she wraps her arms around me, safe and fragile, and I realize saving her means holding not just our victories—but each other’s terrors.

The night is humid, velvet-dark, the glow of distant lights painting Esme’s silhouette in soft strokes.

She lies beside me, shoulders barely brushing, tension humming between us like a storm just held back.

I sense her pulling away—shivering not from cold but from the intensity of what happened, what could happen. She doesn’t touch me.

I lie still, half-afraid to move, to ruin the fragile boundary she’s drawn. My senses strain—her scent still lingers like jasmine and heat, but there’s a sharp note under it now: confusion, guardedness, a pulse of fear that coils around my heart.

I read her thoughts—not forcibly, but through that deepening bond. They’re fragmented: protector… predator… awe… terror… I taste the conflict in her blood, and all at once, my own heart twists with regret.

“Esme,” I whisper. My voice is half apology, half plea.

She doesn’t respond. Her eyes close. Moonlight dips across her cheekbone, tracing scars I’ve memorized. I want to wipe them away. I should have moved slower. Softer. I feel every thread of tension vibrate beneath us like live wire.

I curl around her, letting my body form a barrier she can lean on without having to ask. My scale-brushed arm wraps around her waist, thumb resting lightly against the curve of her side. She’s warm, trembling slightly.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur into the curve of her hair. My jaw tightens. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Her breath hitches. I close my eyes, breathing in her scent and that shifting current of thought—fear, yes, but also curiosity. It courses in me like a promise.

“I am trying,” I continue. “Trying to be what you need... even if it means holding back what I am.”

My voice is ragged. Layers of honesty tumble out: love, self-restraint, fear of losing her. The admission hangs in the air between us, thick and urgent.

Her fingers graze my arm. Feather-light. A response. A lifeline.

I press closer, chest dulling against her spine.

“I know you want time,” I whisper. “I’ll wait in silence, if you’ll let me.”

She shifts, and in that subtle breath, I feel trust returning. Not full confidence, but a fragile bridge forming.

I brush a stray curl from her face. Her lashes lift a fraction.

“I...” her voice is cracked, low. I hold my breath.

But she doesn’t push me away.

Instead, she settles further into my body.

I exhale quietly, relief and wonder flooding me. My fingers cradle her shoulder, careful, sacred.

The night presses in. Cicadas hum, leaves rustle, distant water weaves a lullaby. I hold her, silent, guarding. Protector and mate, tense and resolute.