The Hunt #2
The ferns parted. Silently. No snapping of branches. No sudden movement.
He stepped into the pale violet light of the fungi.
Jules's breath caught. The gravity in this part of the jungle seemed to double, pressing her deeper into the mud.
The creature was gigantic. A mass of muscle-armored, night-black hide that shimmered like obsidian in the twilight.
Upright like a man, built like a beast. Broad shoulders flowed into a chest that made the blaster in Jules's hands look like a toy.
A dense, pitch-black mane framed the features of a territorial predator—angular, hard, with a jaw that could pulverize bone.
Two amber eyes glowed in the darkness. Fixed on her. The gaze wasn't animalistic. It was intelligent. Calculating. Dominant.
The king of the jungle stood over her. And she'd smeared herself with fungus juice.
Jules's hands trembled so violently that the blaster's muzzle traced a figure eight in the air. Her survival instinct—that damned, defiant trap of a mouth that always demanded the last word when panic hit—forced her lips apart before reason could intervene.
“I'm tough,” she forced through clenched teeth, her voice brittle but cutting through the dead silence. “And I'm ninety percent bad decisions and rancid fungus juice. Think twice before you bite down, throw rug.”
The amber eyes narrowed slightly. A deep rumble vibrated in his chest. Not anger. Amusement. He didn't bare his teeth. An arm shot forward. The movement was a blurred flash of black hide and thick claws. Jules never saw the strike coming.
He swiped casually across the barrel of the blaster. The impact ripped the weapon from her hands with brutal force. Her wrists cracked, pain lancing up her arm to the shoulder. The blaster flew through the air, bounced off a giant tree, and shattered in a shower of sparks and plastic.
Silence returned, more oppressive than before.
Jules stared in disbelief at the smoldering wreckage of her only defense, then slowly shifted her gaze back to the warlord.
She sat defenseless in the mud, empty hands raised, trapped in his glowing, intelligent stare. Every muscle in her body locked up.
He closed the distance. No leap. A single, ground-eating stride was enough, and his body filled Jules's entire field of vision.
The heat radiating from him hit her like a pressure wave.
The air around her shimmered, bone-dry, devouring the clammy swamp humidity within a two-meter radius.
His scent enveloped her—a heavy, intoxicating mixture of raw musk, charred wood, and sharp ozone.
It sank deep into her lungs and settled like a lead weight on her flight instinct.
Jules shoved herself backward, mud splashing wildly as her boots scrambled for purchase. She pressed herself against the dense, sodden roots of a tree. A dead end. The wet wood dug painfully into her back.
He planted himself directly in front of her. Knees slightly bent, clawed feet anchored deep in the mire. His chest rose and fell in a controlled rhythm, each breath a deep rumble that made the ground beneath her vibrate.
He crouched. The movement was fluid, a grotesque contrast to his sheer size. At eye level with her, his silhouette blotted out the rest of the world.
Jules's stubbornness exploded. If she died, it wouldn't be without a fight. She balled her right hand into a fist, cocked her arm back, and swung. A desperation blow, aimed straight at his jaw.
Her knuckles struck nothing but air. The warlord's hand shot up.
His fingers closed around her forearm. The impact sent a shockwave through the bone; her shoulder cracked.
His grip was a vise of hot steel. The thick claws pressed into her skin—deep enough for burning pain, yet the flesh remained unbroken.
Absolute control. He could have splintered the arm like a twig with a simple twist. He didn't.
A hard yank. Jules slid forward through the mud, right between his spread thighs.
“Let me go!” she screamed, throwing herself backward and slamming her free left hand against his chest. It was like hammering against a rock wall. Her blow bounced off without effect.
Behind him, a shadow glided through the foliage.
A pitch-black tail, thick as her thigh, corded with hard muscle and covered in matte scales, detached from the darkness.
It didn't whip threateningly. It glided through the mud, coiled around her right ankle, and slithered up her leg like a constrictor.
Jules's eyes flew wide. The weight was crushing.
Rough scales scraped over wet denim, shoving the fabric up to find bare skin above her boot.
Alien heat seared into her calf. The muscular coil wrapped tight around her thigh and wrenched her the rest of the way toward him.
Her knees crashed against his shins. The grip blocked any escape, forced her legs apart, anchored high on her inner thigh, and pressed possessively into her crotch.
The warlord leaned forward. The black mane fell across his face, brushing Jules's cheek. The hair was coarse as bristles. The amber eyes glowed, pupils narrowed to thin slits. His gaze fixed on her lips. Then on the gash at her temple.
He inhaled—a greedy, deep sniff right at her neck. Jules froze completely. Hot breath hit her pulsing artery. Her heart hammered so hard against her ribs she thought they might crack.
A rough, hot tongue dragged across her skin.
Jules gasped—a shock that jolted through every nerve.
Like heavy sandpaper, it licked over the throbbing vein, tasting sweat and dirt, gliding mercilessly higher to lap up the warm blood at her temple.
The humiliation and alien heat tore down the last barriers of her composure.
“Eat me or don't, you freak!” she roared into his chest, spit flying from her lips. She threw her head back and glared straight into those glowing eyes. “But stop licking me like I'm your damn chew toy!”
The amber eyes widened slightly. A rumble started deep in his chest, vibrated through his body, and traveled straight into her thighs. It wasn't anger. It was laughter. Dark, primitive, amused.
He shifted his weight. The warlord thrust his hips forward, grinding hard against her core.
Jules's breath caught. She felt the heavy, alien shape of his arousal through the hard fabric of his armor and her jeans.
No human anatomy. Heat, raw volume, and the pressure against her pubic bone left no room for doubt.
“Not eat.” His voice scraped like gravel over stone, each word scratching through vocal cords not made for this language. “Noisy little thing. Keep.”
Before Jules could process the words, he released her arm. Hard hands slid under her body—one cupping the back of her neck, the other beneath her thighs. The tail unwound for a fraction of a second.
In one fluid motion, he straightened. Jules screamed as the world tilted. He lifted her into the air as if she weighed nothing and threw her over his broad shoulder. The armored plate pressed hard into her stomach, driving the air from her lungs.
The scaled tail shot forward again. The muscular coil wrapped around her hips like a seatbelt, binding her tight and immovable.
Jules hammered her fists against his shoulder blades. Kicked wildly. Writhed. “Put me down! You damn bastard, let me go!”
He ignored the blows completely. Her fists drummed against his muscles like raindrops on armored glass. His gaze fixed on the red neon glow of the citadel in the distant darkness. With calm, heavy strides, he carried his prey through the shattered undergrowth, deeper into the black jungle.