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Sinadim gave them no room for argument. “A three percent loss in production in a single season is irrelevant. Easily covered by the boon from the following year. But it hasn’t been a single year of loss, has it? It’s been a steady three to five points for the last sixteen years. Chipping away at the sultanate’s supply in what can only be taken as a direct attempt to weaken the great harems of your Sultan and his heirs.”

“N-no, my prince. That’s not—you’re mistaken⁠—”

“Fourty-three percent loss of Kesh production since you inherited your father’s seat,” Sinadim pressed, hands braced on the tabletop. Unblinking as he built toward a promising climax. “And now, when dwindling supplies are beginning to cause issue, a miracle brew, at the low cost of cherished bloodlines. Omegas whose absence from the harems will weaken our armies further.” He sneered. “Tell me, peasant. If this strain of Kesh is everything the Nine themselves might use, why haven’t your own armies tripled in number? Your harems must be bursting with pregnant Omegas, so why does your own misbegotten spawn know nothing of Hathorian anatomy?”

“My prince, there’s been a grave misunderstanding⁠—”

To this, Sinadim merely showed his teeth. “Spare me your sniveling excuses, Veli. We both know you’ve got about as much of this miracle brew as you do a thriving Zaganos economy. No,” he pressed, taking a breath of pure satisfaction, “I think your coffers are empty and this sad attempt to blackmail the sultanate is your attempt to right what’s gone desperately wrong since you sat your fat, dimpled ass on the Zaganos throne.”

For a moment, there was only the sounds of heavy, scarcely restrained breaths. The scent of males swelling with the need for bloodshed in battle.

And then, “You misunderstand your place, my prince,” Veli spat. And a slow, sick smile spread across honey-glossed lips. “You’ll get me thirty Omega cunts—ten from each of the great harems, I think—and five equally valued studs, or you’ll be stripped of your title as Firstborn and cast out into the wilds to roam amongst the hordes of hopeless lost.”

Head thrown back, a cold bark of laughter escaped the Karahmet prince. “And here I thought you were simply a dull criminal. I had no inkling of your aspiration toward comedy! But when your house falls, I’m sure I can make a case for you joining the painted eunuchs for the circus. Your stories would make a fine addition to the Sultan’s collection of grotesque oddities.”

But Veli merely grinned that sickly grin. Wide enough that it spread to Varjim’s pinched, rat face.

Varjim rolled his neck, letting his scent raise the temperature of the air as he stepped around his father’s seat.

“Prince Sinadim,” Varjim drawled, “the envy of Anhur from the coast, to the wall, and beyond.” Chest puffed up, the Zaganos heir looked down his nose, and said, “A full harem. A robust hybrid army. And now,” his lips spread further still, showing spotted, brown teeth, “the promise of a cunning wife, both beautiful and scarred.”

Eyes narrowed at the taunt laced through that tone, Sinadim’s glare flicked between them before he said, “And here I thought you only had eyes for Hathorian males.”

“Teliah’s father is one of my vassals,” Veli interrupted, his voice light and menacing all at once. “A minor one, certainly, yet the man finds himself… deeply indebted to my house.”

Something cold and forboding slipped down the back of Sinadim’s nape.

“He’s a terrible businessman,” Veli explained, his coastal accent thicker than it had been moments before, as the airs of culture evaporated from the foreign minister’s voice. “Virtually nothing of worth to offer as collateral for his impressive debt, except the dowry his recently widowed daughter might bring. So you see,” he crooned, “Teliah’s womb is mine to give, Prince Sinadim. And the price of such a fine breeding queen is thirty Omega cunts and five studs. Ten bitches from you, your father, and the royal Sultan himself.” That viper’s grin spread across honey-glazed lips. “Unfortunately, this year the price for the barrels of Kesh will have to be negotiated after the crown has made amends for this most… grievous insult.”

Inclining his head, Sinadim flicked his fingers to dismiss the Zaganos ambassadors. Watching their every movement as father and son gathered their things.

But Varjim made no effort to leave. Instead, his eyes fell to the slender, Hathorian male once more when he said, “Until the dowry is paid, Teliah will be sequestered on Zaganos soil, per tradition. But”—Varjim licked his lips, eyes traveling down the length of slim Hathorian limbs—“you have my permission to send the boy as her representative. Presuming he can perform as one of our studs,” he drawled, taking a step, “he can ensure your sweet bride comes to your bed with a womb free of another’s seed.”

And then, three things happened all at once.

Varjim reached for the Omega male cowering in Sinadim’s shadow.

Veli shouted, “Varjim, no!” from out in the hall.

And Sinadim reacted.

Catching the younger male beneath his arm, he spun Varjim toward the table. Claws fully extended where they promised to shred the tender meat in his armpit, it was Sinadim’s turn to croon. “Touching what’s mine will be the last thing you ever do, boy. Now,” he hummed, a deadly soft song whispered at the other’s ear, “say, ‘thank you, my prince, for saving my life.’”

For a moment, Varjim merely continued to fight without thrashing. Trying to find a path to freedom that wouldn’t end in mortal bloodshed.

Sinadim gave him that much. Let the younger male think his way through the consequences of his actions. To weigh the benefits against the consequences of disobeying a Karahmet prince in the heart of the sultanate.

But there were several, ragged breaths in which Sinadim thought the younger male might actually refuse. Long enough that the rut in his blood rose on a vicious, gleeful tide. Whispering for the chance to open arteries and shred muscle all the way down to the bone.

And then, “Thank you, my prince, for saving my life,” was forced through clenched teeth. Spittle spattered against the polished table top as Varjim succumbed to a battle already lost.

Grinning, Sinadim lingered long enough to let the other male feel how badly he’d hoped for the chance at murder. Claws lengthening just enough to slip through the fine fabric of his shirt.

Varjim hissed out a breath, then stilled. Fully submitting. Tail tucked between his legs.

Taking him by the scruff of his limp mane, Sinadim let his claws score that sensitive skin before he bodily threw Varjim from the room without another word. Saying only, “Escort these two directly to their rooms and bar the door,” to the set of hybrid males standing guard at the door.

In the silence that followed, Sinadim focused on controlling his fury. Letting the bloodlust ride with the last legs of his rut, he pulled one breath in, only to let it leak between his teeth in a controlled stream.