Mated To The Possessive White Tiger Marshal

Ansel pushed through a curtain of thick, hanging vines, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The fever was getting worse.

His vision blurred at the edges. The vibrant, alien flora swam in and out of focus, a dizzying swirl of impossible colors.

He tripped over an exposed root, sprawling hard onto the damp forest floor.

For a moment, he considered just staying there. Let the jungle have him.

A distant, guttural roar echoed through the trees, much closer this time. It was a sound of pure, predatory power, making the very ground beneath him vibrate faintly.

Fear, cold and sharp, cut through the fog of his fever. He scrambled back to his feet, leaning heavily against the trunk of a massive, black-barked tree. He had no idea what made that sound, and he had no desire to find out.

He huddled at the base of a colossal tree, knees drawn to his chest, trying to hold onto the last shreds of warmth. He knew with terrible certainty that if he fell asleep now, he might never wake up again.

Suddenly, a prickling sensation crawled up the back of his neck. It was the unmistakable, primal feeling of being watched.

He froze, every nerve ending screaming. He held his breath, slowly, hesitantly, scanning the darkened woods around him. He saw nothing but shifting shadows and the soft glow of the alien plants.

Then, he saw them.

Two points of light in the deep shadows of the brush. They were not fungi. They were eyes. They glowed with a soft, internal luminescence, the color of molten gold.

The eyes were fixed on him, unblinking and intense. They belonged to something large, something hidden in the darkness. A primal terror, colder and deeper than the fever's chill, gripped Ansel. This was it. This was the predator whose roar he had heard.

The creature took a silent step out of the shadows. It was huge, a silhouette of immense power against the glowing flora.

Ansel couldn't even scream. His throat was tight with fear, his breath trapped in his lungs. He scrambled backward, his hands sinking into the cold mud.

As the figure moved closer, the faint, otherworldly light caught its form. It wasn't a four-legged beast.

It was humanoid. Tall, broad-shouldered, and walking on two legs.

The initial, animalistic terror subsided, replaced by a wave of profound confusion.

A person? Out here?

The figure stopped a few feet away. Ansel could now see it was a man, wearing dark, form-fitting tactical gear that clung to every line of a body that was frankly unfair.

Shadows hid most of his face, but when a stray beam of bioluminescent light caught his features, Ansel's fevered brain short-circuited.

Sharp cheekbones. A strong jaw. Lips that looked carved for sin. And those glowing golden eyes, mesmerizing, predatory, deeply unsettling. This was not human. This was something far more dangerous.

The man tilted his head, studying Ansel with an unnerving stillness. His golden gaze traced the line of Ansel's throat, the curve of his lips, the fragile rise and fall of his chest. Hunger flickered in those eyes, raw and primal, having nothing to do with food.

Jaxon Kensington's jaw tightened. He had survived a hundred battlefields, but this half-dead human was testing his control in ways he did not appreciate. There was no overt threat in his posture. Only intense, piercing curiosity, and something far more dangerous.

His nostrils flared, catching the scent of fever and something sweeter beneath it, something that made his blood run hot. He wanted to close the distance, to press his mouth to that pale throat, to feel the shiver that would follow. But the human was barely standing. Jaxon forced his hands to stay at his sides, though his fingers curled with the effort.

The strain of the fever, the terror of the chase, and the sudden, bizarre shock of this encounter was too much. Ansel's vision tunneled, the glowing plants and golden eyes blurring into a single point of light.

The last thing he saw before the world went black were those golden eyes, the pupils contracting into vertical slits, just like a cat's.

He pitched forward, his consciousness finally succumbing to the darkness.

Just before his face hit the muddy ground, a strong arm shot out and caught him. The touch was firm, steady, and surprisingly warm against his fever-chilled skin.

Even unconscious, Ansel's fingers curled into the fabric of Jaxon's tactical gear, clinging with a desperate, instinctive grip, as if his body had already decided this stranger was the only safe harbor in the world.

Jaxon went rigid. The contact sent a jolt of electricity up his spine, making his blood run hot and his thoughts turn distinctly unprofessional. His arms tightened around the human, pulling him closer, and he had to remind himself that man was sick, helpless, and utterly unaware of the effect he was having.

Jaxon Kensington looked down at the fragile, unconscious human in his arms, a deep frown creasing his brow.

The creature was impossibly light, burning with fever, clinging to him like a drowning man to a lifeline.

Jaxon's gaze dropped to the pale throat, the slightly parted lips, the way Ansel's body fit against his chest with alarming, almost perfect ease.

A low, possessive growl rumbled in his chest before he could stop it. He wanted. Gods, he wanted. He wanted to lay him down on the moss, to strip away the torn clothes, to warm every inch of that fevered skin with his own.

But the human was sick, helpless, utterly unaware of the effect he was having.

Jaxon closed his eyes, took a slow breath, and forced the hunger down.