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His brave girl whined low at the back of her throat. Darting forward too fast for even a prince’s reflexes, she tried to go to them.
But the others rejected her. Snarling, flashing pointed teeth, they tightened their defensive ring around tattooed limbs and forced her back.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, dancing on the balls of dainty feet. Crooked tail and pointed ears flicking with each panicked beat of her heart. “Sorry, so so sorry…”
And through the fog of rut and war, Sinadim was struck with a flash of something forgotten.
“Tell me why you’ve come,” he’d demanded, pressing her deeper into the sparse bedding as he freed his cock from the prison of his laces.
“Varjim,” she answered, lifting her tail to present all that was slick and dripping for his touch. “He’s stolen a male. Hathorian. Pretty. Inked by queens… fr-from the Silver City…”
With a greedy sigh, Sinadim bullied his way inside, sinking deep as he could get, listening when she crooned her pleasure. Taking the invitation to claim the rest.
Blinking, his mane rising as a cloud of pheromones engulfed him, Sinadim placed a careful hand on her narrow shoulder. Pulling her back from the other females, he took her place and filled the door of the caravan with his Anhur bulk.
“His name,” she’d whispered, loud enough to echo, preening at the lewd stretch of taking her prince so deep. “His name was—”
“Sickle?” the prince called, squinting into the gloom. Trying to untangle the mess of limbs and find the set that had been inked by queens.
Movement teased the limit of his vision.
Subtle.
The flex of an edge too lean to be female. Too hard… too angular.
A muffled sound of protest was the only answer to his question.
“Sickle?” Sinadim said again, daring to violate the dark.
Heavy silence yawned between breaths. The perfumed stink of enraged, overprotective females standing guard over one of their own.
And then, raspy words forced over strained vocal cords. “My… p-prince.”
The voice startled him, for even then, it was one he recognized. Squinting, Sinadim found himself gazing into soft, honeyed eyes shining at him from the dark—one crusted with old blood, swollen almost shut, and ringed in black.
Still recognizable, for this was no mere Hathorian male stolen from the Silver City—it was his mother’s favored pet. The very same Hathorian male who’d served Sinadim honeyed wine in those ill-fated negotiations with Veli. A male who’d endured Varjim’s sordid attentions and thinly veiled threats, ignoring the younger Zaganos’ lewd desire to experiment on a smaller species and attempt to breed another male.
The very same elegant Hathorian who’d whispered genuine thanks for sparing him that ugly fate. Who’d repaid his debt by concealing Sinadim’s failure to negotiate a trade deal.
A male whose name Sinadim hadn’t bothered to learn until a foolish, brave little female had risked her life to whisper it at his ear.
Sickle.
He’d been stolen from the protection of the Silver City while Sinadim had been preoccupied by Anhur politics.
Tortured while Sinadim had indulged himself in carnal delights.
Abused while Sinadim played war games and whined about the injustice of his plight.
And still, Sickle had the strength to meet his prince’s eye and dare a fragile smile.
Something ignited at the base of Sinadim’s spine.
A simmering rage he struggled to squash, pheromones that bled through his pores and poisoned the dank coastal air with the promise of murder.
The only warning was the flare of his mane as it stood stiff about his shoulders.
Ears pressed flat to his mop of matted blond hair, Sickle struggled to his feet. Pulling himself upright, aided by the females clinging to his every unblemished inch, the little male gathered himself with a haggard breath…
