The Savage Chief's Coveted Modern Bride

Gravity vanished.

The darkness of the Yale archaeological dig site swallowed Eleanor Strong whole. She had been trailing her professor into a newly discovered burial chamber, her backpack heavy with his tools, when the ancient floor gave way beneath her feet. One moment she was a diligent graduate student—the next, she was falling into the unknown. Air rushed past her ears in a deafening roar, tearing the scream from her throat. Her stomach violently shoved its way into her chest. She flailed her arms, her fingertips scraping against the slick, damp rock of the cavern wall. Sending sharp spikes of pain up her forearms, but she found no purchase.

Below her, the pitch-black void split open.

A jagged tear of blinding blue-purple lightning ripped through the darkness. The air pressure shifted so violently her eardrums popped. A massive, invisible force latched onto her body, yanking her straight into the center of the electrical storm.

The light vanished.

Eleanor slammed into the ground. Her heavy tactical backpack took the brunt of the impact, but the kinetic force still rattled her skull. Her teeth clamped down on her tongue. The metallic taste of copper flooded her mouth. She coughed, a wet, hacking sound, and spat blood into the dirt.

She curled into a tight ball. Every breath felt like a knife dragging across her ribs. She forced her eyes open.

The dry, dusty air of the Nevada desert was gone. Instead, thick, humid heat pressed down on her skin, heavy with the stench of rotting vegetation and animal musk. She pushed herself up on trembling hands. Through the tangled mess of her blonde hair, she saw massive tree trunks, thick as concrete pillars, stretching up into a dense canopy that blotted out the sky.

A sharp, rhythmic beeping cut through the silence.

Eleanor looked at her left wrist. The battery warning on her smartwatch flashed. The GPS signal icon in the corner was a stark, solid red X. Dead.

Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her veins. Her hands shook violently as she reached for the zipper of the tactical pouch on her waist. She needed her flashlight. Her fingers fumbled, slipping off the nylon fabric. The zipper was stuck.

A low, vibrating growl vibrated through the soles of her boots.

Eleanor froze. The breath trapped itself in her lungs.

Ten yards away, the dense ferns parted. Two eyes, the color of sickly yellow-green bile, locked onto her. A head emerged. It was a wolf, but the proportions were entirely wrong. The skull was massive, the dark gray fur matted with dried blood. It was the size of a grizzly bear.

The prehistoric beast opened its jaws. Thick, viscous saliva dripped from teeth the size of hunting knives, hitting the dead leaves with a faint, acidic hiss. Its front shoulders dropped. The muscles in its hind legs coiled.

Eleanor's brain screamed at her to run. Her legs refused to obey. They felt like lead. She scrambled backward on her hands and heels, her