Page 4 of Mated to the Monster God

SAGAX

I do not breathe, but I inhale her.

Esme.

Even crouched in this hollow tree, dirt smeared on her face and her lips dry with exhaustion, she is the most exquisite thing I’ve ever encountered.

My senses are sharper now—richer, endless in their clarity.

I see colors that don’t exist in the human spectrum, shimmering auras around her skin where heat meets heartbeat.

I smell the tang of her sweat, her fear just fading, and beneath it. .. her desire.

She hides it poorly.

I do not blame her. I am not what I was.

I am no longer small, no longer weak, no longer clinging to survival.

I am born again—seven feet of coiled potential, encased in armor that pulses with life.

Muscles respond like living pistons. Joints glide like oiled machinery.

Each movement feels deliberate, powerful, as though gravity itself must negotiate my every step.

And for the first time in my existence, I stand tall .

My vision now has depth—shadows stretch in dimensions I could never process before. Trees are no longer vertical noise. They are sentinels. Pathways. Tools. Threats. The jungle is no longer incomprehensible chaos. It’s a tactical environment.

But none of it matters.

Not when she’s here.

I glance sideways at her, feigning casual observation.

She pretends not to notice. I can feel the twitch in her shoulders, the subtle intake of breath every time I shift.

She’s hyperaware of me—my mass, my scent, my proximity.

She doesn’t know what to do with me, and I savor the confusion in her pulse like a melody.

Her mind was once open to me—thoughts bright and frantic, bursting with color. Now it is a storm shuttered. She is cautious. Guarded.

But the bond is not broken.

And I feel her anyway.

Her skin sings where my fingers touched her cheek. That moment—small, soft—has marked us both. I could taste her heartbeat in that single contact. I know the rhythm now. I will never unhear it.

My hands... they’re strange to me. So large. So dexterous. I flex one slowly, watching the talons slide over one another with perfect control. These were not meant for brute force alone. No. These were forged to hold her, shield her. To touch her with reverence.

The form I chose is not random.

I combed through her memories, swam in her subconscious desires. She dreams of strength, of protectors cloaked in danger. Creatures that stand between her and the wild. I chose Vakutan features because she admired their myth—their honor, their loyalty, their... sensuality.

Yes. She thought of them often. And not just with awe.

I am built for her.

Every muscle, every scale, every whisper of heat along my skin is a reflection of her yearning.

Yet now that I am here, in this body, I am no longer content to echo her desires.

I want.

I ache .

This is new.

Protean instincts are simple: feed, grow, survive. But I— Sagax —I have evolved beyond that. I want to learn her. I want to feel her skin against mine without the barrier of urgency. I want to trace every scar, every freckle, and ask how it came to be.

I want her laughter. Her anger. Her trust.

And more than anything, I want her to choose me—not because she is afraid, not because she is grateful, but because some part of her soul recognizes that we are no longer separate beings.

I shift my weight and she looks up sharply, eyes wide and green as jungle leaves after rain.

“What are you thinking?” she asks, voice brittle.

“You,” I answer, without hesitation.

A blush blooms along her cheekbones. “You’re not subtle, you know.”

“I do not wish to be subtle.”

She rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch at the corners. “Well, that much is obvious.”

There is silence again. Not the awkward kind. The kind that stretches, ripe and electric, like lightning waiting for a place to land.

“Do you like it?” I ask. My voice is softer now. I touch my own chest, trail claws down the ridges of my abdomen, motion to the power coiled in my limbs. “The form I made. Is it... acceptable?”

Her gaze flickers down my body, then jerks back to my face so fast it might’ve given her whiplash. She opens her mouth, then shuts it. Tries again. “I mean... yeah. You’re, uh... terrifyingly hot.”

The pulse in her throat stutters.

“Terrifying,” I echo, tasting the word. “But hot.”

“Ugh, don’t repeat that like it’s a victory.”

“It is,” I say. “For me.”

She makes a sound—half laugh, half groan—and leans her head back against the inner wall of the tree.

“I don’t get it,” she mutters. “This morning you were a leech. Now you’re this... this alpha alien dreamboat with the voice of a war god and the eyes of a sunstorm.”

“You do not get it because it defies your linear understanding of evolution. I transcended.” I pause. “Because of you.”

Her head turns slowly.

“Because of me?”

