Every inch of Farrah’s body said she was a Huntress. Wearing a dark green camisole top and stained canvas pants, her build was toned, slim, lithe. Her dark skin curved in all the right places, a gentle but not obnoxious curve at her chest and hips, and a generous, muscular ass. Her bare arms were muscled, with a patchwork of scars all over: remnants of many a successful hunt. Farrah was a jungle cat, a panther, ready to strike.
Her partner and protege, Claire, had a similar build. Her dirty blonde hair ringed an angelic face, cherubic blue eyes that sparkled when she spoke. Those eyes were the last thing many a man had seen, for even though this was Claire’s first hunt as certified Huntress, she was not a novice. She crept up stealthily behind Farrah, making sure that she disturbed the wildlife around her as little as possible.
And finally, the third partner, the verdant jungle that surrounded them, filled with jumpy animals who had never seen a human before, unflappable plants that had seen far too many, and their prey: A single man. Claire ran through the description in her head: Young, probably not older than 30, pale skin that had been whipped and marked until there was a patchwork of scars. And of course, between his shoulder blades, the stylized M, that marked him as meat.