Page 60 of Monstrosity
The sound he makes isn't quite human.
For a moment, I see the monster he keeps leashed, and even though it's not directed at me, it's terrifying.
"Dasha!" Two small bodies barrel into us—the girls, excited to see me back early.
"Careful," I manage, voice still rough. "Dasha's not feeling great."
"Are you sick?" Cali asks, then notices my neck. "You have owies!"
"Just a little accident," I lie, catching Rio's eye. "But I'm okay."
Starla appears as if summoned, taking in the scene with experienced eyes. "Girls, why don't we go make those cookies we talked about? Give Daddy and Dasha some grown-up time."
"But—" Florencia starts, looking between us with those too-wise eyes.
"Cookies, Florencia," Starla says firmly. "Chocolate chip. You can help measure."
The promise of cookies wins, and they follow Starla with only a few backward glances.
Once they're gone, Rio's control cracks.
"I'm going to kill him," he says, voice terrifyingly calm. "Slowly. Personally. I'm going to make Santos look like a paper cut compared to what I do to Bembe."
"Rio—"
"Hetouchedyou." His hands frame my face, thumbs ghosting over the bruises on my throat. "He put his fucking hands on you."
"But I'm okay?—"
"You're not okay!" The words explode out of him. "You're bruised, you're shaking, and you could have been—" He cuts himself off, pulling me against him again. "Fuck. Fuck."
"Hey." I wrap my arms around him, feeling him tremble with rage. "I'm here. I'm safe. Gorm protected us."
"Gorm's not in the doghouse for the first time in his fucking life," he mutters. "And you're never leaving this clubhouse again without me."
"That's not realistic?—"
"Fuck being realistic right now." He pulls back to look at me. "We need to get out of here. Now. Before I do something stupid like storm Bembe's compound alone."
"What?"
"Come on." He takes my hand, already moving. "We're going for a ride."
"Rio, I should check on Meghan and Tindra?—"
"Tor's with Meghan. Vail’s hanging out with Tindra. They're fine." He stops at our room just long enough to grab his jacket and my helmet. "You need air. I need to not commit murder in front of my children. We're going on a ride."
I follow him to the garage, still processing everything that happened.
My throat hurts, my hands won't stop shaking, and part of me wants to curl up in bed and cry.
But the other part—the part that's adapted to this life—knows Rio's right. We both need this.
He hands me my helmet, checking the strap himself before putting on his own.
The bike roars to life beneath us, and I wrap my arms around him, pressing close.
The vibration, the power, the solid warmth of him—it all combines to finally slow my racing heart.
