The Brethren's Hold
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They called him a saint when they buried him, but saints don't bleed and they don't beg.
Theo Whitlock was only supposed to document the church-forgotten, unearthed, and hidden deep within the Lacandon jungle.
But beneath the altar lies a man turned to stone. A voice erased by holy men. A memory sealed so tightly it cracked the earth to be heard again.
And when Theo steps inside, something awakens.
Something ancient.
Something that loved-and was punished for it.
The jungle remembers. The church listens. And the Saint beneath the altar is still waiting.
He was never meant to be freed.
Because when love rises again, the world will bleed.
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They said the Hunt was sacred. That if I was chosen, it meant fate. But fate didn't feel like a mouth on my skin or claws at my back. It felt like blood. Mine. For years, I stayed hidden. Quiet. Unclaimed. I stole seeds from the state fields, grew food in secret, fed my family from soil and silence. I did everything right - stayed beneath their radar, beneath their noses. I didn't make waves. I didn't ask for more. But monsters never forget a scent. And when the Hunt came, I was scented. Tracked. Taken. I stabbed him. I buried the blade in his shoulder and watched him bleed. It didn't matter. Because he still bit me. And the world saw. Now my face is on every screen. The girl who didn't run. The girl who fought back. Some call me a rebel. Some call me a mate. But they all forget one thing. I wasn't made to be claimed. I was made to survive. And if they want to collar me, cage me, crown me - they'll have to reckon with everything I've kept buried beneath the roots. Because I am not the flower. I'm the fire beneath it. Rewrite version of formerly known book Escaping the monsters Embrace
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