Chapter 1: The Glyph That Bled
Palenque, 4:47 a.m. The moon hung low, a jaguar's eye over the Temple of the Inscriptions. Sofía Morales knelt alone on the top step, sweat carving pale rivers down the dust on her throat. Her tank top clung to her breasts like a second skin; her cargo shorts rode low on hips that had carried her through cenotes and cartel checkpoints. In her hand: a chipped obsidian mirror. In the other: a stolen page from the Dresden Codex, edges singed.
She pressed the mirror to a glyph no guidebook mentioned, a coiling serpent devouring its own heart. The stone moved. A hairline crack opened. From it seeped a single drop of something thick, dark, warm. Not water. Not sap.
Blood.
Sofía's breath hitched. She leaned closer. The drop trembled, then crawled up the mirror, over her knuckles, toward the pulse in her wrist. She jerked back, but it was too late. The blood kissed her skin and vanished, leaving only a burn.
A voice behind her, low, amused, dangerous. "Careful, cenzontle. Some secrets bite."
She spun, machete half-drawn. Diego Rivera leaned against a column, shirt unbuttoned, scar on his jaw catching moonlight like a blade. His eyes, storm-gray shot through with gold, raked over her like he was already inside her.
"Rivera." The name tasted like mezcal and gunpowder. Two years ago, in Chichén Itzá, he'd stolen her cenote find, posed with her jade death mask, and fucked a grad student on the cover of Arqueología Mexicana. Sofía had sworn to gut him if their paths crossed again.
He stepped into the moonlight, boots silent. "You felt it, didn't you? The Corazón calling."
She sheathed the machete but didn't relax. "It's a myth. A jade heart that binds souls across lives. Tourists pay good money for fairy tales."
"Then why's your pulse racing?" He tapped the hollow of her throat with one calloused finger. "Why's your skin hot where the blood touched?"
She slapped his hand away, but the contact sparked, electric, wrong. "Stay out of my dig."
"Your dig?" He laughed, the sound curling around her spine. "The Lacandón elders say the jungle chooses its thief. And tonight, mija, it chose us."
He tossed something. She caught it reflexively, a jade bead, warm, pulsing. Etched on it: the same serpent glyph.
"First piece of the map," he said. "There are seven. I have three. You have one. The jungle has the rest."
Sofía's fingers closed around the bead. It throbbed like a second heart. She should throw it back. Should walk away.
Instead, she met his gaze. "If we do this, I lead."
He stepped closer, breath on her lips. "You can lead. I'll follow. But when the Corazón demands a price…" His thumb brushed her lower lip. "I'll be the one collecting."
The bead burned. The glyph bled again. And somewhere deep in the Lacandón, something ancient woke.
Chapter 2: The Sinkhole and the First Sin
Three days later, the jungle had teeth.
Sofía's team, Don Chencho, two porters, and a drone operator named Ximena—hacked through ceiba roots under a sky the color of bruised orchids. The jade bead hung between Sofía's breasts on a rawhide cord, pulsing in rhythm with her steps. Every night, it grew warmer. Every night, she dreamed of Diego's mouth on her throat, his hands spreading her thighs, the word mine growled against her clit.
She hated him. She craved him.
The storm hit at dusk, Chaac's fury, rain like bullets, wind screaming through the canopy. Don Chencho slipped on a vine-slick ridge. Sofía lunged. The earth gave way.
She fell.
She woke in a limestone sinkhole, ankle twisted, Don Chencho unconscious beside her. Rain filled the pit like a chalice. The jade bead glowed, casting green light on the walls, glyphs pulsing in time with her heartbeat.
Hours bled into night. Then, a rope.
"¡Sofía! ¡Agárrate!"
Diego's voice, raw with fear. She tied the rope around Don Chencho. Watched Diego haul him up, shirt plastered to every muscle, biceps flexing like bridge cables. Then her.
She climbed. Palms bleeding. When she crested the edge, Diego grabbed her waist, yanking her against him. Hard.
Their bodies slammed together, wet, filthy, alive. His erection pressed into her belly, thick and urgent.
"Puta madre," he growled. "You're hurt."
She shoved him, but her hands fisted his shirt instead. "Don't"
He kissed her.
No warning. Just hunger. His mouth crushed hers, tongue invading, tasting rain and rage. She bit his lip hard. He groaned, hands sliding under her tank, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts. Her nipples peaked instantly, aching.
She shoved him back, panting. "I hate you."
"Good," he rasped. "Hate fucks better."
That night, under a palm-thatch shelter, the fire crackled. Teams merged. Don Chencho needed a curandero. Sofía sat across from Diego, thighs clenched, pussy throbbing from the kiss.
He watched her, eyes dark. "Take off the wet clothes, Sofía. Before you freeze."
"Watch me."
She stood. Peeled the tank over her head. No bra. Full breasts, dark nipples tight from cold and want. His sharp inhale was victory.
He rose, stalking her. "Joder. You're perfect."
She backed against a ceiba trunk, bark roughly on her spine. "Touch me and I'll cut you."
He dropped to his knees. "Then cut me."
His mouth closed over her nipple, hot, wet, devouring. She cried out, fingers tangling in his hair. He sucked hard, teeth grazing, then moved to the other breast, hands gripping her ass, pulling her against his face.
