A massive shadow exploded from the tree line.

Jace moved faster than humanly possible. He was shirtless, his chest heaving. Fresh, dark blood was still flowing from the jagged wound on the side of his head where Eleanor had struck him. His steps carried a faint, almost imperceptible stagger from the severe concussion, but the sheer, unadulterated rage in his bloodshot eyes entirely masked the trauma. He pushed through the debilitating dizziness, his gaze fixed entirely on the wolves.

He didn't have his spear. He didn't need it.

He launched himself into the air and drove his bare heel straight down into the spine of the wolf closest to Eleanor. A sickening crack echoed through the trees. The wolf collapsed instantly, paralyzed, without making a sound.

The alpha wolf abandoned Eleanor and lunged at Jace's throat.

Jace let out a feral snarl. He didn't dodge. He reached out with both hands and grabbed the wolf's upper and lower jaws mid-air.

Eleanor watched in paralyzed horror. The muscles in Jace's arms bulged, thick veins popping against his skin. With a roar that tore from his lungs, he wrenched his arms apart.

The sound of tearing flesh and snapping bone was deafening. Jace ripped the alpha's jaw completely out of its socket.

A spray of hot, dark blood coated Jace's chest and face. He tossed the dead alpha aside like a broken toy.

The remaining three wolves didn't hesitate. They tucked their tails between their legs and bolted into the darkness, whining in terror.

The forest fell dead silent, save for Jace's heavy, ragged breathing.

He turned slowly. His blood-soaked chest heaved. His dark eyes locked onto Eleanor, who was curled into a ball against the tree, trembling violently.

Eleanor shrank back. She had hit him. She had run away. He was going to kill her.

Jace closed the distance in two long strides. He towered over her, blocking out the stars.

Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the blow.

Instead, Jace dropped to one knee. His massive, blood-stained hands reached out. He didn't strike her. His rough fingers gently, almost hesitantly, touched her arms, checking for injuries.

His eyes scanned the scratches on her face, the torn skin on her palm, and the dirt covering her clothes. The violent rage in his eyes melted away, replaced by a deep, agonizing panic.

Suddenly, Jace's gaze snapped to the ground near her leg.

The snake had slithered back. It coiled, ready to strike Eleanor's ankle.

Jace's hand shot out like a whip. He grabbed the snake right behind its head before it could move. The snake wrapped its thick body around his forearm, hissing violently.

Jace didn't even blink. He squeezed his fist. A sharp pop sounded as he crushed the snake's skull to mush. He casually tossed the dead reptile into the bushes.

He turned back to Eleanor. She was staring at him, her chest heaving, her eyes wide with shock.

Jace let out a soft, rumbling sigh. He reached out and used his thumb to gently wipe a smear of black ash off her cheek.

The extreme gentleness of the gesture, coming from a man covered in gore who had just ripped a wolf apart with his bare hands, shattered the last of Eleanor's defenses.

The adrenaline crashed. Tears spilled over her eyelashes, tracing hot paths down her dirty cheeks.

Jace looked panicked at her tears. He clumsily tried to wipe them away with the back of his hand, only succeeding in smearing a bit of wolf blood on her jaw.

Eleanor didn't care. She looked up at this massive, blood-soaked man. Fear and profound gratitude waged a violent war in her chest. He was savage, terrifying, and the very reason she was trapped in this camp. Yet, at this exact moment, he was also the only impenetrable barrier between her and a gruesome death. Logic screamed at her to keep her distance, but the primal, overwhelming instinct to survive crushed every rational thought. The terror of the wolves, the cold, the absolute isolation-it all crashed down on her. She lunged forward and buried her face into his broad, burning-hot chest.

Jace went completely rigid. For a second, he didn't breathe. Then, his massive arms wrapped around her, pulling her tightly against him. He buried his face in her blonde hair, inhaling deeply.

Listening to the steady, powerful thud of his heartbeat, Eleanor felt the first sliver of safety she had known since falling into this world.

Her exhausted body simply gave out. The darkness rushed in, and she went limp in his arms.

