Chapter 3

The great tiger moved with a silence that defied its size. Its massive paws, each the size of a dinner plate, made no sound on the carpet of dead leaves as it approached her.

Abigail's body was frozen solid. Her breath was trapped in her lungs. A frantic, useless calculation ran through her mind: play dead or fight? The answer was the same for both. Zero.

It stopped directly in front of her, so close she could feel the heat radiating from its body. It lowered its enormous head, its hot, coppery breath washing over her face. It smelled of blood and something else, something wild and clean like a thunderstorm.

She flinched, expecting the snap of jaws, the tearing of flesh.

Instead, a long, rough tongue extended from its mouth. It gently, deliberately, licked the trail of blood from her forehead.

The texture was like coarse sandpaper. A shiver ran through her, but it wasn't entirely from fear. She saw something in its deep blue eyes. Not hunger. Not aggression. It was... curiosity. A strange, unnerving intelligence.

Suddenly, the tiger's body began to glow. A brilliant, silver-blue light erupted from it, so bright it forced Abigail to shield her eyes.

When the light faded, the tiger was gone.

In its place, a man knelt on one knee before her.

He was naked, his body a breathtaking sculpture of lean, powerful muscle, his honey-colored skin a roadmap of old, faded scars. Wild, dark hair fell across a ruggedly handsome face, and his eyes... they were the same piercing, impossible blue as the tiger's.

Abigail's jaw dropped. Her scientific, orderly view of the universe shattered into a million pieces.

"What the hell..." she breathed, the words barely a whisper.

The man-Bronson-watched her, his expression unreadable. "Are you hurt?" he asked. His voice was a low, rough rasp, surprisingly gentle.

The question snapped her back to reality. A scientist's training took over, pushing down the shock. She pointed a trembling finger at her ankle. "I can't walk. It's twisted."

Without a word, Bronson reached for her. He slid one powerful arm under her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. His movements were careful, his grip firm but gentle, consciously avoiding the burns on her legs.

Pressed against his bare, warm chest, a startling sense of security washed over her. It was primal and illogical, but undeniable. Then she remembered.

"Wait," she said, struggling slightly. She pointed a shaky finger at the pile of tubers she had dug up. "The food. We have to take the food. And the boar. It's my proof."

Bronson glanced at the dirt-caked tubers, a faint frown creasing his brow. He clearly didn't recognize them as food. But he didn't argue. He carried her to a large, clean boulder and set her down carefully.

Then he walked over to the patch of earth. His hands began to shift, his nails elongating into thick, black claws. He plunged his tiger claws into the soil and, with a few powerful rakes, unearthed the entire network of vines and tubers, creating a small mountain of them.

Abigail watched, amazed. It was like watching a biological backhoe at work. "Use the vines," she instructed, her voice regaining its confidence. "Tie them into a bundle."

He obeyed, his movements efficient and precise. He then walked to the boar's carcass, hoisted its several-hundred-pound weight onto one shoulder with sickening ease, and slung the massive bundle of tubers over the other. He came back to the boulder and grunted, jerking his head toward his back.

The message was clear.

Abigail hesitated for a second, then slid off the rock and onto his broad, scarred back, wrapping her arms around his neck. The feeling of her skin against his was intensely intimate and unnerving, but she had no other choice.

He started moving. Even carrying her, the boar, and the tubers-a load that must have weighed close to a ton-he moved through the dense, uneven forest floor as if he were taking a stroll in a park. His speed was incredible.

On the way back, she tried to probe. "What's your name?"

A long silence. Then, "Bronson."

"What tribe are you from?"

Another pause, this one heavier. "I am an exile."

She caught the flicker of darkness in his eyes at that word. A smart scientist knows when to stop collecting data. She changed the subject, telling him how the tubers needed to be cooked to be safe and delicious.

Soon, the trees began to thin. The distant, crude outline of the Silverfox Clan's settlement appeared through the gloom.

A high, piercing shriek of a bone whistle cut through the air. A lookout had spotted them, smelling the blood and the foreign, powerful scent of a high-level beastman.

The settlement erupted into chaos. Warriors grabbed spears and stone axes, forming a defensive line at the entrance, their faces a mixture of fear and aggression.

When Bronson strode out of the forest's shadow, carrying Abigail and his monumental load, a collective gasp went through the guards. A wave of shocked murmurs rippled through the gathered crowd, not just at the dead boar, but at the man himself-a powerful, scarred, and completely naked stranger. Some of the younger females quickly averted their eyes, their faces flushing a deep crimson, while the warriors gripped their spears tighter, their suspicion mixed with a primal, deeply rooted unease. They were frozen in place, paralyzed by the sheer force of his presence.

The Chieftain arrived, his eyes widening in shock as he saw Abigail, alive and relatively unharmed, and the colossal boar.

Chelsea shoved her way through the crowd. Her face twisted into a mask of pure, undiluted jealousy when she saw Abigail not only alive, but being carried by a powerful and brutally handsome stranger.

Bronson ignored them all. He walked to the center of the square and dropped the boar carcass and the bundle of tubers to the ground. The impact shook the earth.

He then gently lowered Abigail to her feet, his massive frame standing in front of her like a shield. He swept his cold, blue eyes over the entire clan, a silent, powerful declaration that their deal was done.