Page 5 of Mated to the Monster God

The word lands with a weight I didn’t anticipate.

Jealousy. It tastes bitter in my mouth. I know the term from her memories, but experiencing it.

.. this is different. This is raw and irrational and hot behind my ribs.

I do not want her to think of Harwin Jax.

I do not want her to remember anyone’s hands on her but mine.

The thought of her blushing for someone else makes my vision narrow.

“I am... unfamiliar with this emotion,” I admit, slower than usual. “But it is unpleasant.”

“Yeah,” she says dryly, “welcome to the club.”

I continue walking, now more aware of the silence between us.

She glances at me from time to time, thinking I won’t notice.

But I feel the tension in her limbs every time her eyes land on my chest, the way her breath hiccups when I adjust my grip.

She watches the curve of my jaw when I speak, traces the lines of my shoulders with stolen glances.

She doesn’t think I see.

She’s wrong.

I say nothing, letting her believe she has her secrets.

She shifts again, nestling closer without realizing. Her thigh brushes mine. The contact lingers. I breathe deeper, just once, letting her scent anchor me.

“You always this warm?” she murmurs, voice sleepy.

“Yes,” I say. “It is a biological result of my energy expenditure. My core regulates metabolic transformation with an internal bioplasmic furnace.”

She snorts. “You’re a space heater.”

“I prefer ‘living weapon.’”

She laughs. It’s the kind that crackles under her breath and warms the cold places in me. My chest tightens again, but not from jealousy this time.

We press forward. The sun arcs behind thick clouds, dyeing the world in copper and green. We’ll need shelter again soon. Somewhere she can sleep without fear. Somewhere I can sit beside her and guard her dreams like a sentry of scaled steel.

She yawns and rests her head on my shoulder.

This journey is dangerous. The Baragon are closing in. Every step could be our last.

I would walk this jungle a thousand times if it meant carrying her just like this.

The stone outcropping rises from the jungle floor like the shattered bones of some long-dead giant, jagged and veined with mineral seams that catch the moonlight just enough to see by.

It offers cover—dense enough to mask our heat signatures, stable enough to keep the elements at bay.

I check for residual energy signatures, for acidic mold or root predators, then beckon Esme toward the narrow crevice that forms a half-shelter near the base.

She slumps down with a relieved groan, resting her head against the cool rock and closing her eyes. Her lips are chapped, her breathing labored, but her spirit doesn’t dim. If anything, it hardens under pressure, like carbon into diamond.

I crouch beside her, careful not to brush her skin as I scan the perimeter again.

My body hums with residual adrenaline, senses stretched like a bowstring, but the moment I glance back at her —legs pulled up, one hand buried in her blonde tangle of hair—I feel something far more dangerous than fear.

Longing.

She is not built for this place. The jungle devours the unprepared.

But she moves through it like she was forged for it anyway—reckless and radiant and maddeningly alive.

I want to protect her. That is expected, logical.

But there is something more, now. Some twisted fire licking at the corners of my reason.

I don’t just want her to survive. I want her to be mine.

Her eyelids crack open, green eyes catching the starlight. “You’re staring.”

“You’re beautiful,” I answer without flinching.

She snorts, rubbing a leaf out of her hair. “Yeah, I’m a real vision. Covered in dirt, bleeding from one knee, and smelling like death beetle musk.”

I inhale, slow and deliberate. “You smell like survival. Like defiance. Your pheromones are changing.”

She freezes. “Excuse me?”

I shift closer, leaning one elbow on my raised knee. “Your body is adapting to stress. Hormonal fluctuations. Desire suppressed by adrenaline. Your scent changes with every emotional spike. I find it... compelling.”

She gives me a look that’s equal parts flustered and wary. “That’s not weird at all.”

I smile, my version of one, at least. It still unnerves her. My teeth are sharper now.

“I’m just saying,” I continue, voice quieter, “if you ever decide you’re curious... about what mating with a post-protean humanoid hybrid feels like...”

Her eyes go wide.

“I’m not propositioning,” I clarify, raising both hands. “I’m observing your biological responses. Cataloguing potential compatibility. Strictly theoretical.”

“Right,” she says, standing abruptly. “Well, this just got weird. I’m going to set up the fire starter... over there.”

She points at the farthest shadow and walks toward it, muttering under her breath.

I listen to her thoughts hum and hiss beneath her practiced calm. She’s rattled, not just by what I said—but by how much she didn’t hate hearing it. Her attraction is coiled tight beneath layers of logic and self-reproach. She fears what it would mean to want someone like me. Something like me.

I hadn’t intended to unsettle her.

Only to test the boundary.

Still... I feel her. Even from here, across the stone cavern. Her tension. Her conflict. Her curiosity.

I lower myself onto the stone, my body adjusting instinctively to support her safety perimeter. I tune my senses outward—listening for Baragon patrols, for the quiet click of insectoid scouts or the shrill pitch of aerial drones. But every few seconds, my thoughts drift back to her.

Esme.

I study the curve of her back as she works, her fingers coaxing flame from the fire-start disc in her pack.

Her movements are precise, practiced, and yet every flicker of hesitation reveals how tired she truly is.

Her shoulders slump when she thinks I’m not watching.

Her sighs deepen. Her hands tremble for just a moment before she clenches them into fists.

I want to reach out. Just to touch her shoulder. To say, You are not alone.

But I don’t.

Instead, I say, “I will not push you. On anything.”

She glances over her shoulder, eyes guarded. “Thanks.”

“I mean it. If you wish to keep your distance, I will respect it. But I cannot change what I feel.”

Her jaw tightens. “What do you feel?”

The answer is immediate. “Drawn. Anchored. Protective. Possessive.”

“That last one doesn’t sound super healthy,” she mutters, but her voice has lost its edge.

“I do not claim your will,” I say, “but I will destroy anything that tries to harm you.”

She turns, silhouetted by the tiny flames she’s coaxed into life. “You mean that, don’t you?”

I meet her gaze, letting the bond between us pulse with sincerity. “With everything I am.”

Her silence stretches, heavy and full of unspoken thoughts. Then she exhales slowly and sinks down beside the fire, curling her arms around her knees.

“Okay,” she says. “But you sleep on that side of the rock.”

“Understood.”

She smiles, and this one is small but real.

I let the silence settle, let the fire crackle and throw shadows on the stone. Her scent is softer now. Not arousal. Not fear. Something else.

Trust.

She lays her head on her pack and shifts onto her side, facing the flame. Her eyes flicker closed.

I do not sleep, not in the human sense. But I lower myself to the stone and allow my systems to enter a semi-restful state. My mind remains active—cataloguing stimuli, mapping escape routes, calculating probabilities of attack.

But most of my attention stays on her.

I watch her breathe. Listen to the fragile, steady rhythm of her heart. Her lashes flutter once, and her lips part in a soft murmur I can’t decipher.

She dreams.

And I ache.

Not just for her safety or even for her touch. But for her presence . I crave it like oxygen, like heat in the cold. I want her to wake up and smile at me. I want her to look at me the way she did when she called me beautiful—disbelieving, surprised, but open .

And I want to be worthy of that look.