His Darkest Embrace (Jaguar Warriors 2)

Jagger hiked for hours, crossing many small rivers that ran from the top of the mountain, cutting a path through the jungle and into the basin, where they dumped into some of the great rivers of Belize, the Swasey and South Stann Creek.

He was in the heart of the jaguar reserve before he realized things were not as they should be.

Jagger should have noticed sooner, but truthfully, he was incredibly fatigued. He’d been carrying Skye for nearly twenty hours and had had virtually no food or rest in days. He stopped abruptly, his senses fingering their way out as he sought to find the barest hint of an enemy.

But there was nothing, and an eerie cold began to settle alongside him. Jagger began to suspect that dark arts were at play. The rhythms of the jungle were out of whack. It felt like all life had been sucked from the very heart of it, leaving nothing but the breeze, the greenery. The enemy.

He’d not seen or sensed a single jaguar, ocelot, or puma. The amazing myriad of birds that normally filled the canopy high above him with their endless shrieks and squawks was missing.

They’d all fled.

He paused. Not even the local black howler monkeys trumpeted his presence.

The feeling of unease that settled inside him only confirmed that danger lurked about, hidden within the shadows between the trees. Carefully he scoured the entire area as he lowered Skye to the ground. She was still feverish and his fear that she would succumb to wha

tever the hell the demon had done to her was nearly paralyzing.

He needed to get to Placencia and get a boat to Monkey River. Nico had mentioned a local Mayan healer once who had made her home there. That had been several years ago, but at the moment it was his only hope.

He forced some more liquid down Skye’s throat, cradling her head as she thrashed. He pulled her to rest against a downed tree trunk. They were along the banks of yet another small creek and he left her, sliding into the wet coolness in order to fill their bottles.

It was then that he became aware of another presence.

Jagger froze, his body tense, ready to fight. Slowly his eyes swept the immediate area, and without making a noise he leapt back up the bank, carefully placing the bottles near Skye. Reaching into the deep pockets of his cargos, his fingers encircled the deadly knife that lay there.

It had been charmed, a gift from Declan.

When he stood, all the fatigue and pain had fled, leaving behind only the anger and madness that fueled his jaguar in battle. The taut muscles of his arms and abdomen gleamed under a soft sheen of sweat. His tattoos stood out in stark relief against the dark skin, their intricate markings seeming to shimmer and move as he flexed his arms and rotated his neck.

Jagger crouched low, scenting the air, and as he did so the hair at the back of his head stood on end.

Something was there, just beyond the creek.

Silently he kept to the shadows that lined the bank, his body moving with stealth and determination. His mind went quiet, all of his senses focused on tracking the presence that he felt.

He slipped into the mess of vinery that caressed the edge of the creek and disappeared from view.

Jagger kept his body low to the ground and for a brief second debated calling his jaguar to him, but a noise ahead gave him pause. There was no time.

He held the knife loosely in his fingers and his eyes flattened to a dead, dull green as he inched forward. For once he was grateful there were no creatures around to trumpet his presence.

He watched as a large, black jaguar slid into view. Its massive head slowly turned before settling directly in front of where Jagger hid.

The animal barked a warning, emitting a growl that echoed in the quiet. It slowly began to move toward Jagger, its body downwind, and Jagger cursed silently at his inability to read the beast.

Was it a shifter? Or just a male protecting its territory?

The animal paused only a few feet from him, and when Jagger noticed the strange mist that began to flow over its flanks, his adrenaline kicked in.

Fuck. Definitely a shifter.

Jagger exploded from the greenery, his arms outstretched, the deadly blade aimed straight for the jaguar.

The two men met in midair and landed together in a pile of raw muscle, anger and curses.

The intruder was strong, his energy heavy, dark, but the two of them were evenly matched. The knife was knocked from Jagger’s hand and he head-butted the bastard as hard as he could, twisting his body in an effort to get his weapon.

“Fucking Castille, you always were such a little prick.”