Page 12 of Snared (The Legion: Savage Lands Sector #8)

Okay, in hindsight, following a sentient vine deeper into a literal alien jungle wasn’t my brightest idea.

Even if the vine *was* named Phil and had excellent directional instincts.

But after Lor stalked off to do his Legion Reaper patrol thing, the walls of our little treehouse shelter started closing in on me.

I needed air. Space. Adventure. And Phil—bless his leafy little heart—seemed more than happy to provide it.

To be fair, I was trying to be proactive.

Lor had gone on his rounds, doing his usual stalking-through-the-underbrush thing, all big muscles and smoldering cat-guy menace.

That tail of his swishing behind him like a metronome of repressed feelings.

He’d given me that look—the one that said “stay put or I’ll growl disapprovingly at you for at least three seconds”—before disappearing into the foliage.

I lasted exactly twenty-seven minutes.

“I’m just going to stretch my legs,” I announced to the empty shelter. “Stay inside the safe zone. Nothing dangerous about that, right?”

Phil, who had been quietly coiled near my sleeping moss, perked up immediately. The vine stretched toward me, its tip curling in what I’d come to interpret as enthusiasm.

“You want to come too, buddy?” I asked.

Phil wiggled his leafy appendage like a green thumbs-up, then wound gently around my wrist—his version of holding hands. The other vines parted as we approached the edge of the platform, forming a natural ladder down to the jungle floor.

“See? Totally safe,” I muttered to myself. “Lor is just being over-protective. Classic sexy alien bodyguard syndrome.”

The jungle floor felt springy beneath my bare feet, a carpet of iridescent moss that seemed to pulse with each step.

Phil tugged me forward, leading me along a path that hadn’t existed moments before.

The other vines moved aside, creating a walkway that wound between massive tree trunks and beneath cascades of flowering creepers.

At first, it was great. Warm breeze caressed my skin, filtered jungle light dappled the path in emerald and gold, and distant chimes echoed from whatever alien birds lived up in the canopy.

Small creatures—like iridescent dragonflies with double wings—darted around me, leaving trails of light in their wake.

The vines made way for me, cushioning my steps, occasionally offering small fruits or flowers as I passed.

It was almost...relaxing.

Naturally, I ruined it.

My brain—being the chaotic gremlin it was—started working overtime. I couldn’t help it. The journalist in me was already packaging this whole experience for consumption back on Earth (assuming I ever got back there).

Hook ideas for the “I fell through a government rift and got a tail-curled alien protector—10/10, would portal again.”

“Are vines sentient? Sexy? Both? Let’s discuss.”

Title for the episode: “Snared by a Savage Sentient Vine: How I Got Jungle-Laid.”

I snorted at my own terrible pun, earning a curious squeeze from Phil around my wrist.

“Just thinking about work stuff,” I explained, patting his vine-body. “Don’t worry about it.”

Phil gave me the plant equivalent of a shrug and continued leading me deeper into the jungle.

I realized we’d been walking for longer than I’d intended—probably fifteen minutes now.

The “safe zone” Lor had mentioned was likely far behind us.

But everything seemed fine. Better than fine, actually.

The jungle felt... welcoming. Like it wanted me here.

I was so caught up in my internal writer’s room that I didn’t notice the shift in the jungle atmosphere. The subtle dimming of the bioluminescent fungi. The way the chiming bird-things had gone silent. The almost imperceptible retreat of the smaller vines from our path.

Not until Phil stopped cold.

Literally blocked me with his vine-body like a leafy mom arm in a braking minivan.

“Whoa, buddy,” I blinked, nearly tripping over him. “What’s up?”

Phil curled tighter around my wrist, making a soft hiss sound I hadn’t heard before. The vine tensed, pulling me backward with surprising strength. That’s when I finally noticed what Phil had already sensed—movement in the trees ahead. Not vines. Not wildlife.

Something else. Something wrong.

The movement was too regular, too mechanical. A faint metallic gleam caught the light as it shifted position—some kind of device scanning the area with precise, measured sweeps. It hadn’t spotted us yet, but it was coming closer, methodically working its way through the underbrush.

I remembered Lor’s words about the fugitive he was hunting. The Cydarian weapons smuggler with technology that could destroy worlds. Was this part of that technology? A scout? A weapon?

