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Room made for another session when the rut surged anew. Emptied so he might fill her up again.

And again.

And again until her heat ran cold and her internal glands were expressed of the fluid that drove her to seek out a male with such insatiable vigor.

Crossing the species barrier wasn’t a thing easily done. A game of numbers that often took many diligent attempts before the seed took hold—a challenge Anhur males were more than equal to, for they’d evolved alongside their coveted breeding stock. Over a thousand, thousand generations, their stamina and drive had risen in measured step with Hathorian females until one could not easily be without the other.

Omegas.

Sinadim grinned, cruel when he thumbed her clit. Rolling it until he set off a cascade of rippling muscle that teased his knot into belching up another weak jet of seed.

As reliable a breeder as she was a pleasant fuck, their pairing was one that had produced many hardy hybrids. Strong, loyal soldiers and gentle maidens with tainted blood. A potent mix of royalty and slave, they were loyal to their fathers, yet unable to seek holdings of their own for the hybrids were sterile. Deadly in battle—utterly harmless to Anhur bloodlines. Posing no threat to pure-blood Anhur sons.

Limitless in their potential to serve, bred for obedience.

Born to die.

Hunching, Sinadim let his head dip. Forehead pressed to heated skin between her shoulder blades, he took a breath against her nape. Drawing her scent into his lungs as the rut cooled for a moment, allowing him to think of something other than the grip of a needy cunt. He rolled back, straightening and shifting, he inspected the place where his knot threatened to burst free. Letting the girl curl against his chest, lost to the world. Her tail swept to the side in an elegant swish, twitching with the aftershocks of his selfish generosity.

He let out a gusty breath, reached behind his head for a mug of fiery spirits, and drank deep. Taking two long pulls, Sinadim swallowed the burn and swallowed again.

Despite his enjoyment of this particular female, this was a chore with a purpose.

One he didn’t have time for, but couldn’t escape. Not until he’d ended her season—and that would only come with mounting her several more times over the course of the night. Knotting her repeatedly until she was heavy with his spending.

Bloated with cum.

There was nothing for it but to wait for his knot to ease. His task only half complete, and made more difficult without the expensive oils meant to give him full control over her breeding season.

Kesh.

Designed to compliment the herbs lacing every morsel of food fed to the harem, Kesh oil was a natural suppressor. Designed to replace the fluids produced by a Hathorian male and make the Hathorian females receptive to their duties.

And the Karahmet throne was in short supply.

Without an abundance of Kesh, breeding his harem would grow exponentially more difficult.

The herbs were grown inside the Silver City, where the climate was arid and dry.

But the oils could only be manufactured on the coast.

Drought had wreaked havoc on the continent’s supply.

A looming crisis that demanded his attention, for without the herbs and oils working together… he was the slave. Enthralled to the rut, her needs placed above his own until her Biquea glands no longer produced that addictive ambrosia that drove Anhur males to war.

Slick.

His mouth watered at the slightest thought. Desperate even now, for another taste.

Issuing a low growl, Sinadim rocked into her again. Let his knot rake her glands just to feel her flutter around him. Aggressively working his knot in an effort to force it to deflate sooner, just so he might start again, for without the oils? The odds of impregnating her were stacked firmly against him.

If it was possible at all.

Wiping away the sweat on his brow, Sinadim extended one long arm. Straining until his fingers brushed the stack of documents he’d intended to sift through before he’d found her kneeling at the foot of the bed in his breeding chambers. Lost to the beat of a desperate cunt, dangerously close to a natural season, her eyes swallowed by the inky pitch of pupils blown wide with primal instinct. Reeking of needs only her Alpha might soothe.

It was damned inconvenient timing.

Twisting, he set the stack on her shoulder and started reading. Propped up on his right elbow, buried deep inside, Sinadim thumbed through the pages, absently stroking fair, flushed skin scored by his claws. Eyes skimming over reports of troop numbers, their location and duties, their state of fitness for battle.