The Serpent King's Unwilling Human Mate

Fallon stared at the shadow, her knuckles white around the stone. Sweat dripped down her temple.

The figure stepped into the light.

It was a man. A very tall, very muscular man. He had to be at least six foot two, with broad shoulders and arms that looked like they were carved from stone. He wore nothing on his upper body, showing off tanned skin marked with faint scars. Around his waist was a rough black animal skin.

But what made Fallon's brain completely stall out were his eyes.

One was silver. One was red. Vertical slits.

Just like the snake.

The stone slipped from her numb fingers, landing on the animal skin with a soft thud.

The man glanced at the stone, then at her. His face was completely blank. He didn't look angry or surprised. He just looked.

He walked past her toward the center of the cave. There was a circle of stones surrounding a pile of ash and dry grass. He picked up two dark rocks and struck them together.

Sparks flew. The dry grass caught fire. Within seconds, a warm blaze was crackling, illuminating the man's sharp jawline and long, silver-gray hair that fell past his shoulders.

He reached for a slab of meat sitting on a flat stone nearby. It was huge, raw, and freshly killed. He skewered it on a thick wooden stick and propped it over the fire.

The smell of roasting meat filled the cave. It smelled like... just meat. No salt. No pepper. No garlic. Just burning hair and raw flesh.

The man turned the spit. Then, without looking at her, he spoke. His voice was deep and rough, like gravel scraping against wood. He had a strange accent she couldn't place.

"You have no mate's scent."

Fallon blinked. Her jaw dropped. "You speak English?"

The man frowned slightly, his brow creasing. "It is the common tongue of the continent."

The words didn't compute. Continent? Common tongue? Was this some kind of elaborate prank? A hidden camera show? No, the monster in the forest was too real. The beast. The impossibly huge snake. Her mind reeled with the insane implications, a cold sweat breaking out on her forehead as she tried to rationalize the sheer absurdity of the situation.

She swallowed hard, trying to find her voice. "That... that big snake. Where is it? What did you do to it?"

The man's hand paused on the spit. For a split second, something flickered in those mismatched eyes. Guilt? Fear? It was gone too fast to tell.

"This is my territory," he said, his voice turning cold. "There is no snake here."

Fallon stared at him. He was lying. She knew he was lying. Those eyes were a dead giveaway. But why?

He pulled the meat from the fire. It was barely cooked. The outside was charred black, but the inside was still red and bloody. Juices dripped from it, hissing when they hit the hot stones.

He held the dripping slab out to her. The smell hit her first—a nauseating mix of burnt hair, charred flesh, and raw, coppery blood that stung her nostrils. "Eat."

Fallon's stomach turned. The overwhelming stench made her gag. She waved her hands frantically, shaking her head. "No. No, thank you. I'm not hungry."

The man's eyes narrowed. The coldness in them intensified. He thought she was rejecting his offering. His food.

"Eat," he repeated, his voice harder. "Or you will die. The wind season comes."

"I don't care about the wind season!" Fallon snapped, her fear turning into frustrated anger. "I lost my phone! I can't call an Uber! I can't call the cops! And you want me to eat that? It's bleeding!"

The man looked confused. He didn't understand 'Uber' or 'cops'. But he understood her tone. He heard the break in her voice.

He pulled the meat back, staring at her. She was crying. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks, cutting tracks through the dirt and dried blood on her face.

He sat there, frozen. He looked like a statue, unsure of what to do. He reached out a hand toward her face, his fingers rough and stained with soot. But he stopped an inch away, staring at his own hand like it was a dangerous weapon, and slowly pulled it back.

Fallon buried her face in her knees and sobbed. She was stuck in a cave with a snake-eyed man who wanted to feed her raw meat, in a world where English was the 'common tongue' but cell phones didn't exist.

The man sat silently by the fire, watching her cry. He looked like a guardian angel carved from stone, if that angel had the eyes of a demon and absolutely no idea how to comfort a crying woman.

As her sobs finally began to quiet into shuddering breaths, Fallon lifted her head just enough to peer over her knees. The fire had burned lower, casting long shadows across the cave walls. The man hadn't moved.

She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, a fresh wave of exhaustion rolling over her. But beneath the exhaustion, a tiny spark of something else flickered—survival instinct, maybe. Or just stubbornness.

"What's your name?" she asked, her voice hoarse and cracked.

The man's head tilted slightly, as if the question surprised him.

"You speak. You feed me. You have a name, don't you?" Fallon pressed, her tone edging toward the demanding register she'd perfected on difficult baristas back in LA.

He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "My kind name is long. Hard for warm-bloods to say." He paused, the firelight dancing in his mismatched eyes. "I chose another. For trade. For when I must speak to others."

"And?"

"Justice." The word came out heavy, deliberate, as if he'd carried it alone for a very long time. "I am called Justice."

Fallon let the name settle in her mind. It was strange—old-fashioned, almost Biblical. But somehow it fit the grave, watchful man sitting across from her.

"Justice," she repeated quietly. "Okay."

She didn't offer her own name. Not yet. Some instinct told her to hold onto that small piece of herself a little longer.