Page 2 of Hunted By Khor (Alien Mate Hunt #1)

T he heat hits like a wall. Air so dry it pulls moisture from my eyes. But the sand is worse—obsidian grains flood my boots through every seam. Sharp as glass. Hot as coals.

The portal snaps closed behind me. No sound. Just gone, leaving a circle pressed into the sand like a scar.

I'm alone. No extraction. No way home except surviving thirty days without a bond bite.

The packet said: find shelter. High ground. Water nearby. Like alien real estate shopping.

Walking is a battle. Every step sinks ankle-deep. The only mercy is a packed trail—sand pressed flat, like something heavy has traveled this way again and again. Too perfect. Too suspicious. I follow it anyway. Survival demands compromises.

The suit is already failing. Supposed temperature regulation just traps heat. Sweat slides down my spine, pooling at the base. The tonic makes it worse, turning every sensation sharp. Fabric scrapes my skin raw. I clamp down on the responses and keep moving.

The rock outcrop ahead is jagged glass, sharp enough to slice through my gloves. But there are handholds smoothed by long use. I climb. No elegance, just grit. Fingernails tear. Palms sting and bleed. My blood slicks the stone. At least that pain is mine.

The ledge is narrow, three feet high, six deep. I crawl into the back. Not a cave, but it blocks the wind.

Sunset comes like a dropped curtain. One moment blistering heat, the next biting cold. My sweat chills instantly. I wrap myself in the foil blanket and wedge in, counting breaths.

Beneath the sulfur, I smell something else—musky, male, territorial. The tonic is merciless. My body answers when my mind won't. I press my hands tight around the knife to focus.

Inventory: protein bars, purification tabs, a knife that's barely more than a toy, the blanket. No water. No fire kit. Survive the night. That's all.

Dark drops heavy. No moon. No familiar stars. Just constellations that make my eyes ache.

Breathing. Deep. Patient. Below my ledge.

The knife is steady in my hand. A comfort, and a lie.

Claws scrape stone. Slow. Deliberate. Climbing.

A hunter.

He stops just beneath me. He could haul himself up and pin me in a heartbeat. Instead, silence. He lets the fear work its way through me.

Then: “ Kethra nala vei, small female. ”

The translator shapes it: Found you, little female.

I don't move. My pulse hammers. My body betrays me with heat pooling low. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.

“ Vei tanu ketra. Vei tanu slavek nu ketra. ” You can run. You will run for me.

Not a question. A promise.

Claws scrape again, moving down. Not leaving—resetting the game.

I don't sleep. Every shift of wind could be his breath. The knife trades hands when my fingers cramp. Finally, the sky bleeds orange and I creep forward.

Footprints below: three-toed, clawed, the size of dinner plates. Circling the formation again and again, patient as tides.

Older tracks too, half-buried by wind.

From the portal. To this rock.

He didn't find me here last night.

He guided me from the moment I arrived.