Page 54

At this, both the prince and the war chief looked to Sickle.

He blanched, going a sickly shade of green beneath his elegant tattoos. “M-My prince, I—I couldn’t possibly⁠—”

“It’s a rare chance,” Sinadim retorted. “To be pardoned before you’ve even thought to strike back. A chance I’d embrace if I were you.”

For a moment, Sickle could only stare. Bewildered as he met the prince’s gaze and did not blink. Searching for deceit. For any hint that this might be a trap.

And then fire flicked in honey eyes. Blond ears flicked back, pressed flat against his skull as he flashed the vicious edge of pointed teeth. “Eighty-three days,” Sickle whispered. “It’s been eighty-three days since Varjim took me in the night.”

Without a word, Balkazar presented a long spear to the Hathorian male, grinning when it was snatched from his hands. Cradled in those that were inexperienced but filled with a thirst for vengeance.

“In a perfect world,” the prince said, and his voice was not unkind, “the Nine would grant us time enough to repay Varjim for every second he’s stolen.”

He glanced back at the cluster of females. Gaze lingering on a brave girl with a crooked tail who would, in the next few weeks, begin to grow round with the evidence of her condition.

At his side, Sickle deflated. Small fists clenched as the dainty thing scowled at the cobbles beneath his bare feet.

“But perhaps,” Sinadim crooned, taking pity on him and placing a heavy hand on Sickle’s shoulder, “a more fitting punishment would be to fit eighty-three days worth of suffering into eighty-three hours.”

Sickle paled beneath his ink.

Knuckles blanching where they flexed around the shaft of his spear. A steely determination ignited in Hathorian eyes. The sort of spark not meant for their kind.

A smaller species.

Less than.

Inferior.

A feat that made it all the more impressive when Sickle limped toward his tormentor with head held high. At first, the spear was a crutch. But as he continued that grim march, each step banished the stiffness from bruised and torn muscle. His gait smoothed out with every determined step.

Even at two-thirds the height of an Anhur, Sickle stood tall. Confident.

Bold, when he stopped between Varjim’s spread legs, slammed the deadly end of his spear into the earth, then turned his attention… up.

Lip curling to reveal the point of Hathorian canines, Sickle sneered at the view of Varjim’s flaccid cock dangling above his head. And, ears pressed flat, his tail tucked between his thighs, the elegant little male hissed before he acted.

Reaching high above his head, Sickle shoved the disgraced male’s genitals aside…

… and notched the blunted end of the spear shaft against the tight bud hidden beneath Varjim’s tail.

“I’m not going to spit on it,” Sickle hissed, rocking the spear back and forth until it sank through that ring of muscle. “Wouldn’t want you to miss a single moment.”

The gag between Varjim’s teeth swallowed most of his sounds. All but the muffled squeals of pain. Wordless, incomprehensible begging, but understood nevertheless.

Agony.

Sinadim nodded.

Justified agony.

A punishment earned.

Trembling, Sickle turned away from his tormentor. Cheeks wet with tears as he limped toward the females who’d sheltered him.

And for a moment, Sinadim was struck by the sight. Of a male seeking comfort for hurts both plainly visible and not. The beautiful vulnerability of watching the smaller species touch cheeks, communicating on a level all-but forbidden to the Anhur, the Hathorian male found comfort with his own.

The Anhur prince watched until they returned to the carriage, seeking shelter in the closest thing to a den they could know in the middle of the desert.