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“T-Thank you, my prince.”
The voice startled him. Musical, yet masculine, it was a voice raspy with disuse. That of a Hathorian male prized for his beauty. Trained to be of service, but actively discouraged from speaking unless commanded to do so.
Sinadim blinked. Finding soft, honeyed eyes shining at him from an elegantly tattooed face. “Think nothing of it,” the prince said at length. Gruff. Uncomfortable.
But the Hathorian male persisted. “I owe you a debt. If… if there’s anything—”
“There is,” Sinadim said before the slender male might offer something neither had any interest in taking. “In your report to Hadim, mention only the success of these negotiations. And consider us even.”
For the space of several breaths, the boy continued to stare without blinking. And without another word, he inclined his blond head in a lingering bow and slipped through the servant’s door without another sound.
Leaving Sinadim alone with his thoughts, and the knowledge that Veli Zaganos always had another blade to twist…
4
Sinadim went straight to the guest suits.
Bypassing the many posted guards, flaunting rigid custom that demanded his intended bride remain sequestered with blood kin, Sinadim was filled with purpose bordering on the edge of full-blown, irrational panic.
His mind utterly consumed with the twist of a second, hidden blade.
Teliah.
The weak link in his otherwise formidable defenses, Teliah was not protected by his inner sanctum. And until they were officially bound, her belly ripe with the evidence of his vastly superior seed, she would be vulnerable.
A target for unworthy villains lurking in her own house.
Lip curled, Sinadim strode through the wall of hybrid males wearing Zaganos colors and stood at the threshold not meant to be crossed. Listening, for a moment, to the sounds of drunken cheer as Teliah and her blood celebrated a great victory.
“My prince,” one of the posted hybrids murmured, bowing his head despite the subtle way he stepped between Sinadim and the door. One hand pressed to his heart as he exposed his throat. “How may I assist—”
“Summon my intended,” Sinadim barked. Brisk. Straining to keep his mane flat despite the rising tide of panic bubbling behind his ribs. “We’re going to stand before the Sultan.”
The hybrid male had the gall to hesitate. “At-At once, my prince. But—it’s highly unusual—”
His temper frayed. Just enough to make his mane ripple and perfume the air with homicidal intent. But it was all it took for the hybrid soldier to reel back without another word, disappearing behind the closed door.
Sinadim didn’t wait.
He couldn’t.
Already, he’d lingered in her chambers long enough to flaunt long-held tradition—to do so and stand before the Sultan and dare to ask permission for Teliah’s hand?
Not even the Firstborn prince was so bold.
Besides, he knew Veli Zaganos wasn’t foolish enough to make an attempt on Teliah’s life under the Sultan’s roof. And should Teliah’s kin allow her to wander the palace without a guard, Sinadim would slaughter them all himself and beg forgiveness later.
Turning on his heel, the prince went directly to the Sultan’s wing.
Sweeping through corridors, past heavy draperies and colorful mosaics, through lavish bathing pools teeming with scented waters and exotic flowers. Over the parapet between the Firstborn’s residence, and through the passage used only by blood in the Karahmet line.
Only then did he speak to the posted guards to demand a meeting with his esteemed grandfather.
Left to wait, fidgeting, Sinadim stood outside heavy gilded doors, guarded on both sides by the Sultan’s finest hybrid sons. The thick wood was charred almost black, laced with swirling, violent carvings painted with a delicate golden filigree that depicted ancient battles the Kahramet line was infamous for.
His lineage.
Artful lies, of course—it was always the victor who got to fill out the pages of the history books.
