Page 37 of Monster's Pretty Bride

Too lost.

I don’t know how we’ll get back.

17

ERYSS

The air sits thick between the rocks, the stench of stone, blood, and something wretched coiling in the narrow space where Naranus and I press against the jagged walls. His wings twitch, fractured and useless, his molten eyes watching the shadows stretch, waiting for the rogues to either find us or move on.

They don’t move on.

Footsteps scrape against loose gravel, slow, calculating. Their leader’s voice cuts through the silence, sharp with arrogance. “You’re just delaying the inevitable, Alpha. You can’t fly, you’re bleeding out, and you’re trapped out here with a Purna bitch who’s more liability than weapon.”

Naranus’ fingers tighten into fists, claws flexing at his sides. He doesn’t react otherwise. Doesn’t even breathe too loud. I press my spine harder against the rock, eyes locked on him, waiting for some kind of plan.

I have no magic. No blade. No way to fight on my own. I’m as useless as they think I am, and I hate it.

The footsteps pause. Then the voice comes again, edged with amusement. “Maybe we let her go.”

My muscles lock.

“Maybe we give her back to her kind, see if they even want her.”

My heartbeat slams against my ribs.

“I hear the Purna don't tolerate failure," the rogue continues, letting the words roll lazily. “She was supposed to kill you, wasn’t she? She failed that. She’s failing now. She’s not even worth the effort of a clean kill. They probably want her dead, too because they sent her to you.”

Naranus' head tilts, slow and deliberate, like a beast preparing to strike. His voice rumbles low, barely above a whisper, but the threat within it is absolute. “You talk too much.”

He moves.

Faster than my mind or eyes can track, faster than the rogue expects.

The gargoyle barely has time to react before Naranus is on him, claws ripping through his gut, his other hand catching him by the throat, slamming him into the rock wall with a sickening crunch.

The rogue gurgles, choking on his own blood.

Naranus’ eyes gleam, cold and unrelenting, his wings trembling under their uselessness. “You think you can touch what’s mine?” His claws tighten, bone snapping beneath his grip. “You think you can speak about her in my presence?”

The rogue doesn’t answer.

He can’t.

Because Naranus tears out his throat.

Blood splatters across the stone, warm against my skin.

I swallow hard, my pulse thrumming, my mind trying to process the sheer brutality of it. I have seen death. I have caused death. But there is something about his way of killing, raw, instinctive, effortless—that rattles deep in my bones.

The other rogues react immediately.

I throw myself back as one lunges, claws swiping through empty space where my throat was just seconds before. Naranus catches him mid-attack, flipping his weight, his knee slamming into the rogue’s gut before he drives his elbow into the back of his skull.

Another one moves in, but I see it too late.

Pain explodes through my ribs, my body slamming into the rock wall, my lungs struggling for breath.

Naranus turns sharply, his face twisting into something beyond rage. He doesn’t hesitate. He rips the attacker away from me, slamming him to the ground, pinning him with one massive clawed foot.

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