Page 15 of Mated to the Monster God

SAGAX

I sense the shift before anyone sees it—the way the air thickens, a prelude like the jungle inhaling. It isn’t the wind or the humidity. It’s something unnatural slicing the sky. I spring into the treetops, muscles silent, tail wrapping like a vine as I climb.

The canopy parts to reveal it: a sleek luxury shuttle, shimmering like molten silver. It tears through the clouds and lands on the open burn-patch like a slash of light. Sweetwater's heart halts for a breath.

Below, the colonists crowd around the landing. Fear tangles with relief. Anxiety pulls at me. Instinct screams: danger.

Esme stands at the center, tense and poised. Her jaw is tight. Her fingers form anxious fists at her sides. I sense every pulse, every bead of sweat along her neck.

The shuttle’s hatch opens. A figure steps out—Krenshaw. The man in a body that’s more machine than flesh. His face is stretched like synthetic skin over metal bone, eyes fluttering with unnatural awareness. The skin moves—microexpressions swelling and receding, Frankenstein in a silver suit.

“Director Krenshaw,” a voice calls out below. Esme’s voice—steady, brave.

I slip lower on a branch, venom-cool eyes trained on Krenshaw's entrance. He glides forward, each step oozing arrogance. His metal joints make unreal swik-swik noises, echoing in the silent air.

“How gracious of you to welcome me,” he says, voice smooth as oil and colder than Galfridan ice.

Esme steps forward. “We didn’t invite you.”

He tilts his head, synthetic eyes flicking to her. “You did, implicitly—when you stayed. The Combine has interests here, Miss Cruise.”

A thorn twists in my gut at the way he says her name—as any excuse to speak to her. She flares her shoulders. “Our interests do not include being enslaved.”

His grin is brittle. “Your people lack resources. We offer protection. Work. Medigel enhancements. A place in the Combine’s future.”

Esme’s glare melts warmth from my scales. “We want none of it.”

He spreads his arms like he’s offering a gift. “Provoke me at your peril.”

Esme clenches her fists. I feel her fear seethe through the bond. A rippled wave of emotion: defiance woven with dread.

I shift, silent, ready to strike.

Krenshaw steps closer. “He’s a weapon, isn’t he?” he says, nodding toward me unseen in the trees. “Genetically novel. Telepathic. Dangerous.”

I step out—breaking canopy shadow for moonlight.

Every head turns.

Esme gasps. My feet flex on the branch, glow of fear and power thrumming through me.

“I am no weapon,” I say quietly, voice low and jagged with suppressed fury.

Krenshaw’s eyes narrow behind that skin-mask. “You confuse creature and possessive bond. Fascinating.”

Esme wraps her arm around my waist—half-fear, half shield.

I press my cheek to her hair, inhaling fragility and fire. She trembles there, and I burn with need to protect her.

Krenshaw tilts his head in approval. “You’re hers, aren’t you?”

“She’s mine,” I correct, claws pressing into bark.

The world tilts. I taste acidic promise in the air—steel and fear and hope.

Esme steps forward, chest shining with defiance. “If anyone is yours,” she says, pulling me beside her, “it’s us. Together.”

The colonists murmur approval. The air hums with tension.

Krenshaw smiles—half human, half predator. “Bold.”

Esme breathes in low. “We live or die on our terms.”

I ripple a growl low in my throat.

Krenshaw’s laugh grimmers than thunder. “So be it. You’ve been warned.”

He turns and steps back into the shuttle’s maw that shines and waits.

The doors seal. The engines hum. The ship lifts, birdlike, and vanishes into open sky.

The jungle exhales. Leaves stir. The bond between us crackles deeper—thicker than blood.

Esme turns to me, voice small, fierce: “They came for us.”

I draw her close and murmur: “Then we’ll show them who holds Sweetwater.”

Inside, I taste smoke, rain, and triumph.

Krenshaw’s voice drips over the settlement’s ragged boundaries like some poisoned lullaby.

He stands before the gathered colonists—Esme at the forefront—offering them “opportunities.” Jobs in his Helios Combine weapons factories, tiny shards of respite in exchange for shipping them off foreign. He brands it generosity.

I grip a root below, muscles taut. The metallic tang of his promise coats the air—cheap, corrupting.

Esme speaks up, voice firm. “We don’t want your slavery disguised as employment.”

He chuckles—artificial, with no warmth. “Call it what you will. You’ll love serving the Combine... once there’s nothing left to serve.”

I feel Esme bristle at that. Behind her jawline, her pulse flares. I want to tear the words from him—tear him down—but I steady myself. The bond flickers; I must be her strength, not her loss.

He shifts, pointing at Esme with a chilling precision that slices through the crowd and through my core. All pretense drops. It’s not leverage. It’s predation.