My heart rate kicked up several notches.

Every instinct screamed at me to run, but my feet seemed frozen in place.

Phil tugged harder, trying to pull me back the way we’d come, but it was too late.

The mechanical thing swiveled in our direction, its scanning beam painting the jungle floor in sickly blue light.

Before I could turn and sprint back to camp, a blur of golden motion burst through the brush behind me?—

“Stay behind me!” Lor roared, claws fully extended, muscles bunched and taut, tail snapping behind him like a whip of fury.

I did not argue.

I pressed myself against the nearest tree trunk, Phil wrapped protectively around my shoulders as Lor positioned himself between me and the threat.

The mechanical device—some kind of floating drone the size of a basketball, covered in sensors and what looked disturbingly like weapons—emitted a high-pitched whine and launched itself directly at us.

The whatever-it-was didn’t stand a chance.

Lor took it down in seconds, all lethal grace and furious protectiveness.

He moved faster than my eyes could track, a golden blur of claws and precision.

The drone sparked and screeched as he tore through its outer casing, disabled its weapons, and finally crushed its central processor in one powerful grip.

When it was done—the drone a smoking heap of twisted metal and broken circuits—I stood shaking, adrenaline punching through my system like a shot of pure espresso. My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I thought it might bruise.

Lor turned to me, his amber eyes blazing with a mix of fury and concern. His chest heaved with exertion, his claws still extended and dripping with some kind of fluid from the drone’s internal systems.

Phil unwrapped from my shoulders and extended a tendril toward Lor, the two of them communicating in that silent way that still mystified me.

“Snitch,” I muttered to Phil, though there was no real heat in it. The vine had probably saved my life by alerting Lor to my predicament.

Lor didn’t say anything for a long beat. Just looked at me with those fierce, glowing eyes. His tail lashed behind him, betraying his agitation more clearly than words ever could. Then he turned and stalked back toward camp, clearly expecting me to follow.

I did, chastened and embarrassed, but also inexplicably, inappropriately aware of how the muscles in his back flexed with each movement, how smoothly he navigated the dense foliage, how completely and utterly he had destroyed a threat to keep me safe.

Not gonna lie...a little turned on.

Okay, a lot turned on.

I followed him back to safety, already formulating my defense and wondering if there was any way to spin this that didn’t end with me looking like a complete idiot.

Something told me I wasn’t going to win this argument, but then again—based on the way my pulse quickened every time he glanced back to make sure I was still following—maybe losing wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Later, after I’d used jungle soap-foam from a plant Lor handed me (yes, really), and strung together a surprisingly comfy new leaf-wrap that didn’t look half bad, I found myself sitting on a moss-cushioned log while Lor cooked.

Not heated up rations or assembled alien fruit platters.

Actually cooked. With fire and everything.

The domesticity of it struck me as absurdly charming—this lethal warrior-cat who’d dismantled a killer drone with his bare hands was now carefully turning skewers of meat over glowing embers, his expression as concentrated as if he were defusing a bomb.

“What exactly am I about to eat?” I asked, eyeing the sizzling chunks of something that smelled disturbingly delicious.

Lor glanced up, those amber eyes reflecting the firelight. “Protein.”

“Wow, so specific. Really narrows it down.”

The corner of his mouth twitched—which, for Lor, was practically rolling on the floor laughing. “You would not recognize the species name.”

“Try me. I’m a journalist specializing in the weird and unexplained.”

He considered this, then said something that sounded like gargled marbles with extra consonants.

“Okay, fine, you win,” I conceded. “I’m going to call it jungle chicken and we’re never discussing it again.”

He nodded, apparently satisfied with this compromise, and returned to his cooking. The fire cast dancing shadows across his bronze skin, highlighting the black rosette markings that ran across his shoulders and down his back. His tail moved in lazy sweeps behind him, relaxed in a way I rarely saw.

The scent made my stomach growl loud enough for him to glance over with a smirk.

“You laugh like I haven’t almost died twice today,” I grumbled, accepting the skewer he handed me. “Okay, three times if we count whatever this mystery meat is.”

I bit into it cautiously, then moaned embarrassingly loud as flavors exploded across my taste buds—smoky, rich, with a hint of something like herbs and spices I couldn’t identify. It was ridiculously good.

“Holy crap,” I mumbled around a mouthful. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”