“You risked yourself for me. You gave me a name. You offered me a purpose.”

“And you turned into a living fantasy?”

“I turned into a protector.”

She’s quiet a long time. Her breathing slows. I can feel it, the unspoken thing thrumming between us, deep and full of friction. Not just want. Recognition.

I lean closer, close enough that the heat of her body brushes mine. “Would you like me to step outside?”

She blinks, surprised. “What?”

“If my presence is overwhelming. I can remove myself until your nervous system recalibrates.”

She stares at me.

She laughs. A real one, short and bright.

“Gods, Sagax,” she says. “You’re the only guy I’ve ever met who offers to leave when he knows I’m too flustered to make eye contact.”

“I was not attempting to seduce you.”

“That’s what makes it worse.”

I lower my voice. “Do you want me to seduce you?”

She chokes on air.

I do not move. I do not press. I merely wait.

Her face is fire. Her thoughts are static.

But I know the answer.

I feel it in her bones.

The jungle is no longer merely terrain. It is enemy, ally, and test, all at once.

We move through its humid breath like whispers in a warzone, every step chosen with precision, every breath shallow and careful.

The canopy presses down from above, filtering sunlight through webs of emerald and gold.

Roots claw up from the earth in twisted spirals, seeking to trip us, entangle us, consume us if we’re not vigilant.

Esme walks with a stubborn fire, refusing to ask for help even when the terrain breaks her stride.

Her muscles tremble from exertion, her boots catch in the thick undergrowth, and I can feel the burn of fatigue in her thighs and calves like it’s my own.

Her pride refuses to bend, even as her body screams for reprieve.

I offer no words. Not yet. Instead, I wait for the moment when her weight shifts just a little too far, when her breath hiccups with exhaustion, when her knees falter.

Then I reach for her, gently but decisively, sweeping her into my arms before she has the chance to protest with more than a sharp inhale and a glare that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I can walk,” she mutters, but her head lolls against my shoulder seconds later.

“I know,” I say, keeping my voice quiet. “But I can carry.”

She doesn’t answer this time.

I hold her with the same care I imagine ancient warriors once held relics of their gods.

Her warmth seeps into me, her scent swirling with soil, sweat, and that delicate floral trace that lingers behind her ears.

Her heartbeat thuds against my chest in a rhythm that’s become more familiar than my own.

As we move, the jungle shifts again. A Baragon patrol slides through the distance like a blade through flesh.

I crouch behind a curtain of hanging moss, stilling my breath, body shielding hers.

Their mirrored helmets flash like lightning between the trees, their movements mathematically efficient, each step calculated, soulless.

Esme stiffens in my arms. Her fingers clutch my bicep, nails biting into scaled flesh.

I lower us slowly, curling around her beneath the foliage, silent as the graves these soldiers leave in their wake.

Her breath fans against my throat, quick and hot, but she doesn’t make a sound.

I feel pride swell in my chest—an unfamiliar, pleasurable ache.

She is afraid, but she is also brave. Always.

The patrol passes.

We remain still long after their steps fade, just to be certain.

When the silence becomes too heavy, she speaks.

“So... you remember everything I remember?” Her voice is soft, curious. “Even... personal stuff?”

I nod. “Not as clearly as you do. It is fragmented. Prioritized based on emotional weight, sensory strength, and repetition. But yes. I know your thoughts.”

She winces. “So you know about—oh no.”

I tilt my head. “About what?”

Her cheeks redden, and she shakes her head. “Nope. Not talking about it.”

“Then I will not press,” I say, though her discomfort draws my curiosity closer than I’d like to admit.

A beat passes before she sighs, louder than necessary. “Fine. It’s probably already in your brain anyway. I had this stupid crush on Harwin Jax when I was fifteen. There. It was a phase.”

I pause mid-step, confused by the sharp twist in my chest. Harwin. From her memories, I know his face—too-perfect features, smirking lips, hands that lingered longer than they should have. He was taller than most boys in the colony. Confident. Cocky.

Esme never told him how she felt. But she thought about it. Often.

Something ugly coils inside me.

“Why him?” I ask before I can stop myself.

She raises an eyebrow. “Why not him?”

My jaw tightens. “He was... arrogant. Disrespectful. He once asked Tara if her med scanner could tell how many men she’d kissed. He’s unworthy.”

Esme blinks. “You sound jealous.”

I freeze.