Blood of My Monster (Monster Trilogy #1 ) by Rina Kent

After twenty minutes of running, I’m far enough from the operation site to stop and think about a possible plan.

My options are few, considering that I have no transportation, the intercom still doesn’t work, despite my numerous attempts, and the nearest hospital is no less than a nonstop eight-hour run. Lipovsky won’t be able to hold on that long. Hell, even these twenty minutes on top of the time he’s been unconscious are a stretch.

He's getting hotter, his lips are bluer, and he needs emergency care soon.

In our initial scouting of the area, we found a few villages near the warehouse that the insurgents have used for their supplies. It’s how we managed to locate them in the first place.

Thirty minutes by car equals an hour-and-a-half walk. Or an hour run. Considering I’m carrying extra weight and moving through heavy snow, it could be more.

An hour is too long for him, but I have no other choice. Either that or I leave him to die.

I put him on the ground and remove my vest, then his and bury them in the snow. Not the safest choice, but it’s the smartest. If we’re lighter, I can run faster.

It takes me exactly one hour and three minutes to see signs of a village. I had to turn off my and Lipovsky’s GPS to avoid being tracked by whoever sabotaged my mission.

Now, the trickiest part is entering a somewhat peaceful village full of old people while carrying a wounded soldier.

They’ll never let us through or help us. Village people, in general, are wary of any military forces, especially those who demand their help.

So I remove my helmet and balaclava, then place Lipovsky under a tree on the outskirts. It’s freezing, but his skin is hot to the touch. Sweat covers it, and his lips have turned a pale blue.

“I’ll be right back.” I push his hair away from his face, and he grumbles some gibberish.

I leave his rifle in his hand, which he surprisingly tightens his hold around, though it’s a weak grip.

Then I bury my weapon in the snow.

It’s early morning, so there aren’t a lot of people around. However, I’ll likely draw attention. Despite getting rid of my helmet and weapon, I still look like a soldier.

I sneak around a few houses before I finally choose one that has a vast yard and a shed in which clothes are hanging.

After studying my surroundings, I jump over the wall and sneak to the shed. I steal two changes of clothes and even find a pair of fur-lined winter boots.

I roll them all into the oversized coat, attach them to my back, and leave the house right as the front door opens.

A small shriek sounds, but I’m already out of there.

I’ll repay you for these one day, lady.

I rush back to where I left Lipovsky.

He’s curled beneath the tree, his face pasty white and his rifle in his hand.

This is bad. He’s at his physical limits at this point.

In no time, I remove my clothes and lay them on the snow, then put on the pants and cardigan I stole, plus the coat.

After I’m done, I lay Lipovsky down. He moans again, the sound weaker and barely audible.

I hesitate, but only for a second before I rip off his shirt, exposing his—or should I say her pale skin to the cold.

As I suspected, her chest is bound with a bandage, and she has the figure of a woman.

Now, I don’t know why she goes by a male name or why she went through all the trouble to join the military, but I do know it’s important enough that she sacrificed her gender identity for it.

Or maybe she wants to be a he, which does make sense, considering how much she loathes being weak.

At any rate, she’s more comfortable being addressed as a he, but she really needs to be a she right now. The only way these villagers will help is if we approach them as ordinary people.

I remove the bandages, stopping when her breasts bounce free. They’re neither big nor small. They’re just the right size to grab onto while—

Focus.

I put the dress on her, then make a hole where her wound is and soak it with blood. After I’m satisfied with the way it looks, I remove her pants, cover her with the coat, and slip the boots on her feet. They’re a size too big, but they’ll do. Mine will stay since they fit the clothes I got for me.

Once I’m finished, I pause, staring at her. It’s weird that a mere change of clothes can make such a difference in the way she looks.

After I bury our belongings, including her rifle, in the snow, I carry her bridal style and start toward the village.

She’s light, barely noticeable in my arms. Her head leans against my chest and she has a limp, bloodied arm around my neck.

“Lipovsky,” I call in an attempt to keep her conscious.

“Aleksandra…” she whispers, her voice low and brittle.

So that’s her real name.

Aleksandra.

I’ve got to say, I’m disappointed in the lack of effort in picking a male name.

A man who’s pushing a carriage full of vegetables stops upon seeing me, his old face creasing in surprise.

“What is this…what is going on?” He speaks in a very regional dialect that I barely understand.

“My wife…” I soften my voice and inject it with sorrow, acting the part to perfection. “She was shot by a soldier. Please help us.”





10





SASHA





Blood drips all around me.