Page 13 of Savage Bond

“Is that so?” I say, slowly standing. My shadow stretches over her, and I watch her chin lift defiantly even though I’m twice her size and probably the reason she’s not already a smear in orbit.

She doesn’t back down. Doesn’t flinch.

Goddamn idiot.

But her chest’s rising too fast, and she’s holding herself like the only thing keeping her up is spite. She’s not wrong. If I walk now, she dies. And the thought of that—that sharp certainty—hits harder than it should.

The burn in my chest flares again.

“You’re lucky I haven’t snapped your neck,” I mutter.

She steps in closer. “Then do it, Reaper.”

She says the word like a curse. We’re eye to eye now. The jungle groans around us, heat and shadows pressing in.

Yeah.

This is going to be a fucking nightmare.

CHAPTER 7

AVA

Dusk creeps in like a slow bleed, turning the sky a bruised palette of indigo and wine. The jungle doesn't go quiet—it sharpens. Every chirp, rustle, and distant, guttural call feels amplified, echoing off thick vines and gnarled trunks like a warning. The air presses down heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying flora. It clings to my skin like a second layer, sticky and relentless, making each movement feel like dragging myself through warm molasses. Sweat drips down my spine and pools at the base of my neck, but I don’t stop.

I move through the scattered remains of the pod, scavenging like a desperate animal. A torn thermal blanket that still holds the stink of charred plastic. A cracked water canister—half-empty, maybe leaky. A ration pack fused at the edges from the crash heat but still intact enough to chew through. Not exactly a five-star supply drop, but it’s something. I shove it all into my arms and make my way to a fallen tree a few meters off, where the foliage is dense enough to give partial cover.

I get to work, threading branches through loops in the thermal material, anchoring corners with rocks. It’s slow going—my hands ache, my leg throbs from the earlier impact—but the rhythm helps. The jungle doesn’t care if I’m tired. It doesn’t carethat I’ve got training, or ambition, or something to prove. Out here, the only thing that matters is not dying before morning.

Behind me, I can feel him. The Reaper. Walking apocalypse. He hasn’t lifted a damn finger to help, just stands there leaning against a scorched section of pod hull like he owns the fucking planet. Arms crossed over that mountain of a chest, head tilted slightly like he’s enjoying the show.

“You planning to build a palace out here, sweetheart?” he drawls, voice thick with derision.

I pause, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. The urge to throw a rock at his face is strong.

"I'm planning to survive the night without being eaten alive," I bite back, straightening up and leveling him with a glare.

He chuckles—low and amused, like I’m a child playing soldier. “Suit yourself.”

His tone makes my teeth grind. I turn back to the lean-to, biting down on the wave of frustration. Let him laugh. Let him think I’m weak or naïve. He’ll learn. Either I survive this or I die trying—and I sure as hell won’t do it curled up useless in the dirt while some smug alien prick watches.

I ignore him, pretending his voice doesn’t crawl under my skin like fire ants. But his presence? It's impossible to ignore. He’s a constant, looming pressure, like a storm building behind my shoulder. Every time I glance up—just quick flicks of my eyes—he’s there. Leaning against the wreckage with the lazy arrogance of someone who thinks the world bends to him. Watching me. Judging every move I make like I’m a bug he hasn't decided whether to squash or toy with.

The jungle around us is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Trees tower overhead, their trunks twisted and gnarled, wrapped in vines as thick as my wrist. Bioluminescent moss glows faintly from the undersides of leaves, casting the clearing in an eerie, green-blue haze. Strange calls echo in the distance—gutturalwarbles, sharp clicking sounds, and something that howls low and long like it’s mourning the moon. Insects buzz with a frequency that grates at the back of my skull, and every bush or shadow seems like it could hide something hungry. The air stinks of wet decay and alien flora, thick with moisture that clings to every pore.

Still, I finish anchoring the last corner of the shelter, pulling the branch tight and securing it with a strip of salvaged wiring. It’s not elegant, but it’ll hold.

That’s when I feel him step in—close. Too close.

“You really think this flimsy setup is going to keep us safe?” he mutters, voice low and mocking. He’s standing just behind my shoulder, casting a shadow over me, heat radiating from his massive frame.

I stand up slowly and square my shoulders, refusing to let him crowd me. “It’s better than nothing.”

He steps in even closer, and I feel his breath fan across my cheek—hot, steady, infuriating.

“You’re stubborn,” he says, like it’s a warning.

“And you’re an ass,” I snap, chin lifting defiantly.

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