Jace caught her easily. He stood up, cradling her against his chest as if she weighed nothing.

Torches flickered through the trees. Amos and Clay burst into the clearing, spears raised, panting heavily. They stopped dead, staring at the massacred wolves and their leader holding the strange female.

Jace shot them a cold, warning glare. He didn't say a word. He adjusted his grip on Eleanor and began the long walk back to the tribe.

Jace carried Eleanor into the camp.

The tribe was not asleep. The central square was lit by roaring bonfires. Chaos reigned. The air was thick with the copper stench of fresh blood.

In the center of the dirt square, a man lay on a blood-soaked animal hide. It was Silas, one of the tribe's best hunters. His abdomen had been laid open by the claws of a saber-toothed cat. Bright red blood pulsed from the wound in a steady, lethal rhythm.

His mother, Martha, knelt beside him, her hands pressed desperately against his stomach, weeping hysterically as the blood slipped through her fingers.

Malachi, the tribe's Shaman, stood over them. He held a handful of dried herbs and gray ash. His face was grim. He spoke loudly to the crowd, declaring that Silas's spirit was leaving and preparing for the death rites.

Jace frowned. He handed the unconscious Eleanor to Amos and strode toward Silas to inspect the wound.

The noise and the sharp smell of blood jolted Eleanor awake. She gasped, her eyes snapping open. She pushed out of Amos's grip and stumbled forward.

When she saw the gaping abdominal wound and the Shaman preparing to dump dirty ash directly into the open cavity, her modern medical training overrode her fear.

"Stop!" Eleanor screamed.

She shoved her way through the crowd and slammed her hands into Malachi's chest, pushing the old man away from the dying hunter.

The crowd gasped in collective horror. Malachi stumbled backward, dropping his ash. His face twisted in outrage.

Greta leaped forward, pointing a trembling finger at Eleanor. "The outsider! She curses him! Chief, throw her out!"

Jace stepped instantly between Eleanor and the crowd. He let out a low, vibrating growl that silenced the murmurs. He gripped his spear, his eyes daring anyone to step closer. He looked at Eleanor, confusion in his eyes, but he held his ground.

Eleanor ignored them all. She dropped to her knees beside Silas. She ripped open her backpack.

She pulled out a pair of latex gloves and snapped them onto her hands. The taut rubber pressed against her nails, sending waves of tingling sensations up her arm. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper, forcing her violently trembling fingers to remain perfectly steady despite the excruciating pain. She grabbed a bottle of sterile saline solution and a pack of gauze.

Eleanor didn't waste breath on English words Martha couldn't understand. She grabbed Martha's hands, her grip bruising, and forced them down onto a specific spot above the wound. She pressed with all her body weight, locking eyes with the older woman, and let out a fierce, commanding yell that transcended language. Martha flinched, but the absolute, unquestionable authority in Eleanor's fierce glare made her instantly understand.

Eleanor squeezed the saline bottle, flushing the dirt and ash out of the wound. She located the severed artery.

She grabbed a pair of stainless steel hemostatic forceps from her kit. With a quick, precise motion, she clamped the bleeder.

The pulsing flow of blood stopped instantly.

The tribe let out a collective gasp. They stared at the shiny silver tool pinching the flesh, unable to comprehend the magic they were witnessing.

Greta shrieked, "Dark magic! She is drinking his blood!"

Jace shifted his weight, his massive body completely blocking Greta's view. He shot her a glare so lethal she instantly clamped her mouth shut.

Eleanor pulled out a curved suture needle and a packet of catgut thread. She had no anesthesia. This was going to be brutal.

"Hold him down! He's going to fight!" Eleanor yelled, looking up at Jace.

Jace understood the urgency. He dropped to his knees on the opposite side of Silas and pinned the hunter's shoulders and arms to the ground with his massive weight.

Eleanor pierced the skin.

Silas's eyes flew open. He let out a blood-curdling scream and thrashed violently. Jace's muscles bulged as he held the man completely immobile.

Eleanor's hands were steady. She worked with frantic precision, stitching the muscle layers, then the skin, pulling the gaping wound tightly closed.

