Page 13 of Brawler
God, they looked like something out of a woman’s most shameless daydream, towering, muscled, sun-darkened, weapons slung like extra limbs. Dangerous in the way predators were dangerous. Every single one of them stared at her like she’d just crash-landed from Venus.
Heat rose in her face, humiliation tangling with fear until the only thing she could do was lash out. Her gaze zeroed on the largest of them, the one who had sicced his damn dog on her, tackled her like she was some feral raccoon, duct taped her mouth, and then hauled her through the jungle as if she weighed nothing.
“You!” she shouted, marching toward him, finger stabbing the air. “You Neanderthal! Who do you think you are? Rambo?!”
He opened his mouth, but she barreled right over him. “I was being chased by men with guns! Guns! I thought you were one of them!”
Her voice cracked at the edges, fury bleeding into the panic she’d been holding back since she heard boots pounding behind her in the jungle.
The words hung in the wet air. She glanced around at the rest of them, faces hard, unreadable, one or two with smirks tugging at their mouths. A strange kind of brotherhood. A wall of men who looked like they’d stepped out of every military recruiting poster she’d ever rolled her eyes at.
Then it hit her.
Her breath snagged. The bottom dropped out of her stomach.
“Oh God,” she whispered. The world tilted, her knees almost buckling. “You’re not one of them…are you?”
The tree trunk of a man, the one with the square jaw and storm-dark eyes, started to answer, voice low, controlled.
She didn’t stay to hear it. Survival surged, white-hot. Before his words could land, Emily turned and bolted. Heart pounding, lungs burning, determination knotting like steel in her chest. This time she would get away. She had to.
Branches whipped at her face, damp leaves clinging to her arms as she tore through the undergrowth. Every heartbeat drummed in her ears, each breath a jagged rasp. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to get away from them.
The ground sucked at her boots, mud splattering up her calves. Her lungs burned, but she pushed harder, because the image of that man, towering, broad, hands like iron, was seared into her mind. The way he’d caught her. The way his palm had covered her mouth, rough and unyielding. The way his dog had sat beside him, tail wagging like she was some prize they’d claimed.
Humiliation prickled her skin. Who duct taped a woman’s mouth shut like that? Who carried her like she was nothing more than cargo? Neanderthal didn’t even begin to cover it.
But God help her, there’d been something in his eyes, dark and steady, that made her chest clench even as she fought him. Not cruel. Not leering. Just…focused. Like she wasn’t just some random woman in his way but a problem he intended to solve.
She stumbled, caught herself on a tree trunk slick with moss, and shoved away, cursing under her breath. No. She wasn’t going to think about him. Or his stupid square jaw. Or the terrifying calm in his voice when he’d tried to speak before she bolted.
Focus, Em. Jungle. Survival.
The forest pressed close on all sides, shadows layered thick with vines and broad leaves. Somewhere above, cicadas screamed. Somewhere behind, she swore she could hear the faint crunch of pursuit.
Her jaguar had once doubled back on a trail like this, leading Emily in circles before slipping soundlessly into the green. That was what she needed now, to disappear. But she was no jaguar. She was a grad student in boots too heavy for sprinting, running on adrenaline and spite.
Her throat tightened. What if those men chasing her before, the ones with rifles, found her first? What if the Neanderthal and his band of oversized soldiers weren’t enemies but allies? What if she’d just run from the one safe place in this nightmare?
She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. Trust was a luxury, and if there was one thing Emily Shade had learned, it was that nobody was coming to save her.
She would save herself.
Even if she had to outrun giants, guns, and a goddamn dog who wagged his tail like betrayal itself.
The jungle funneled her forward, uneven ground slanting down toward a shallow ravine. Emily scrambled across, boots slipping on wet stone, lungs on fire. She risked a glance over her shoulder, nothing. No hulking Neanderthal, no pack of soldier-boy clones.
Then that damn dog appeared.
Silent. Sudden. One moment the ravine was empty, the next the red-gold Lassie was crouched above her on the opposite ridge, eyes locked, tail a faint swish. He didn’t bark. He didn’t move. He didn’t have to. Every hair on the back of her neck rose.
“Oh, come on,” she hissed, skidding sideways into thicker brush. “You’re cheating.”
The dog held his post like a sentry. Which meant…
She spun and nearly barreled straight into him.
The Neanderthal moved like he’d grown out of the jungle itself, rifle slung, body low, steps silent despite his size. That tactical glide she’d seen on Nat Geo specials. Those broad shoulders cut through leaves like he had a map in his head telling him exactly where she’d go.
