Page 17 of The Monster's Daughter

I feel it rolling off him—hope. Raw, wild, unspoken hope. It hangs in the air like static, prickling at my skin.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

I swallow hard. My sarcasm fails me completely.

He pushes the door open, and the building groans like an old man straining to rise.

Inside, the air tastes stale, thick with dust. The floorboards creak under my boots. My eyes catch on details that don’t belong in a grave: dishes still on the table, a cracked bowl abandoned mid-meal. A chair pushed back like someone left in a hurry.

A photo lies face down in the dirt, the glass shattered. I crouch, brush it off. Two Grolgath stare back—silver eyes bright, frills neat. His mother smiling, his father’s hand firm on his son’s shoulder. Kage’s younger face caught in the middle, proud, awkward, alive.

My throat closes.

I glance around again, sharper this time. The door’s intact. No scorch marks near the walls. No blood soaking into the wood.

And outside—the hovercar’s gone.

I straighten slowly, heart thudding.

“Kage.” My voice comes soft, almost gentle. “Look. The car’s missing. No blast marks here. This doesn’t look like…” I stop, choosing words carefully. “It doesn’t look like they died here. They might have made it out.”

He doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t even look at me.

He just sinks to his knees, claws trembling as they brush the edge of a cracked chair. He touches it like it’s holy. Like the wood itself carries the last warmth of his family.

I stay back, arms wrapped tight around myself. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Crack a joke? Say nothing? Walk away?

But my chest aches in ways I don’t want to admit. I’m not supposed to care. I’m not supposed to feel relief at the thought his parents might be alive. He’s the enemy. He’s supposed to be a monster.

Yet the thought that he has hope again makes my breath come easier, like the mountain air just got lighter.

He lifts his head finally.

And when his eyes meet mine, they aren’t hard. Aren’t furious. Aren’t hollow.

They’re soft. Fragile.

The kind of softness that steals the words right out of me.

And just like that, the wall I’ve built brick by brick between us cracks a little more.

CHAPTER 12

KAGE

The house breathes around me.

Every board creaks like it remembers laughter, every corner smells faintly of spice and oil buried in the wood. My claws trail along the wall as I move, and the texture digs into me—splintered, dry, but still standing. Haunted, yes, but alive.

“Feels like walking through a ghost,” Bella mutters behind me, her boots scuffing the floor.

I don’t answer. She doesn’t understand. This place isn’t a ghost. It’s a pulse. Weak, flickering, but still there.

Room by room, I guide us through. The kitchen: pots scattered, but no scorch marks. The bedroom: bedclothes dragged halfway off the frame, like they left in a hurry. The air tastes stale, coated in dust and faint mold, but not death. That matters.

In the back, my claws brush against the old safe, hidden behind a warped panel. The latch clicks open under my grip. My heart stutters.