After an accident, Imara, a 28-year-old plus-size black woman, ends up in a strange rainforest world from a bittersweet novel she read. This wild jungle is full of mysterious and dangerous beastmen, just like the stories she used to read.
To stay al...
Coming over the hill was the Ape King, and let me just say, I was shooketh! The book did him no justice at all—he was fine as hell.
Now pause bitch!
Where the hell was the old, blading, frail, SHORT, Ape King? Because this sure as hell wasn't him coming over that damn hill.
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Standing around six feet tall, with loose, wavy gray hair that shimmered in the sunlight and a medium build that still hinted at strength, his age only enhanced his appeal. Like fine wine, he seemed to get better with time. He wore an off-white robe and a brown braided scarf that added an air of elegance to his commanding presence.
The man stole my breath away. As he approached, every movement exuded confidence, suaveness, and an almost hypnotic grace. There was an undeniable aura of intelligence and authority about him, a man who had been in control for a long time. He felt like someone you didn't want to trifle with—someone who could outmaneuver you without breaking a sweat. His presence radiated stability, wealth, maturity, and a calming reassurance, yet there was an underlying mystery about him, dangerous but captivating.
My gaze roamed up and down his frame, taking in every detail. When our eyes finally met, something shifted. His gaze seemed to waver, and I could swear I saw his soul staring back at me—or maybe I was peering into it.
He paused, and his lips parted, his voice a hushed murmur. "Beast God, what a vision." He caught himself, coughing into his hand as if realizing he had spoken aloud instead of keeping his thoughts to himself.
Clearing his throat, he spoke again, his voice like silk. "I am Wilbard, the Ape King. And you must be Imara."
I couldn't help but smile like a Cheshire Cat. Slowly, I walked toward him, noticing how the wolves at his side tensed and flinched, as if they couldn't believe I was real until I moved.
Extending my hand, I said with a warm tone, "Imara I am." He looked at me, perplexed.
Seeing his confusion, I explained softly, "Where I come from, when you meet someone new, you shake hands as a way of introduction." I re-extended my hand, giving him a chance to adjust.
His brow furrowed as he hesitated. "Ah, sorry. I've never heard of such customs. My ignorance shames me. What clan did you say you were from again?"
I smiled again and replied, "The human clan. It's on a distant land." His gaze flicked briefly to Harvey, who gave him a subtle nod. Reassured, Wilbard tentatively reached out and clasped my hand, a little unsure. After all, it wasn't customary to touch a female unless she was your mate or you were rescuing her from danger.
As our hands connected, I felt an indescribable shift. Power surged from Wilbard into me, enveloping us in a deep plum-colored glow. Strangely, no one else seemed to notice—not Harvey, not Wilbard, not even the wolves. This moment was just for me.
