To Marry A Monster (by Brey Mitchell) novel Chapter 222

Chapter 222

“What is going on? Celeste frowned the moment she saw the carnage that the Demonfangs caused.

Celeste shoved the servant away the moment she got her footing

The man stumbled back, hands lifted as if he had only been trying to shield her, but she did not care. Her eyes had already locked onto the field, onto the bodies scattered across the border like someone had thrown Nightfall pride into the dirt and stomped on it.

Wounded packmates sat hunched against trees and rocks, clutching form arms and sliced bellies. Some groaned. Some stared straight ahead with empty eyes, as if their minds had not caught up to what their bodies survived. Blood stained the ground in long streaks where men had been dragged out of the smoke before they choked on it

Celeste’s stomach tightened, not with grief, but with irritation.

This was not how it was supposed to look. She knew that Atasha had some secret soldier guarding her, why didn’t they come and help when the Demonfangs attacked?

The Demon Fangs were meant to bite, make a scene, then retreat in a way that made Nightfall look attacked and helpless, while Atasha looked valuable enough to be fought over. That part had happened. The chaos, the screaming, the panic, all of it had happened.

What did not make sense was the ending.

Celeste’s gaze snapped toward the trees, searching for movement, for more shadows, for the next wave.

There was nothing.

The smoke was thinning. The howls were gone. The Demon Fangs had vanished as if someone yanked them back by the

throat.

Why did they suddenly leave?

Celeste’s fingers curled into her palm as the thought flashed through her mind. Either they got what they wanted, or someone stronger than them forced them to retreat.

Her heart kicked once.

“Atasha,” she called, stepping forward through the churned ground. Her voice rose, sharper than she intended. “Sister!”

She turned toward Atasha’s carriage, expecting to see it torn open, expecting blood, expecting panic, expecting the north to be scrambling.

Instead, she saw Atasha outside the carriage.

Atasha was on her knees in the dirt, cloak spread beneath her like a dark stain, and Grace was in her arms.

For a second, Celeste only stared.

Grace’s face was pale beneath the grime. Her mouth opened as if she was trying to breathe properly, but instead she gagged and vomited blood onto the ground, so much that it splattered Aasha’s skirt. Her shoulders jerked with each harsh heave. Her hand gripped Atasha’s sleeve like it was the only thing holding her upright.

Celeste’s lips twitched.

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A smirk threatened to form, because the sight was almost too perfect. Grace, the shadow that refused to leave Atasha’s side. the northern leash that kept snapping at Nightfall’s hands, was ally bleeding where everyone could see it.

Then Celeste noticed the crowd.

Nightfall guards had staggered closer, drawn by instinct and cursity. Representatives from other packs were there too, faces tight with fear and interest, eyes greedy for proof. Even William had shifted nearer, trying to look like concern instead of calculation.

They were all watching.

Celeste swallowed the satisfaction and let her face settle into something more acceptable, something that could pass for alarm.

Atasha looked up briefly, then lowered Grace carefully to the ground so the lieutenant could lean back against a rock. Grace’s breathing sounded wrong, wet and thin, like her lungs were filling with poison.

Seeing this, Atasha didn’t hesitate.

She pressed her palms to Grace’s chest, then slid one hand down to Grace’s abdomen as if she could sense where the damage sat inside.

Celeste watched closely, the way she always did when Atasha used her gift.

Grace gagged again, blood spilling over her lip. Then Grace’s body jerked, as if the poison was

fighting back.

Atasha leaned closer, jaw clenched, and pressed harder.

The change was not dramatic, not flashy, but it was undeniable. Almost immediately, Grace’s breathing steadied. The wet rattle eased. The blood at her mouth stopped pouring in thick waves and turned into a thin smear that she wiped away with the back of her hand, almost irritated that she had been caught looking weak.

Grace blinked, swallowed, then sucked in a deeper breath.

A minute later, Grace braced her palm on the ground and pushed herself upright.

The crowd reacted exactly the way Celeste expected.

Celeste felt the rush in her chest, hot and triumphant.

Yes, show them. Make them believe, she thought.

Atasha’s hands fell to her lap. Her shoulders rose and fell with controlled breaths, but her face stayed composed. She lifted her gaze to Grace, and for a brief moment something softened there, something that didn’t look like strategy at all.

“Thank you,” Atasha said, voice low but clear enough for those nearest to hear. “You protected me again.”

Grace’s mouth tightened, like she didn’t want gratitude, like she wanted to pretend it was nothing. “I did my job,” she said, but her eyes stayed on Atasha’s face as if she was checking that Atasha was still standing.

Atasha didn’t argue with her.

Instead, she rose and walked straight toward a wounded northerner nearby, a man holding his side where blood seeped through his fingers. He looked stunned, not only by pain, but by the fact that Atasha was coming to him first.

Atasha knelt, pulled his hands away from the wound, and pressed her palm to torn flesh.

Celeste watched, breath shallow, as the injury sealed under Atasha’s touch. The soldier’s face shifted from panic to disbelief. His body went slack, as if he could not decide whether to laugh or cry.

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Chapter 222

Atasha moved to the next one.

Then the next.

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