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As they descended, they passed his men. Disguised as wealthy merchants, scattered from floor to floor as if awaiting their turn in the cramped, heinous stalls where hybrid females were chained in place. Laughing and drinking, they lurked in the gloom. Assassins waiting for the command that would see them tear the brothel down, curtain by curtain.

Each floor was worse than the one before.

On the second, they found a dozen females on their knees. Bare breasts soaked in clotted filth. Faces streaked with lashes of spoiled, crusted seed.

On the third, a merchant selling lines of powdered slick for a half copper, or a fresh sip for three. Just enough to threaten the wealthier males with a true Anhur rut without inducing it. Enough to set them loose on a hybrid female for as long as their false rut lasted.

Mane standing on end, Sinadim’s throat vibrated in a low snarl. Menace rolling through his muscle and sinew, for with every step, they grew closer to the source of that slick.

Omegas.

“They must have a respectable harem,” Sinadim murmured, pushing through a thinning crowd of Anhur and hybrid males who could afford to be on this floor. “Enough females to produce slick at such a rate.”

Icy blue eyes flicked to the prince’s face. Balkazar’s were lips set in a tight line. A muscle flexed at the corner of his jaw, but the war chief said nothing.

Frowning now, Sinadim’s man bristled, expelling a flood of musk laced with the scent of murder. Rebelling against the ominous weight of that silent, guarded look.

He was missing something.

Something horrible and profound.

Something Balkazar knew but couldn’t bring himself to speak aloud.

Bracing, Sinadim took the stairs and descended. Claws dimpling his palms, face set in a mask of eager anticipation to cloak the roiling disgust.

“It’s fifty to watch the show,” said a man dressed in flowing, dark silks. Bored, when he murmured, “Two-hundred silver Kormers to pass through the golden gate.”

Bold, with an air of one born to serve obscene wealth, Balkazar tossed a heavy satchel into the clerk’s lap, and said, “Ensure the bitch’s holes are clean and ready for a hard use. My lord doesn’t rut at a cunt slicked by another.”

It was Sinadim’s turn to say nothing, and he managed it with a bored sniff. Adjusting the hem of his sleeve and avoiding eye contact with a peasant so obviously beneath him.

The clerk weighed the satchel in the palm of his hand. Greed shining bright in otherwise murky eyes. “A-At once, my lord. Please, if you’ll wait a moment. And here”—he selected a dainty bottle from the top shelf at his back—“our finest vintage, laced with a generous dose of the essence of a breeding Omega.”

With a swirl of mildew and silks, the clerk vanished behind a heavy drape unmarked by rot. Barking orders to unseen slaves.

Sinadim uncorked the vintage, inhaling the fumes with a curled lip. “Laced with slick,” he murmured and tossed it to Balkazar who mimicked the prince’s actions—before tucking the bottle away in his pockets.

Icy blue eyes found his once more, and with a controlled breath, Balkazar exhaled, and said, “My prince,” in a quiet murmur. “What you’re about to see… my brother, it cannot be unseen.”

Pausing to listen, Sinadim crossed his arms. Tail flicking. Tired of the unspoken. “Speak your mind.”

“There is no harem here,” Balkazar hissed, turning away from the heavy curtain that had swallowed the clerk. “It’s likely a single Omega female—possibly two, but not more than five—who are milked for every drop of slick sold in this pit of despair.”

Startled, Sinadim scoffed. “That’s not possible. A single female couldn’t possibly be responsible for producing enough to supply this entire operation. Not at this rate, and certainly not when she’s out of season.”

Balkazar swallowed his retort, but before he might respond, the clerk returned and ushered the pair into a private theater. “While the girl is being prepared, we’ve set up some entertainment!” He clapped his hands together and pulled back yet another heavy drape—this one overlooking a deep, dark pit. “Obviously,” the merchant cooed, “you’ve paid for the use of an Omega until your rut is satisfied, but I’d be remiss in mentioning a few of the house rules.”

With a flick of his wrist, Sinadim bade the man go on and took his seat overlooking the deep pit with high walls. Watching as faceless servants lit torches to chase away the gloom.

“The girl is yours to use,” he said again. “She’s trained for obedience, starved for a knot, and desperate to be bred in a way you’ll find tantalizing and unique. I think you’ll be quite pleased with her service. We ask only that she suffers no broken bones and no mortal injuries, but feel free to discipline her as needed. Any hybrid brats born from her use belong to the house, of course, but worry not, my lord.” A grimy chuckle escaped thick lips. “Discretion is our commitment to our most illustrious clients. We’ll never bother you with a notification that the bitch has fallen pregnant.”

Balkazar allowed himself a dry bark of laughter that was at once derisive and amused. Slipping into the persona from a time long past. Before he’d become a trusted war chief to a prince.

Sinadim followed suit.

“Beyond that,” the clerk continued, “virtually nothing is unthinkable in this room. Anything, no matter how depraved, she’ll thank you for. And,” he said, conspiratorial, leaning in to utter a stage whisper loud enough to fill the room, “if you’d like to reward your man here? She’ll take two knots without much complaint. In whichever holes please the lords.”

At his side, Balkazar stiffened.