Page 8 of Mated to the Monster God

ESME

I lead Sagax through the makeshift tent lit by dangling energy globes that hum with bluish light.

The air smells of antiseptic and sweat—Blondie’s feverblooms mixed with disinfectant.

Inside, the colony’s nerve center thrums with urgency.

Charts and ration schedules are pinned with desperation to the walls.

Med supplies pass through hands that are both steady and shaking.

“Most people assume we left when the Alliance shut down our IHC aid line,” I explain, gesturing to a half-full bin of medigel cartridges.

“Standard evacuation procedure, evacuation ships, you know the protocol. But our colony—Sweetwater—chose to stay. Parents. Scientists. Builders. We just... refused.”

Sagax listens, head tilted. His iridescent eyes absorb every detail—my words, the medical supplies, the expression flickering on my face.

“Why?” he asks, voice gentle. He genuinely wants to know.

I rest a finger on the edge of a ration chart.

Our supply shipments have dwindled, and each day’s forecast is tighter than the last. “Because we built this world ourselves. We came when I was seven. Pristine land, alien flora. We wrestled it, wrangled it, made gardens out of it. My parents—Mom’s an exobiologist, Dad’s a zoologist—they believed in adaptation.

In endurance.” My voice catches. “This is our proof that humanity can thrive where no one else would try.”

Sagax’s hand flexes, shifting the darkness into a ripple. “And your people stayed, even though they knew no help was coming?”

I nod. “We knew the Alliance made us neutral. That meant no military defense if the Coalition invaded. No aid drops.” My gaze finds the hologram flickering overhead, mapping enemy ship movements.

Each blip a threat. “We stayed because this is home. And because if we run now, we lose more than land. We lose trust. We lose purpose. We lose soul.”

Sagax steps closer, his presence pulsing warmth in the cold glow. “You feel trapped.”

My breath hitches. I hadn’t meant to say it out loud. But there it is, laid bare.

He watches me, curious, unafraid. Which is what draws me in.

“I do,” I confess, pulling my hair into my fist. “I’ve spent too many nights dreaming of distant cities, free skies—not stuck on red-dust agricultural flats. But I also can’t leave—my people depend on me. Morty, Jimmy, Tara and Rick... I’m the glue holding them together.”

Sagax tilts his head, processing. “You’re torn.”

“I am,” I whisper, voice brittle. “Duty says stay. Heart says run. And I don’t know if there’s room for both.”

He doesn’t move, but the energy around him shifts. The lavender light from the globe catches the edge of his face, outlining strength, scars, and something softer behind his eyes.

After a long beat, he says, “Then I will be your wings.”

The phrase lodges in my chest—impossible, monstrous, beautiful. I stare at him, breathing slow.

He means it.

He means more than just flight.

The dawn light is shaky, like it's still half-asleep. It filters through cracked windows across Sweetwater’s courtyard, where soldiers and scavengers alike grab tools and weapons at the first hint of danger.

Sagax and I move through the scattered shadows—his size fitful, yet quiet, like he’s part of the air now.

We’re heading toward Rick’s workshop, intent on reinforcing the solar array, when a sharp voice fractures the morning peace.

"Esme! What in the trident alliance is that?"

The words drop like bombs. My heart lurches. The flashlight beam pins Sagax against the wall, revealing his form in stark relief. He stands still, contours shifting softly under his adaptive skin. But the beam shines long enough.

“Calvin,” I hiss. Calm, Esme. Don’t let him dart into saber mode first thing in the morning.

Calvin Wren, with too many stripes and zero vision for nuance, raises his pulse rifle with trembling hands. His morning breath smells of burnt synth-coffee and nerves.

Sagax takes a careful step forward. I feel the snap of his energy—resolute, barely held. His claws flex in his pockets.

“Step back, Cal,” I say, catching hard onto Sagax’s arm. “It’s not what you think.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “What is it, Esme? A Second Invader? A damn beacon?” His voice echoes off rusted vehicles.

“He saved me,” I say, stepping fully between them, defiance humming in my veins. “A predator attacked—Sagax dragged me out. He’s not the enemy.”