“You, Miss Cruise,” his mechanical grin widens. “I have special designs for you.”

A hush crashes into the crowd. His words wrap chains around hearts.

I taste acid. My claws extend—but they bite into bark, not flesh. I clench them, burning hunger to tear Krenshaw from reality.

But I breathe, tethered by Esme’s gasp, knuckles whitening as she stands her ground.

Tara’s voice rises, breaking the tension. “This is our home. And you’re not taking it.”

Krenshaw scoffs. “Until sunrise, then it’s mine.”

He turns. Clanks to the shuttle. Swiveling metal that remembers how to conquer. The engines whine. The ship lifts, wringing out fear from the bones of the colony.

Everything shakes. The future bends.

I descend from the treetops. Esme meets me with trembling resolve. Her hand slides into mine—not seeking comfort—but forming a silent vow.

Anger blooms in me with green intensity. Krenshaw wants her—not for union or companionship—but for ownership. For control. For something so monstrous it bled the breath from my lungs.

I press my thumb into Esme’s palm. She looks at me, wide-eyed. The fear in her eyes cuts deeper than any wound I’ve ever inflicted.

I lean into her; the bond crackles, fierce and protective.

“I will not let him hurt you,” I vow, voice low, avalanching with fury and love.

She closes her eyes against the roaring silence of the moment.

I don’t know how many lives I’d end to protect her. She doesn’t have to ask.

We turn together, the hive of the colony reshaped by fear and defiance. The night closes in, but inside me, a firestorm roars.

He wants her. I will fight to the end not to give her.

Rain drips through the broken canopy like cold needles, painting the earth in silver trembling lines.

The colony stands in the shallow clearing, tense and fractured—like a wound still raw.

I linger in the shadows just beyond Tara’s med tent, lean in like a predator made of pure instinct and protective purpose.

The memory of Krenshaw’s offer gnaws at me—cheap promises of survival in exchange for compliance, for surrender.

His low, oily voice offered what he called “opportunities”—gun factories, low pay, absolute control over every worker and their families.

Safe passage means shackles with one side clipped off.

I taste the metallic disgust in the air around him.

Esme snarled. Something fierce and beautiful caught in her voice as she declared, “We won’t bow.”

A tremor of pride hits me, sharp as blade steel. But pride is a soft thing. Beneath it, something darker coils: jealousy. A need to possess, not as an object to claim, but a soul to shield.

I step from the gloom, rain tracing rivulets across my scales. Esme turns. Her heart’s pulse—erratic, bright, defiance-bent—whirs against my rib. She doesn’t step back. She reaches for me, grasping my wet cloak.

Her hand is warm. My core hums.

I plant one hand on the earth, claws digging into damp moss. I taste the dark promise in the soil, the scent of wetwood and my anger mixing into blistering adrenaline.

“We cannot let him take this,” she says, half-whispering. Rain beads in her hair, on eyelashes, glints like enamel.

“No,” I agree. My voice is half growl, half vow. “And I will make sure he doesn’t.”

She meets my gaze, eyes wide, rain glistening on her lashes. “What are you planning?”

My mind runs a thousand possibilities—the wicked blade from my shoulder, the silent elimination of threat. I have fought more efficient battles than this. But on her face, I see the cost of taking vengeance too quickly.

“There’s a path,” I say, voice quiet but burning. “Not easy. Dangerous. But I can’t let him stake a claim on what is our home.”

Her fingertips drift up to my cheek—cool rain for hot fire. “I don’t want you losing yourself.”

“I’m already lost,” I murmur, leaning into her. The rain drips between us, washing away hesitation.

She shakes her head. “You’re powerful. And you’re mine.”

That tether squeezes my heart until I taste copper on my tongue.

I hear a voice behind me—Tara: “Sagax? Esme?”

I turn slowly. Tara, Blondie, and a few others cluster by the med tent, storm-worn and watchful.

I mask my rage behind calm. “We spoke,” I say. “We’ll resist—together.”

Tara nods, eyes steady. “We’ll stand.”

Esme finally untangles my cloak from her arm and stands tall, as solid as any fortress. “We’re not leaving.” Her voice cracks and holds both fire and fragility.

Krenshaw’s ship glints phantom-white in the distance. Sunrise and ultimatum press. But around us, I taste survival, and—most sacredly—I feel our bond deepening, tempered in shared defiance.

I take Esme’s hand, pressing it into my shoulder. The rain is distant now, a backdrop to the rhythm of our breathing and my calculated heartbeat.

“If he comes back…” I trail off.

She smiles, small, fierce. “He will.”

Every promise coils in my chest—vengeance, protection, hunger for something more than fear.

As the rain pelts harder, drumming on canvas, on leaves, on skin, I let my errant instincts settle into purpose instead of fury. The colony stands. I am here. She is beside me.

And I swear—no one will touch her but me.