Page 38 of Monster's Pretty Bride

His gaze snaps to me.

“You’re slowing me down.”

I glare up at him, pressing a hand to my side where pain still throbs sharp and relentless. “Then leave me behind.”

He snarls, something dark flashing in his gaze. “No.”

He grabs my wrist, pulling me up before I can argue, before I can catch my breath, before I can even pretend I don’t need his help.

The other rogues are already recovering, regrouping. We won’t survive another fight.

"We need to keep moving," I force out, voice strained. "You’re already bleeding too much."

Naranus doesn’t respond, his grip firm, unyielding as he drags me forward, pushing through the winding terrain.

We stumble over loose stone, down narrow paths that lead further from the stronghold, further into unfamiliar land. The rogues don’t chase immediately. They know he’s wounded. They know he can’t fly.

They’re waiting us out.

Hunting us slowly.

We are not safe.

We are not even close.

After what feels like hours, Naranus finally stops, his body heaving with exhaustion, his hand braced against the rock wall for support. His wings hang limply behind him, blood still dripping from the wounds carved into his back.

I inhale deeply, trying to steady my own breath, trying not to think about how much worse this could have gone.

"We need to stop the bleeding," I say, stepping toward him, reaching for his arm.

He snaps his head toward me, his gaze fierce, warning.

"I don’t need your help."

I scoff. "That’s not what your body says."

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t stop me when I grab the tattered remains of his tunic and rip a strip of fabric free, pressing it against the wound at his ribs. He flinches, muscles tensing beneath my touch, but he lets me.

That unsettles me.

He is a warlord, a monster, someone who does not accept aid. Yet he stands here and allows my hands on him, allows me to patch him up like he is something fragile.

Like he trusts me.

I focus on wrapping the wound, my fingers careful, but the silence between us twists into something I can’t name.

When I finally look up, his gaze is already locked onto mine. Molten. Intense. Studying me in a way that makes my stomach tighten.

I should speak.

Say something cutting.

Something cruel.

Instead, my mouth parts and nothing comes out.

His fingers brush against my wrist, only for a moment, only long enough to make my pulse trip violently.

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