Calvin lowers his rifle subtly, wary. His eyes flick to Sagax’s chest, where the scales adapt, olive-green morphing into a shadowed pattern.

“Don’t pretend to know more than you do,” he snaps. “That thing doesn’t belong here, and you’re making my job harder. Stay away from it.”

I swallow. Fear tries to squeeze my throat. “He’s not a weapon. He was the only thing that saved us. I’ve seen what he can do.”

Calvin points the rifle again, fists tense at his sides. “You keep him close, Esme, and you’ll be exiled. You’ll lose your standing here.”

My chest bleeds ragged hope and anger. I square my shoulders. “He’s not just some thing to fight against. He’s real. He’s trying to help.”

Sagax remains silent, watching the exchange with those molten eyes.

Calvin shakes his head, voice lower but harsher. “I don’t want trouble.”

“Neither do I,” I say. “But I won’t let you chastise family.”

He glowers at me before turning on his heel, weapon clinking against his thigh as he storms away.

Quiet descends like dust.

I exhale so hard my lungs ache.

I turn. Sagax’s shoulder nearly grazes me.

“I’m sorry,” I say before I can betray my heart.

His breath is slow, measured. “You defended me.”

I swallow again, biting back my own ache. “Of course I did.”

He flicks his gaze down. Something fierce and tender settles in the curve of his jaw. “He’s not wrong.”

My breath catches. “You are not a threat.”

“Maybe I should be.”

My fingers brush his arm. “You’re my threat—my unpredictable, terrifying, saving kind of threat.”

He doesn’t say it, but I feel it. Pride. Something soft and potent underneath. I breathe again.

We settle near the old communications relay, its metal skeleton like a broken antenna tipped crooked toward the sky.

The night wraps around us in tight velvet; the air tastes faintly of solder and chipped circuitry.

I push a handful of dry leaves into the base of the relay to fashion a makeshift seat.

Sagax crouches beside me—massive but careful, like a mountain trying not to crush a flower.

“I lived in a pod once,” I begin. My voice is soft, surprised the jungle hears me. “Not this one—it was small, crowded, and smelled like recycled air and stale starch. But I was seven, and it felt like a world unto itself.”

Sagax tilts his head, eyes glowing gold. He’s so close I can see the fine ridges along his scales, feel the faint thrum of his breath across my shoulder.

“I had a toy bot,” I continue, half-laughing at the memory. “It was all lights and whistles. I used to talk to it like a real friend. One day I accidentally dropped it in a power conduit. It exploded into fireworks.”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink—just listens.

“I cried for days,” I admit, voice tightening. “But the next morning, everyone was singing in our corridor. Someone had rigged the strip lights to blink in time with music. So I drew a picture of that. Sent it to him—imaginary me to imaginary friend.”

I scoop at the handheld ration pack, shaking out a roasted root and passing it to Sagax.

He studies the food in confusion but takes it. He doesn’t ask what it is—he just lets the taste unfold on his tongue, eyes closing.

“You’ll get used to it,” I say with a quiet laugh. “Some of our plants smell like reproduction parts of insects. But once you stare at the bloom long enough, it’s like perfume.”

He nods, as if that makes sense.

I stretch out on the ground, shoulders resting on cool stone. My muscles still buzz from the day’s tension. Sagax shifts to lie beside me—sprawling in human shape for comfort, tail tucking under.

“I remember the first time I smelled rain as a kid,” I say, voice trailing softer. “Back home, rain was rare. When it came, I expected drowning—but the smell... petrichor? It made me whole for a second.”

Sagax doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to. His presence hums beside me like a steady instrument.

Memories bloom in my mind. Razor-leaf scratches, childhood laughter, blossom dust sticking to my fingers, Martian skies untouched by war.

A crease forms in my brow, and a whisper escapes me in the dark: “You feel like home.”

I open my eyes. Sagax is still awake, watching me—staring through every memory and back again. His chest shifts in slow breathing, eyes luminous in the black.

I drift toward sleep, curling closer.

Sagax doesn’t sleep. He stays wind and watch, heartbeat soft and constant at my back, holding me with something I’m only starting to recognize within him.

Something permanent.