He could feel it coursing through her, tangled in every beat of her raging heart. Even in the slippery tears that soaked through his shirt cuff as the infant made known her indignation. It tingled against his skin and crackled along his senses. Power unlike anything he ever dreamed.
An Omega.
So rare as to be near extinct. Their numbers so diminished that what he knew of them came from dusty tomes and whispered rumors. Otaso had no idea this was the secret Kistsam kept. No wonder the announcement of the child’s birth had been so guarded. Even the sex kept hidden from the populace, not even Otaso’s spies able to glean the information.
It would be too much for him to take in, even in her current state. At such a young age, her power was wild, unrestrained. Not even at its full potential. It would kill him if he tried to perform the proper rites here and now and even sacrificing her as he had Kistsam would be beyond him with so much chaos crowding under her skin.
His men would also see it as a weakness if he did not do this now.
“I’ll prepare it for the rite, Imperial Majesty.”
Otaso growled, pulling the shrieking girl to his chest. Cradling her small body, guarding it. His prize. Having fought long and hard for this, he would not see it taken from him so soon. Not until he figured out a way to get what he wanted without destroying himself.
With an effort of will, Otaso climbed to his feet. Shoulders squared, he pulled a sneer across the thin slash of his lips and turned to the trusted advisors he didn’t trust at all.
“If you think I’ll be wasting all of this in some half-destroyed temple to those bitch goddesses, you’re mistaken, Molaro,” Otaso said, long strides carrying him past all the destruction and mayhem as he left the large hall. Each footfall felt up the entire length of his spine, it landed in a crimson burst of energy behind his eyes. Blinding him until he landed the next and begin anew.
“But Imperial Majesty—”
“You dare to question me,” Otaso roared, turning on a heel to stalk towards General Varazi. A gust of blistering wind buffeted them, snapping his ropes and sending power arcing through the air in crackling scarlet bursts.
“I would never, Imperial Majesty,” Varazi ground out, head weighed down by the strain of remaining upright in the face of Otaso’s strength. He didn’t keep his feet for long, crashing to the worn stone on his knees before his emperor. The smooth metal of his gloved hands scraped across the floor, gouging it as Otaso forced him to prostrate himself.
“See that you don’t.” Otaso turned, head held high as he cradled the burbling girl against his chest. Thumb rubbing endless circuits over the chubby length of her thigh as he moved past scenes of destruction and chaos.
It would take time to round up the people who needed to die this day. More still to pick the ones he might wish to take with them back to Aeslomor. He did not have to be present for most of it, could leave the others to have their way with the pretty prisoners and add strong ones to their ranks. Kill the rest.
A hard huff of breath left his lips as a realization came to him.
“Molaro. Find a wet nurse for her,” Otaso added a slow roll of his wrist, two fingers spinning in a lazy circle. “Something with this ridiculous hair they have. Something pleasing to the eye.”
“At once, Imperial Majesty,” Molaro murmured. The quiet rustle of his robes buried on the rattling clank as men fell in behind Molaro for his search.
Hours later in his tent, sated for the moment with the whimpering female who huddled before him as she gave the child her breast, Otaso pondered his predicament. Energy still raged in his veins, molten and painful. As much as he gloried in it, reveling in the intense rush, the more he watched the infant, the more he understood he would not be getting his hands on the chaotic tempest of her strength anytime soon.
Trouble was, he knew she would only grow in power as she aged. This violent storm would become a veritable force of nature. He could feel it down to the very marrow of his bones. It would also become more refined, a honed sword versus the smack of a fist. He could wield her with the same precision. More so if he let her mature to puberty. The time when all things find their true potential, an Omega promised exponential growth.
Eyes the soft velvet of night peered up at him as she fed, glimmers of blue-white pricking all that darkness. Full lips working, holding the tangle of golden locks in a vice like grip, she stared at Otaso as if to accuse. Blaming him for her plight of a low slave to sup on, the softness of her dam lacking as the woman continued to flinch and sob with fat tears.
“Quit your sniveling,” Otaso ordered with a placid smile that held the razor-sharp edge of a warning.
Confusion flittered over the female’s face, uncertainty followed fast by miserable resignation. She stank of it as she bowed her head and gained some control over her display.
“Do you know what they named the child?”
He waited for a span of moments, tolerating the woman’s trembling lip and quavering form for at least that long after what he’d forced her to endure. These people were soft, in mind and body. Fat on the excess of wealth the fertile valley provided, pampered by the false security of the mountains that ranged around them. They’d lived too long in the shadow of their king and his protection.
It was time they understood it had been no protection at all.
She’d bear the marks long after he tired of her, both body and mind. He was nowhere near finished with her even for this night, and it was a long road back to Aeslomor.
He had only so much patience, though. Hand snapping out, he caught the bitch’s chin. Jerking her forward by the grip on her jaw, upsetting the jostled infant whose suction ceased. As her angry wails began, the woman’s mewling cries joining, Otaso smiled.
“I asked you a question. You will answer now.”
“Strissina,” the woman breathed, too terrified to even whisper.
Otaso made a grunt of disgust, shoving her back. Sprawling in his chair, he eyed the child whose puckered frown admonished him for disturbing her dinner. To think a months old child would dare where full-grown men cowered.
