Page 9 of Mated to the Monster God
SAGAX
T he jungle opens before us as if inhaling in deep anticipation.
A network of ravines yawns across Pwarra's terrain—jagged ridges slick with moss and mist. Esme moves confidently ahead, boots pounding the leaf-littered paths, scouting points for supply caches. Every step rediscovered sharpens the ache in my chest—pride, worry, something I’m still trying to name.
“I saw your path markers,” I say quietly, keeping pace. “Your tracking is improving.”
She shoots a dimpled grin over her shoulder. “Tracking? That would mean you’re following me , Sagax.” Her voice teases effortlessly, but there’s warmth beneath it—more than there was before. It settles inside me. I won’t let it burn out.
“Your wilderness training is strong now,” I reply. “You move like a native.”
We cross a narrow wooden bridge, cracks groaning under me.
Beneath, water churns—a ravine injects fresh breath into the jungle, raw and intoxicated.
The scent of wet wood, dragonfruit flowers broken open by dew, and the faint copper of distant rivers mix in the air.
I inhale and feel the ecosystem pulse through my lungs.
“It’s where I practice,” she says softly. “I used to explore ravines like this when I was bored waiting for school pods to upload.”
She balances effortlessly on the rail, scanning the trees. “Promise me you’ll still feed me, even if I become too competent.”
I can’t help but laugh low. “You’re already competent.”
Her posture shifts as the jungle hushes.
Shadows lengthen. We step into a clearing and find the hidden supply cache nestled beneath gnarly roots—a battered cache box half-buried, vines curling around its seams. Esme plucks it open, revealing ration packs, scrap electronics, and filtered water pouches.
A shared breath of relief flickers between us.
“We’re lucky,” I whisper. “This could sustain the colony for two days if need be.”
Her eyes shine. “Two days to buy time. Two days to fight.”
I reach for a ration bar, but the dry crunch stops the moment a twig snaps somewhere south.
Sagax’s instincts snap to attention. I pivot and press against Esme’s back, alert.
From the underbrush, a pair of Baragon soldiers emerge. Silhouettes of mirrored helmets throw angular reflections in the dying sun. Their gait is slow but lethal. No hesitation. No mercy.
Esme reaches for her pistol, but she stalls, breath caught. I slip between her and the patrol, claws humming.
“They’re too close,” I whisper.
When one of the Baragon raises a rifle, the world fractures into bone and adrenaline. Esme fires lumbar-shaking bursts. I launch myself forward, claws tearing through laminate plating and synthetic padding. Metal crumples. Flesh yields.
I feel her scream piercing the night. Not out of fear—but rage, urgency, survival.
We move as one. She crouches, reloads. I shift the fallen Baragon’s body into the dirt. Root and blood mix underfoot.
Emptied shells fall from her pistol. She pulls me down beside the cache box, panic and triumph intermingled in her breath.
“We have to keep moving,” she steers, fierce.
I nod and push her toward the supply box for quick rations and water. She gulps, jaw clenched.
I realize then—this unity is more than strategy. It is trust. It is bond.
I feel both that prickle of pride and the dull ache of terror—terrified of a world where I lose her.
But tonight, we survived because we are a unit.
The air tastes metallic, sharp with the iron of spilled blood and copper-hot adrenaline. Warm night mist coils between our forms in the narrow clearing by the supply cache. Esme’s breathing rattles against my skin. Every ragged intake tells me how close we came to losing everything.
My hands still glow with bio-energy as I gently press damp cloth against her wound—there, just above her collarbone. Her shirt is torn, dirt-smudged, forgotten during the fight. Blood beads up at the corner of her wound, dark and urgent.
“You don’t have to do this,” she says, voice cracked but defiant.
Silence. She inhales. I press harder, careful not to bruise the tissue further.
“I should be helping,” she protests. “But?—”
I whisper, watching the scar tissue knit under my touch, “You don’t need to fight this alone.” My fingers pound a rhythm that reshapes flesh and reminds me how fragile she still is.
She shivers. Her scent—smoky from sweat, sweet from fear—floods my nerves.
“Es?” I don’t dare ask more.
She swallows. Her eyes close. She leans against me, trusting too easily.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice husky. “For exposing you.”
Her fingers unglitch from tensed fists, nestling into my scaled skin. “I chose to stay.” She breathes out. “I chose you.”
I catch the soft tremor in her voice. My chest tightens like overwrought circuits.
I finish stitching; the wound seals. The faint glow in my palm dies. I press a palm against hers—brushed by pulse and warmth.
Our faces are inches apart.
Her breath is raspy, fractured by exertion, alarm, closeness.
I can hear her mind—threaded with exhaustion, exhilaration, trust. Desire? Her hunger for connection crackles in my skull like electricity.
I feel that hunger too. Raw and echoing.
I lean toward her, a silent motion driven by instinct and longing.
She breathes one word: “Sagax...”
Heat flares in my control systems. My jaw tenses. Lips brush hers.
I hesitate—not pulling back, but holding the space.
“Not unless you’re sure,” I say, voice gravel-thick with restraint.
Her eyes search mine. I wait. For agreement or denial. For resolution.
Sunlight from distant tunnels glints off her eyelashes. She doesn’t answer. Her silence is selection.
I stand, steadying both of us. The night hums in promise.
We remain—wounded but unbroken.
The supply cache is gone before we even glimpse it—stripped bare, its weathered wood cracked and splintered, contents vanished. I step into the hollow where it once hid, senses flaring with loss.
Esme’s response is feral. Her fist slams into the tree’s resin-laced trunk, and bark explodes in shards like flinching light. A guttural scream rips from her throat, rich with frustration, fear, betrayal. The forest shivers at the sound.
“Why?” she demands, voice cracking. “Why would anyone do this? After everything...”
I approach carefully, familiar with grief’s rigid spine. The scent of torn mulch and sap saturates the air. My hand rests on her sweat-slick shoulder. Her breath is jagged, pulse hammering through my fingertips like a war drum.
“This was someone else, not your fault,” I say, pressing closer.
Her back curves, and a tremor ripples through her. “Everything is falling apart out there.” Her voice is small now, crumbling.
I cradle her. Arms coil around bruised limbs and battered armor. My scales press against her—solid and calming. She leans in until her temple presses against my chest, where my heartbeat is steady, a sentinel.
The heat of her ear warms against my neck. Her hair smells like crushed wildflowers and burnt adrenaline. Her breath rasps at my collarbone.
“I should’ve seen it,” she whispers. “I should’ve secured it better.”
“You’re not invulnerable,” I say softly, mouth grazing her temple. “No one is.”
She lifts her face—eyes glossy in the moonlight, dusk dusting her cheeks. “It’s just... I’m trying so hard to keep us alive. And then this happens.”
I pull her closer. Her pulse is thunderous in my ears. A riot of warmth blossoms in my chest.
“I’m here,” I murmur into her hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her breath catches. Something deep shifts in her expression—resignation, release, trust.
“Thank you,” she breathes.
I cradle her cheek. She tilts her head, seeking my mouth, but the weight of night and survival and fear holds us still.
My scent melds with hers—garlic root, sweat, vision, hope.
She fights sleep. I feel her eyelids droop, pulse slowing like tidal pull.
“Not yet,” she breathes. “Stay.”
I nod. Her head settles fully against me, and I wrap both arms around her—and stay. I don’t close my eyes. I let her rest.
Her breathing smooths, her body eases into mine. She is so small in my arms, so real.
I stay awake, senses sharp—protective coals simmering under skin.
The world around us is broken, but this moment isn’t.
It’s real.