She came standing, thighs shaking, his name a curse on her lips. He didn't stop—tongue flicking, fingers sliding into her shorts, finding her soaked. Two fingers curled inside her, thumb on her clit, and she shattered again, knees buckling.
He caught her, laid her on the jungle floor, and feasted mouth on her pussy, licking her clean, then starting over. She lost count of the orgasms. When he finally rose, lips glistening, he whispered, "That was just the appetizer."
The jade bead burned between her breasts. The jungle watched
Chapter 3: The Cenote of Souls
Dawn revealed a cenote, a turquoise eye in the green, crocs sunning like sentinels. Diego wove a liana bridge, shirtless, sweat carving rivers down his abs. Sofía watched, biting her lip. She wanted to ride him until he begged.
He crossed first. Halfway, a submerged log surged, crack. He fell.
She dove.
The water was silk and ice. She found him, hauled him to the vine-draped shore. They collapsed, gasping.
His hands were on her instantly, ripping her shorts down, fingers plunging into her slick heat. "Estás empapada," he growled. "Not from the water."
She straddled him, grinding against his hand. "Shut up and fuck me."
He flipped her, yanking his cargos open. His cock sprang free, thick, veined, hers. He entered her in one thrust, filling her completely. She screamed, nails raking his back.
They fucked like animals, hard, fast, the cenote echoing with wet slaps and moans. He pinned her wrists above her head, pounding deep, hitting that spot that made her see stars.
"Mírame," he demanded. "Look at me when you come."
She did. Eyes locked, bodies slick, she shattered, pussy clenching around him, milking him. He followed, roaring her name, spilling hot inside her.
After, floating in the water, he traced her collarbone. "I've wanted this since the first time you threatened to kill me."
She laughed, breathless. "I still might."
But then,the water changed. The turquoise darkened to blood-red. Glyphs glowed on the cenote walls,lovers bound by jade, fucking across centuries, dying in each other's arms. A voice echoed, ancient, hungry:
"Una vida por una vida. El Corazón exige."
The jade bead screamed against Sofía's skin. Diego's eyes widened. "We just paid the first installment.
Chapter 4: The Temple of the Screaming Stones
The temple rose from the mist like a fever dream, steps choked with bromeliads, glyphs pulsing in the dusk. They entered together, headlamps cutting through centuries of dark.
Traps came fast: obsidian blades, scorpion pits, a floor that dropped into a river of bats. They moved as one,her reading the Maya script, him disabling the mechanisms. When a stone serpent struck, Diego shoved her aside, taking the hit to his shoulder, blood blooming like poppies.
Sofía dragged him into a side chamber, tearing his shirt. "Idiota. Hold still."
She cleaned the wound with mezcal, then licked a path from his neck to his nipple, biting. He groaned, cock hardening against her thigh.
"Ahora," she whispered. "Here."
She pushed him down on an ancient altar, straddling him. No foreplay. Just need. She sank onto him, slowly, savoring every inch. He gripped her hips, guiding her as she rode him, breasts bouncing, head thrown back.
The jade heart pulsed on the pedestal, watching.
He flipped her, taking control, thrusts deep, punishing, perfect. She wrapped her legs around him, heels digging into his ass. "Más duro," she begged.
He gave it. The altar shook. She came again, walls fluttering, pulling him over the edge.
As they caught their breath, the murals glowed lovers bound by the jade, fucking across centuries, dying in each other's arms.
"La maldición," Sofía gasped. "It's us. Every life."
Diego kissed her slowly. "Then we fuck the curse into submission."
They took the jade together. The chamber trembled. Sand poured from the ceiling.
They ran, naked, laughing, the jade between them. At the final level, he boosted her. She pulled it, and the door opened. They escaped, alive, together.
But as they stumbled into moonlight, the jade cracked. A single drop of blood seeped from the fissure. And the jungle whispered:
"Tres piezas más. Tres vidas más. O el ciclo recomienza… con sangre."
Chapter 5: The Palapa and the Shadow
(Word count: 920)
They emerged from the Lacandón three days later, marked, mated, whole. The elders took the Corazón with reverence, but Diego and Sofía kept a shard, carved into a plug he used on her under waterfalls, in hammocks, against ceiba trees.
He proposed in the Usumacinta's embrace, ring of jade and gold. She said yes with his cock in her mouth.
Years blurred. Their palapa echoed with children's laughter by day and raw, filthy sex by night. They fucked on dig sites, in cenotes, under Mayan stars, slow and desperate, hate long burned to ash.
Some nights, he'd bind her wrists with lianas, tease her until she begged, then take her slow, whispering, "Eres mía."
She'd bite his shoulder, ride him reverse, and reply, "Y tú eres mío, cabrón."
They thought the curse was broken. They were wrong.
That night, years after the vow…
The palapa was quiet, children asleep. Moonlight striped the floor. Sofía woke to the jade shard burning, hot, urgent, alive.
Diego was already awake, obsidian knife in hand.
Outside, the river had gone silent. No frogs. No night birds. Just the jungle holding its breath.
A shadow moved across the doorway, tall, hooded, wrong. It raised a jade shard, larger, veined with blood-red.
The voice was ancient, layered, hungry:
"El Corazón late de nuevo. La deuda no está pagada. Una vida por una vida… o el ciclo recomienza."
Sofía's blood turned to ice. Diego's knuckles went white.
The shadow stepped inside. The jade in its hand screamed.
And from the children's room came a single, terrified cry,
"¡Mamá!"