I catalog it all while the jungle watches and waits.
Dawn can't come soon enough.
But when it does, the real game begins.
The hunter and the hunted.
Except I'm not sure which one I'm supposed to be anymore.
The thought should terrify me.
Instead, it makes me bare my teeth in something that isn't quite a smile.
Let him come.
I'll be ready.
Even if my traitorous body is ready for something else entirely.
ZIA
Day One - Evening
I wake grinding against the moss.
My hips move in desperate circles, seeking friction that won't satisfy. The dream dissolves but my body continues, muscles locked in rhythmic motion I can't control. My thighs are soaked. The moss beneath me is damp with sweat and arousal that leaked through my pants during the night.
The fabric between my legs is completely saturated, clinging to swollen flesh that throbs with each heartbeat. When I try to stand, my legs buckle. The constant clenching through the night has left my muscles exhausted, trembling. It takes three attempts before I can stay upright, and even then I have to brace against the tree.
My pussy feels different. Swollen, oversensitive, the lips puffy and hot. Every movement makes them slide against each other, slick with wetness that won't stop flowing. The emptiness inside has progressed from ache to actual cramping, these violent spasms that make me double over.
First priority: map the territory before this gets worse.
I force myself to move, using trees for support when the waves hit. The tonic creates a pattern: building pressure forfifteen to twenty minutes, then a crushing wave that whites out my vision, leaves me gasping and grinding against whatever's closest. Then the cycle starts again.
The morning light filters through canopy so thick it turns everything green. I mark trees as I go, using my knife to carve simple patterns. North from the portal site, elevation rising. The ground changes from moss to exposed roots to rocky soil.
My tactical pants chafe with every step. The seam that normally sits innocuous now drags across my clit with each movement, sending sparks through oversensitive nerves. I have to stop, pressing my thighs together, riding out a wave of need so intense I taste copper from biting my lip.
When it passes, I smell him.
Not human. Musk and ozone, crushed green things and something that makes my body flood with fresh wetness. The scent comes from everywhere and nowhere, soaked into the very air of his territory.
Compatible. My transformed body recognizes him as what it craves.
Two hundred meters from my shelter, I find the first gifts.
Water in that grown gourd. Purple fruit. Dried meat. The volcanic glass knife. But I study how they're placed, reading the intelligence in their arrangement. The water closest, acknowledging primary need. The knife positioned for easy grabbing with my dominant hand. He's been watching. Learning.
I take only the water and knife. It was a message: I wasn't a fool to be bought with food. The water is cool, mineral-rich, and I have to stop myself from moaning as I drink. My body is already dehydrated from the constant wetness between my legs, the sweat that soaks through my clothes every few minutes.
The knife is perfectly balanced. Sharp enough to slice air. I test it on a branch and it cuts through like the wood isn't there. This isn't just a tool. It's a weapon that could actually hurt him.
Why arm me?
I continue mapping, creating a mental grid. The territory is roughly two square kilometers. Natural boundaries: swamp to the east that reeks of decay and things that hunt in water. Cliff to the west, sheer enough to require equipment I don't have. River to the north, fast-moving and cold. To the south, a clear line where something has marked territory with violence.
The claw marks are deep, deliberate. Four parallel gouges that go through bark into heartwood. They're old but maintained, refreshed regularly. At the base of marked trees, bones. Not scattered by scavengers but arranged in patterns. Skulls facing outward. Spines curved in perfect spirals. Ribs fanned like wings.
