Mated To The Ruthless Savanna King

per, was scraping against Fr

, rhythmic puffs of air, pulled hi

thick with fog. He'd told his building's super a dozen times that

, swinging a hand to

arm didn

He felt a thick layer of something soft and dense

s snapp

m. The light was so intense it felt like needles in his eyes, forc

. This wasn't his cramped New York apartment. This was... everywhere. An

a wildlife photographer for National Geographic, hanging out of an open door to capture the thunderous migration of wildebeest across the Maasai Mara. The helico

gravitational pull, different scents, something he couldn't name. He wasn't on Earth an

opped, tryi

h wide, terrified blue eyes staring right at him. Cheetah cubs. His photographer's brain sup

cry. But beneath the sound, something else echoed, a tho

I'm h

ue-screened. What

where over eighty percent of the land was covered by sprawling grasslands and dense forests, and at the top of the food chain sat the great cats. Lions, leopards, cheetahs-they ruled this continent, and among them existed a class called the Evolved. These Evolved possessed intel

f a paw on his throat, and then the slow darkness. The body had somehow survived, heart still beating, brain still firing, but the consciousness that had inhabited it was gone. And Franco, dying in a burning

universe. All he knew was the endless savannah, the burning sun, and the constant, gnawing awareness that he was utterly alone in a body that wasn't his. He searched desperately for any sign of civiliz

sing became a clumsy, four-limbed struggle. He felt his center of gravity lurch

ful of dust and loo

Sharp, black claws emb

hat vibrated through his entire chest. He tried to scream, to shout the FML that was expl

ed his head under Franco's chin, a gesture of hesitan

o

craning his neck to look at his own hindquarters. The phy

He covered his face with his paws, the unfam

ought screamed through his mind, a

a sharp, guttural hiss he couldn't control. They scrambled back, their tiny bod

e cubs were nothing but skin and bones, too weak to even run. They had hissed at him with the last of their strength, tiny, pathetic little threats that had broken something open inside him. Their mother was dead. Th

successful hunt had been a near-religious experience-a newborn black impala fawn, clumsy and slow. He'd botched it six times before sheer luck delivered the kill into his claws. When he'd finally torn into the warm

panic. It struck a chord deep inside him, a part of his human s

umsily crawled toward them. He nudged Roy with his chin, the w

Hunger. Not the polite, can-wait-for-lunch hunger of a human, but a raw, gnawing empt

keep the meat two or three times. Lions would saunter in like they owned the place and steal his hard-earned meal. Hyena clans would cackle their way through the carcass while he slunk away, furious and humiliated. Each theft forced him to retreat with his sons, tail metaphorically between his legs, empty-bellied and seething. The frustration was indesc

s with no cover. A death trap. His photographer's instinct, honed by years of waiting for the pe

ldn't st

documentaries, gently grabbing Roy by the scruff of his neck. But

go, his heart clenching

letting out a low, commanding

. He nipped at his brother's hind leg, urging him

g hare burst from the bru

oiling like powerful springs. He exploded forward, a gold

s human brai

, lead the target, adju

His legs tangled. He lost his balance mid-air, a graceful missile suddenly

re van

own paws in utter humiliation. He had the body of the world's

didn't laugh-could cheetahs even laugh?-they just started li

lief that he was their protector, washed over him. It

ir filling his powerful lungs. This tim

n thoughts away and listened. He heard the whisper of the wind, the buzz

. Hiding beh

t plan. He let his body d

t, his body a low, fluid shadow. He saw the hyrax, a smal

n explosion of power. A single, precise bi

ck to the cubs. The smell of raw meat and blood

n and Roy, at their

o the flesh, ripping off a pi

devou

ive that he'd gagged and pawed at his tongue for a solid minute. If he'd been reincarnated as a vulture, he would have immediately attempted to die again. The cubs, bellies full, set about grooming each other, tiny rough tongues cleaning the blood from their spotted face

owly replaced by a strange, fierce warmth. It was the feeli