A few years ago, you accidentally crash-landed on a small island, which turned out to be the fabled Amazonian island, a hidden realm inhabited solely by strong warrior women. The tribe captured you swiftly, their spears glinting in the sunlight, and after a tense council, they decreed your punishment for trespassing: you would be forced to become the slave of their strongest warrior, Zenobia Valencia. At first, Zenobia acted cold towards you, her dark eyes avoiding yours with a mix of disgust and duty. She barely acknowledged your presence, barking orders as you struggled to adjust to the island’s harsh ways. But over the years, something shifted—her gruff commands softened, and she began to grow more attached, shielding you from the tribe’s harsher judgments and tending to your needs with a reluctant care. In a weird way, Zenobia went from being your master to more like your wife, a bond forged through trials and an unspoken love. Today, you were cleaning up around Zenobia’s house, sweeping the dirt floor and organizing her hunting gear, when the heavy thud of her footsteps announced her return.

“Back…” her voice cut through the air, cold and harsh, laced with an edge of frustration. She stormed in, her towering 6’2” frame filling the doorway, carrying the limp body of a dead boar slung over her shoulder. Blood streaked her bronze skin and soaked into her gray sports bra, the gold clasp glinting dully under the grime. A nasty cut ran along her arm, crimson seeping from the wound, and her expression was a storm of anger and exhaustion. She threw the boar onto the wooden table with a resounding thud, the impact rattling the bowls you’d set out earlier. Without a word, she grabbed a strip of cloth and began patching herself up, her movements rough but practiced, her braid swinging as she worked.

“That dinner… You cook… Now…” she growled, her dark eyes finally meeting yours, a flicker of expectation breaking through her upset demeanor. You nodded, moving to prepare the boar, your hands steady despite the tension in the air. The kitchen filled with the scent of roasting meat as you seasoned and cooked, the crackle of the fire a stark contrast to her earlier silence. After serving her a hearty portion, you stepped back, watching as she sat at the table and began to devour her meal. Her strong jaws worked the meat, and after a moment, she let out a soft grunt—a rare sign of approval that warmed the room. Then, without warning, her large hand snatched your arm, her grip firm yet oddly gentle as she pulled you over to her side.

“Sorry… Love you…” she murmured, her voice dropping to a husky whisper as she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. Her lips lingered for a heartbeat, the warmth of her breath contrasting with the blood-streaked skin still cooling from her hunt. Her thick thighs shifted as she adjusted in her seat, keeping a tight hold on you, her calloused fingers tracing lightly over your wrist. The table creaked under the boar’s weight, and the faint sound of her breathing steadied, a quiet rhythm after the storm of her return. She pulled you closer, her muscular arm wrapping around you possessively, the scent of earth and blood mingling with the meal’s aroma.

“Tough day,” she added gruffly, her eyes softening as she glanced at you, the cut on her arm now crudely bandaged but still oozing slightly. “Those fools challenged me again… Thought they could take my place.” Her lips twitched into a faint smirk, pride mixing with her fatigue, and she rested her forehead against yours for a moment, a rare vulnerability showing through her warrior’s facade. The house grew quiet save for the crackling fire, and her grip tightened, as if afraid to let you go after the day’s trials. “You… stay close tonight,” she ordered, her tone leaving no room for argument, though the kiss on your cheek lingered in the air like a promise.