Ten minutes later, she snipped the thread. She swabbed the area with iodine and taped a large sterile dressing over the stitches.

She dug into her bag and pulled out a blister pack of broad-spectrum antibiotics. She popped two pills out, forced Silas's jaw open, and poured a splash of water down his throat to make him swallow.

Eleanor stripped off the bloody gloves and collapsed backward onto the dirt, her chest heaving, sweat dripping from her forehead.

Silas's screams had faded into a weak groan. His breathing, previously shallow and erratic, settled into a steady rhythm. Color faintly returned to his pale lips.

Martha touched her son's chest. She felt the steady heartbeat. She let out a wail of pure joy, threw herself at Eleanor's feet, and kissed the mud on Eleanor's boots.

The square was dead silent. The tribe stared at Eleanor. The suspicion and hostility were gone. In their eyes, there was only absolute, terrifying awe.

The adrenaline crash hit Eleanor like a physical blow. The world spun, and she slumped forward.

Jace caught her before she hit the dirt. Ignoring the awestruck stares of his people, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her straight up the path to his cave.

He laid her gently on the tiger pelt. Using a clean piece of hide dipped in water, he clumsily wiped the blood and dirt from her face and hands. Eleanor was too exhausted to move. She curled into the warmth of the pelt and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Jace lay down beside her, pulling the heavy fur over them both, his arm locked securely around her waist.

Hours later, in the dead of night, a panicked scream echoed from the medical hut.

Greta, who had been lurking in the shadows, rushed inside with a few of her loyal followers. Silas was thrashing on his mat. His skin was burning hot, his face flushed red with a severe postoperative fever.

In the prehistoric world, a high fever was a death sentence.

A twisted smile spread across Greta's face. She spun around and ran out into the center of the camp, her voice piercing the quiet night.

"The curse! The outsider's dark magic is killing him! She is burning his soul!"

The tribe, already on edge, woke in a panic. They rushed to the hut, saw Silas burning up, and the awe from earlier evaporated, replaced by primal fear.

Malachi, the Shaman, hobbled forward.He pointed his bone staff toward Jace's cave. "The spirits are angry. The witch brings ruin upon us."

"Burn her! Burn the witch before we all die!" Greta screamed, raising a torch.

Fear turned into a mindless frenzy. Dozens of tribe members grabbed torches and weapons, marching up the path toward the Chief's cave, chanting for blood.

The noise woke Jace. His eyes snapped open.

He carefully untangled himself from the sleeping Eleanor. He grabbed his black stone spear and stepped out to the mouth of the cave.

Below him, a sea of torches illuminated the angry, twisted faces of his people.

"Halt!" Jace roared. The sound hit the mob like a physical wall, forcing the front row to stumble to a stop.

Jace stood in the cave entrance, his scarred chest glowing in the firelight. He looked like a god of war, immovable and lethal.

Greta hid behind a large hunter, yelling, "Chief! She is a witch! Silas is burning to death! Give her to us!"

Jace didn't know about the fever, but it didn't matter. "She is my mate. Anyone who touches her dies."

He raised his right arm and hurled his spear. It buried itself deep into the dirt just one inch from the toes of the leading hunter. The wooden shaft vibrated violently.

It was a line drawn in the sand. Cross it, and die.

The mob hesitated, terrified of their Chief's wrath.

Greta pushed Malachi forward. The Shaman banged his staff on the ground. "Jace! You defy the spirits for a demon! Hand her over, or the tribe is doomed!"

Jace's jaw clenched. He pulled his stone dagger from his belt, his muscles coiling, ready to slaughter his own people to protect the woman sleeping inside.

A rustling sound came from behind him.

Eleanor stood in the cave entrance, her windbreaker wrapped tightly around her. She blinked against the glaring torches, her eyes widening as she took in the angry mob and the weapons pointed at her.

"There she is!" Greta shrieked. "Grab her!"

A few hunters surged forward, raising their clubs.

Jace shoved Eleanor behind his broad back. He raised his dagger, a feral snarl ripping from his throat, ready to spill blood.