Her reaction was immediate. The weapon came up in a single smooth motion, sighting on his center mass, her finger finding the trigger. Her movements were smooth, certain. She had done this before.
She aimed.
Makrath felt his body respond, and for a moment, control slipped.
Heat flooded through him, savage and immediate. His length emerged from its sheath unbidden, pressing hard against theinterior plates of his armor, and a sound escaped his throat, low, involuntary, closer to animal than language. His claws extended, gouging the bark beneath his grip. Every muscle locked with the effort of staying still.
Take her, the instinct screamed.Now. Close the distance. Pin her. Claim her.
The deterioration Zhoren had warned him about—he felt it now, pulling at the edges of his control like teeth tearing at meat. This was what he had become. This was what he would become if he failed.
He forced his breathing to slow. Retracted his claws. Did not move.
Not yet.
The moment stretched between them, elastic and charged. He could feel her attention like a physical weight, the intensity of a predator sighting prey, even though they both knew who the true predator was here.
She didn't fire.
She had the shot. He had given her the shot, standing in the open like an offering. Any other candidate would have taken it, would have tried to wound him early, would have burned through her ammunition in a panic of self-defense.
She held.
Waiting. Assessing. Treating him like a threat to be studied rather than an enemy to be destroyed.
Good, he thought, and the word came out as a rumble in his chest.Learn me. Prepare. Make yourself ready.
Because when you come for me—and you will come—I want you at your best.
He wanted her strong. Wanted her sharp. Wanted the fight to mean something when it finally came. The thought of her beneath him, exhausted and beaten after a true contest, breath ragged, body yielding not from weakness but from choice...
His vision narrowed. His claws sank into bark.
He forced himself to step back. Once. Twice. Let the jungle swallow him before he did something that violated every rule of the Hunt.
There would be time. She would come to him.
And when she did, she would fight.
He was shaking with anticipation.
He spent the night circling her camp.
She had found a defensible position, a hollow beneath a rock overhang, sheltered from above, limited approach vectors. Smart. She wasn't making this easy for him.
He didn't want her to make it easy.
From the darkness, he watched her. Close enough to hear her breathing, far enough to maintain control. She sat awake with her weapon across her knees, staring into the black, alert to every sound.
He remained awake, watching.
Something was building in him as the hours passed. The Hunt-instinct had become a living thing, coiling tighter with every breath she took, every small movement she made in the darkness. His body ached with restraint. His armor had adjusted three times to accommodate his arousal, and still the pressure was maddening.
He denied himself release. The release would be hers to give or it would not come at all.
But gods, the waiting. Thewanting. It was eating him alive.
The night sounds of the jungle surrounded them, insects, birds, the rustle of small creatures moving through the undergrowth. Alien sounds, to both of them. This world wasn't his any more than it was hers. They were both strangers here, both adapting, both learning.
