The necklace of shells was heavy around her neck. She touched them slowly, looking back towards the glimmering city of lights she was leaving behind. In the distance, she thought she could still see him—the awkward man, the writer, Jack—the man she had first loved.
And before her, the ocean, the world. She was gone, and he was with her. He had just destroyed half of New York, he had caused the deaths of hundreds of innocents, and their blood was still fresh on his dark, thick paws.
But he had done it for her.
All he wanted was her.
Anne turned her head into the beast's hand, brushing her cheek against his downy fur. He smelled of those deaths, of hundreds more to come. It made her sick to know it was her sacrifice, her own tithe.
Somehow, with her waist held snugly in his grip, it didn't seem to matter.
They had hurt him.
Anne would never forgive Carl Denham or his crew, the people who were responsible for bringing the monster's rage to their city. Someday, she might learn to love Jack again, but it would only be his memory. She had no intention of returning.
He was a fearsome protector. Even surrounded by man-eating lizards, insects, and things that should only exist in myth, he would make sure she lived.
Who knew that such a raging beast would love?
Anne smiled, and moisture dampened Kong's fur. She did not understand why she was crying.
After all, didn't she love him too?