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Stifling a yawn, but riddled with an anxious sense of impending doom, Sinadim’s tail shook with the full-body shiver of one who wanted nothing more than to find his bed—empty—and sleep off the last of his rut.

“Were you waiting long, my prince?”

In spite of the tension, Sinadim smiled. His eye was drawn to the approach of his newest possession flanked by an armed guard of hybrid males. A crown jewel to display before any who might think to take what he’d earned.

He owned countless Hathorian females, Omegas who would lift the tail and fuck him empty at a moment’s notice.

But he’d never had the privilege of an Anhur wife.

Freshly showered, hair still damp, Teliah returned his smile, and it was one that saw Sinadim’s stomach tighten. His balls lurched with interest despite his fatigue or that his blood was still thick with the effects of Hathorian slick.

A beautiful creature, his intended. Everything an Anhur female aimed to be.

Strong and poised, her scars displayed with the sort of pride that drew the eye of any healthy male within a thousand leagues. This was a female truly worthy of envy—despite her ties to Veli Zaganos—and one Sinadim would be proud to see swell with his natural sons. Almost his equal in height, she would whelp fine warriors that would be the pride of the Kahramet line.

Brats that would make his mother brag to all the other queens.

“I think you can dispense with the pleasantries, wife,” Sinadim drawled, a ravenous grin spreading across his lips. Instead, his gaze flicked down, to inspect the fine, ceremonial robes of her new station.

“We’re not married yet,” she returned, coy. Teasing, her every breath charged with sexual interest—he could smell it oozing from her pores. Through the elegant dress draped around sleek curves, her mane left untamed. Peppering the air with her heady scent. Enough that the posted guards shifted in sudden discomfort. “I wouldn’t want to be punished for a lack of decorum…”

While she wasn’t in season, Sinadim’s brain was filled with the heavy scent of her arousal. The taste of an Anhur female displaying interest in a potential mate. Unashamed, even before an audience. “Would it be improper…” Sinadim asked, and traced the edge of her collarbone with one extended claw, “if I took you into a quiet hall…” His claw scraped over a shell dangling from her necklace, ringing friction sending a wave of gooseflesh cascading over her fine, golden skin. “Put you on your knees…” Seizing her wrist, he spun her around. Pressed her cheek to the Sultan’s imposing doors, his lips to her pretty, damp hair. “And rutted you from behind like a savage? My thumb buried in your ass as I wrench your tail aside and make room for my knot to stuff you full of royal sperm?”

She groaned, tail flicking across the bulge tenting his pants. A tease meant to entice. Her gaze locked on the guard on the left, she shivered when the other, lesser male glanced her way. Performing for a captive audience. “It would be wrong, my prince. I could be punished…”

“I could send you to meet the Sultan like that,” he rasped, keeping her pinned with one hand. The other reaching for his laces, Sinadim glanced over his shoulder. Considering. Weighing the risks. “My seed soaking through this fine dress. Wetting your thighs…”

“Everyone would know,” she said, panting, and one hand came off the wall, sliding down her front where she hiked up her skirts and dipped into the waistband of her undergarments. Digits squirming behind fabric. “They’d be able to smell what you’d done. I’d be tainted in the eyes of the court.”

A raspy chuckle escaped him, then. “In case you’d forgotten, sweet Teliah, I’m a prince.” Abandoning his laces, his hand snaked around her hip. Palm landing where her fingers worked out of sight. “The Firstborn son. Second in line to the Sultan’s throne. I can do just about anything I want and suffer no consequences,” he breathed and tugged at her wrist. Freeing fingers dipped in sweet, Anhur honey, he claimed those sticky digits and sucked them clean with a lewd groan.

A polite cough interrupted them. The guard on the right avoided eye contact, when he said, “The Sultan will see you now, Firstborn.”

Sinadim grinned, taking one last breath at Teliah’s nape. Adjusting himself with a huffing breath, making sure she felt how hard he’d grown, he said, “Lead on, then,” and nodded at the Sultan’s guard. “After you, wife.”

Teliah returned his smirk. Cheeks flushed with arousal, absent even the smallest hint of shame. There was only the excited flush of a new bride. One that would be made to wait until her next season, but one that now knew what to expect of the husband she’d won in honest combat.

Pushing at the heavy, gilded doors, the Sultan’s guards granted them entry into the reliquary.

It was an impressive space. Imposing. Lit only by torches—hundreds of them—it was a room absent windows. Ringed by pillars that reached for vaulted ceilings carved from granite. Solid. Impenetrable, a vault the Sultan rarely left. One steeped in tradition and riches, a hoard of treasures displayed on spindly pedestals. The items most cherished by fallen enemies, were now little more than glimmering decor seen only by a handful of the Sultan’s closest men. His illegitimate sons who lurked in shadows and never spoke.

Couldn’t, if the rumors about their tongues were true.

The hallway was long, the air still. Disturbed only by the passing of the hopeful pair who approached the throne with respectful silence, despite the scent clinging to Sinadim’s fingers. The wetness lingering between Teliah’s thighs.

Legs sprawled, the Sultan was draped across his throne, hooking sweet fruits on the tips of claws dipped in the glitter of gold. He wore no mane guard and didn’t bother himself with scented oils that might conceal his pheromones and give away his emotions—he sat before them exactly as he was.

Unrepentant.

“Grandfather,” Sinadim said, sinking to one knee, left hand balled into a fist and crossed over his heart.

Teliah’s long legs folded beneath her. Graceful in her descent into submission, her tail tucked in an elegant curl behind her ankles. Eyes kept low, her mane demure, she said nothing before the Sultan.

Perfect.

Sinadim wasted no time. “We come before you with good tidings for the clan, and a desperate warning of treachery.”

The aging male shifted forward, peering down at them. Grey at the temples, yet still every bit the powerful leader who’d claimed so much glory in battle.