The Savage Chief's Coveted Modern Bride

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.