A Jaguar's mate

With the stillness of a statue he stood, immobile as if petrified. His eyes, though scarcely blinking, the only sign he was not a wax model. The intensity in their depths was inhuman, frightening, searing into anything foolish enough to gaze into them. He was in the shadows, his eyes eerily visible like those of a night predator.

The shadows caressed his body, delineating the raw power of its muscular planes, sculpturing an exceptional beauty, one too unnatural that it was content with the night. Somehow he was clear to any who passed him; hollowed cheeks gave an impression of sternness which was accented by the cast of his firm full lips, despite their sensual aspect.

His forehead was high and intelligent looking; his brows dark and slashed across it, a testament to decisiveness. A hard square jaw and aquiline nose completed a face of pure symmetry that only an artistic genius could fashion.

Anger radiated from him, raw, untameable rage pouring from every part of him. The clenched hands and jaw, the intent focus of his eyes that nevertheless saw nothing, a warning of danger any creature could recognize.

Thankfully, few passed through this late in the day, as this part of the park was now too dark. Upon seeing him, they scurried away, chilled by a touch of something beyond what they knew. Even the women who gave him an appreciative once over still hurried away.

He barely noticed, concentrating on the intoxicating scent that was the single thread to his sanity. It was a warm blanket upon the chaotic devastation his mind had long decayed into, the one tenuous grip shielding the innocent from the agonizing death he would deal.

Violence churned in his soul, needing only the smallest of triggers to set it off. Everything annoyed him, the changes a few decades had wrought chaffed his corroded sensibilities, evoked wrath like the world had never seen. All he had left was the thought of her, the knowledge that she was out there in the world waiting for him to find her.

She passed here frequently, her scent stronger than anywhere else -- as fresh as that morning -- he noted. He would wait for her to come by, too weak to chase her down but unable to concentrate on anything else. This had to be the route she used to and from work and soon she would be coming by.

His blood churned; need throbbing through him at the thought of burying himself inside her, claiming her after decades of being denied even her presence, sweet heat soothing the anguished memories whilst he repeatedly drove into her. A groan sounded low in his throat, more a growl, as his already hard body hardened even more.

Years without any warm human touch enflamed his desire beyond even the call her body held for him. With unsatisfactory images of her upon a screen he had had to suffice, a silhouette of her ambrosial body, charcoal gray eyes, luscious full lips, waist length hair -- he had a weakness for long hair -- and that smooth creamed coffee skin. The things he had imagined doing to her over the years!

Knowing his debilitating need for her, his captors had gone as far as to take a sweater that was soaked in her blood to his torture chamber. The man who had brought it casually announced her death as if she were no more than a dog. He had gone mad; complete insanity, raging and yanking against his chains, uncaring as they bit into his flesh.

For days he raged, until he remembered the scent of ice in the blood. They had collected it over the years just to break him. They had almost succeeded. That was when he had broken loose. He knew he was close to his breaking point and that he could not allow.

Her life would be hell without him and that could never be allowed. Pretending anguish, he savored her scent, drawing strength as he let it wrap around his being to alleviate his broken spirit; until they saw through his ruse to his growing strength.

He would hurt her, regrettable but inevitable. The madness they had awakened in him he could barely suppress. A taste of her would bring him back to himself that was paramount; although he could not allow himself to hurt the innocent. Her scent was like wildflowers under the summer sun, with a feminine undertone that was unique to her.

She was near and alone. Anger rose in him at her idiocy even as it suited him. His kind were not the only predators in the night. Humans were much more dangerous in places like these, hunting for no other reason than immediate gratification. His kind did not hunt unless it was necessary and even then, they caused only minimum harm. She would never make that mistake again after he was done with her.

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