Page 14 of Savage Bond

In a blink, he moves. One large hand snakes out and grabs my wrist, yanking me toward him. The motion is fast, fluid, effortless—like handling a ragdoll. My breath catches in my throat as I stumble against him.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he growls, eyes boring into mine.

I twist, trying to wrench free, but his grip is iron. His skin is rough, calloused, the texture catching against my wrist like sandpaper. My heart thunders against my ribs, not just from fear—but from something else. His eyes burn crimson, flickering like embers. Intense. Focused. Hungry.

I meet his stare, breathing hard, lips parted as I try to find something sharp to say—but the words dissolve before they make it out.

The tension changes. One beat ago it was violence. Now? Now I feel like I might explode.

Suddenly, a sharp rustle splits the underbrush to our left—too loud, too purposeful. I freeze, head snapping toward the sound.

Then comes the growl. Low, guttural, primal. It vibrates through the ground beneath my boots and curdles the blood in my veins. My stomach flips. That is not a sound made by anything harmless.

Before I can react—before I can even turn—something explodes from the shadows.

A flash of mottled fur and gleaming claws. Fangs as long as my fingers. Yellow eyes fixed on me.

I barely register the blur of movement before the Reaper slams into me, his entire body a freight train of muscle and momentum. We hit the ground hard, his weight crushing the air from my lungs just as razor-sharp claws swipe through the space where my throat had been. Dirt sprays up around us.

He rolls, pushing me behind him with a snarl. “Stay down,” he growls, already reaching for his blade.

I scramble backward on my hands, heart trying to punch its way out of my ribs.

The creature stalks forward, massive and sinewy, its body like a panther spliced with nightmare. Its hide glistens with an oily sheen, and bone-like spines ridge its back. It opens its mouth and hisses, saliva dripping from curved fangs.

He doesn't hesitate. He squares his stance, shoulders coiled, every line of him ready to strike. That curved blade of his glints once in the dying light—and then he lunges.

What follows is chaos. A blur of violence and speed.

The beast snarls, slashing at him with claws that could gut a man. He ducks, spins, slams his elbow into its ribs. His blade arcs, carving a red gash along the creature’s flank. Blood sprays,dark and thick, painting the jungle floor. The beast roars and rams into him, knocking them both sideways into a tree with a crunch of bark.

I gasp, hands over my mouth.

He recovers first, driving the knife up under the beast’s chin. It howls. He twists the blade—once, twice—and rips it free in a spray of blood and bile. The predator shudders, trembles, then slumps into the dirt with a thud that echoes through the clearing.

He stands over the body, chest heaving, blood dripping down his arms, his blade still raised. For a second, he looks feral. Glowing red eyes. Bared teeth. A silhouette carved out of rage and adrenaline.

Then he turns to me.

He glances at the twitching corpse at his feet, then wipes his blade on the grass with a casual flick. “Dinner.”

I swallow hard, trying to steady my hands. “Silver linings,” I murmur, and somehow—somehow—I manage a smile.

CHAPTER 8

KAIRON

The jungle presses in like a goddamn vice, thick and choking. Every breath tastes like rotting leaves and stagnant water. My skin’s slick with humidity, the air so dense it feels like it’s trying to crawl down my throat. Above me, the canopy knots together in a dense lattice of black branches and dripping vines, blotting out the stars like a closed fist. Shadows dance in the firelight below, twitching and stretching with every flicker. The buzz of bugs is constant—high, shrill, like tiny teeth gnawing at the silence.

I crouch on a thick limb, high enough to see everything, still enough to vanish in the dark. Crimson eyes sweeping the jungle, scanning the shadows for motion. But my gaze keeps falling back to the wreckage below—more specifically, to her.

The human woman moves like she’s made of splinters and spite, trying too hard not to crumble. She's bent near the fire, those slim hands shaking as she turns over hunks of charred meat on a slab of scavenged hull. It’s my kill, my blade that brought the beast down, and yet she treats it like it’s some kind of triumph. Like she earned it.

“Pathetic,” I mutter, voice a gravel scrape in my throat. “Couldn’t even keep her damn self alive for one night without needing to be saved.”

Still, here she is. Half-dead and stubborn about it.

I should’ve walked away. Should’ve left her bleeding in the dirt, like any other useless softskin who got in my way. But I didn’t. I stayed.

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