The Savage Chief's Coveted Modern Bride

Gravity vanished.

The darkness of the Yale archaeological dig site swallowed Eleanor Strong whole. She had been trailing her professor into a newly discovered burial chamber, her backpack heavy with his tools, when the ancient floor gave way beneath her feet. One moment she was a diligent graduate student—the next, she was falling into the unknown. Air rushed past her ears in a deafening roar, tearing the scream from her throat. Her stomach violently shoved its way into her chest. She flailed her arms, her fingertips scraping against the slick, damp rock of the cavern wall. Sending sharp spikes of pain up her forearms, but she found no purchase.

Below her, the pitch-black void split open.

A jagged tear of blinding blue-purple lightning ripped through the darkness. The air pressure shifted so violently her eardrums popped. A massive, invisible force latched onto her body, yanking her straight into the center of the electrical storm.

The light vanished.

Eleanor slammed into the ground. Her heavy tactical backpack took the brunt of the impact, but the kinetic force still rattled her skull. Her teeth clamped down on her tongue. The metallic taste of copper flooded her mouth. She coughed, a wet, hacking sound, and spat blood into the dirt.

She curled into a tight ball. Every breath felt like a knife dragging across her ribs. She forced her eyes open.

The dry, dusty air of the Nevada desert was gone. Instead, thick, humid heat pressed down on her skin, heavy with the stench of rotting vegetation and animal musk. She pushed herself up on trembling hands. Through the tangled mess of her blonde hair, she saw massive tree trunks, thick as concrete pillars, stretching up into a dense canopy that blotted out the sky.

A sharp, rhythmic beeping cut through the silence.

Eleanor looked at her left wrist. The battery warning on her smartwatch flashed. The GPS signal icon in the corner was a stark, solid red X. Dead.

Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her veins. Her hands shook violently as she reached for the zipper of the tactical pouch on her waist. She needed her flashlight. Her fingers fumbled, slipping off the nylon fabric. The zipper was stuck.

A low, vibrating growl vibrated through the soles of her boots.

Eleanor froze. The breath trapped itself in her lungs.

Ten yards away, the dense ferns parted. Two eyes, the color of sickly yellow-green bile, locked onto her. A head emerged. It was a wolf, but the proportions were entirely wrong. The skull was massive, the dark gray fur matted with dried blood. It was the size of a grizzly bear.

The prehistoric beast opened its jaws. Thick, viscous saliva dripped from teeth the size of hunting knives, hitting the dead leaves with a faint, acidic hiss. Its front shoulders dropped. The muscles in its hind legs coiled.

Eleanor's brain screamed at her to run. Her legs refused to obey. They felt like lead. She scrambled backward on her hands and heels, her boots slipping in the wet mud.

The giant wolf launched itself.

It blotted out the sparse light, a mountain of muscle and fur flying straight for her throat. The stench of rotting meat washed over her.

Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut. She let out a piercing scream and threw her arms over her face, bracing for the agony of teeth tearing into her flesh.

A sickening, wet crunch echoed through the trees.

The impact never came. Instead, a spray of hot, foul-smelling liquid splattered across Eleanor's pale cheek.

She flinched, her eyes snapping open.

The giant wolf was gone from the air. It was pinned against the trunk of a massive tree five yards away. A man stood over it.

He had dropped from the canopy above. His landing had left deep craters in the mud. He was a towering wall of muscle, his skin deeply tanned and crisscrossed with thick, jagged white scars. He wore nothing but a rough animal hide wrapped around his waist.

The wolf thrashed, snapping its jaws at the man.

The man didn't flinch. A low, guttural war cry ripped from his throat. He twisted his torso, the muscles in his back bunching like coiled steel cables. His right arm snapped forward.

A thick spear, tipped with a jagged piece of black stone, tore through the air. It entered the wolf's open mouth and punched straight through the back of its skull, pinning the beast to the dirt.

The wolf convulsed violently. Its massive paws tore at the mud, then went entirely limp. Blood pooled rapidly around its head.

The man stepped forward. He planted a massive, bare foot on the wolf's snout, gripped the wooden shaft of the spear, and yanked it free. A geyser of dark blood followed the stone tip.

He flicked the gore off the weapon. Slowly, he turned his head.

His eyes locked onto Eleanor.

In that burning stare, the alien whisper in her mind grew sharper: This male is on the brink of frenzy. His beast craves a female's touch to ground him. Without it, he will either die or turn into a mindless killer. And you—you are his only chance.

Jace stared at the strange female. Her skin was blindingly white, covered in odd, unnatural leaves. His nostrils flared. Beneath the scent of wolf blood and mud, he caught it. A sweet, clean scent. Nothing like the females in his tribe. His pupils dilated until his eyes were almost entirely black.

He took a step toward her. The dead leaves crunched under his heavy weight. He blocked out the light, casting a long, dark shadow over her trembling body.

As he closed the distance, Eleanor's survival instinct kicked in. She threw her weight sideways, her hand frantically clawing at the zipper of her pouch. She ripped it open and yanked out the canister of bear mace, pulling the safety pin with her teeth. She aimed the nozzle directly at his chest.

"Stay back!" she screamed, her voice cracking.

Jace didn't even blink at the metal cylinder. He didn't understand the sounds coming from her mouth. They were sharp, like a frightened bird. It only made the blood pound harder in his veins.

He moved.

He was a blur of motion. Just as her thumb moved to press down on the trigger, a massive, calloused hand clamped around her wrist like a vice.

Pain shot up her arm. She gasped, her fingers springing open. The bear mace dropped into the mud.

Jace didn't stop. He used his grip on her wrist to yank her forward. Eleanor's feet left the ground. She crashed hard against his chest. His skin was burning hot, slick with sweat and wolf blood, as solid as a brick wall.

And in that crushing embrace, Eleanor felt the faintest pulse of something impossible—her own dormant psychic energy stirring awake, reaching toward him like a key finding its lock. The world had turned upside down. She was no longer a graduate student. She was a female in a realm where her kind ruled, where men knelt and killed for a single touch. And the beastman who held her had just claimed his first lesson in that new order—whether he knew it yet or not.