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Cumbersome.
Deeply erotic, for she was stuffed with him. With both of them.
“Can’t wait for these teats to swell with milk,” Balkazar gasped, moving to offer her neglected nipple the same treatment. “I think we’ll keep you producing, even after the babes are weaned. Just so I can drink every last drop as the prince fucks you pregnant again.”
“Please,” she whined, hips moving in time with Sinadim’s methodical pumping. “I need that. Exactly that.”
Sinadim said nothing. Merely wrapped his hands around her girth, lifted the weight of her belly off her pelvis, and increased his pace. An odd brand of determination etched across his brow.
Going almost limp in his hands, she melted against him with a coo and a deep, pleased sigh. Eyes rolling white with the ecstasy of relief.
And when she came, it was with a rush of fluid greater than Balkazar had ever seen her produce. Soaking the nest, limbs quaking, she jerked where she was impaled on Sinadim’s cock.
But the prince didn’t gloat.
He reacted.
Pulling out, unsatisfied, he let her settle back in the nest as her moans bled from decadence to discomfort. And, as Sinadim darted to the door, calling for help, Balkazar was left to watch as her belly grew tight and hard in a slow, relentless pulse.
Labor.
It was time.
A luxury he’d only ever dared to dream of began to unfold before him.
It was a gruesome thing, childbirth. Gory and beautiful. Almost impossibly hard to watch, and yet, he could scarcely dare to blink for fear of missing a moment. He barely noticed when slender tattooed hands set a stack of towels at the edge of the nest.
“Balkazar,” the prince said, forceful as he tugged the war chief away from such a sight. “Give them space to work.”
Shaken from his hypnosis, Balkazar blinked and found himself in a room swarming with Omegas. Matrons and breeding females murmured in quiet tones as they soothed their little slut through her birthing pangs. Speaking in low voices as the girl shifted and shifted again, trying to find a comfortable position as the contractions wracked her slender frame.
And there, in the heart of the action, one slender, tattooed Hathorian male.
Sickle.
Recovered from his ordeal with Varjim, the boy moved easily amongst them. Integral to the action, as if he’d seen such a thing done and knew exactly where to be.
Balkazar’s mane flared a warning. Possessive of the female he’d spent the last three months breeding.
But the boy paid him no mind. His focus fixed entirely between the thighs of their Omega.
“Relax,” Sinadim drawled as he pulled rumpled clothes over his nudity, a wry smirk touching the edge of his lips. “Sickle isn’t likely to bury a knot inside her while she’s focused on birthing. Come,” the prince added. “There’s time.”
The war chief nearly disobeyed his prince. Claws dimpling his palms, he almost caught Sickle by the nape and tossed the intruder over the balcony.
His loyalty won out in the end. Following Sinaidm to the far side of the room, Balkazar accepted the drink pressed into his fist and emptied it in several long pulls.
And then, “This can’t last,” Sinadim murmured. Quiet as he cupped a glass between his palms, watching amber liquid swirl around the edges. “We can’t stay in Tengit forever. This happy little bubble is doomed,” the prince added and tossed his drink back.
For a moment, Balkazar allowed his attention to wander.
“If nothing else is true of the last three months,” Balkazar returned at length, “we’ve proven change is possible.”
Sinadim snorted. “Idealistic nonsense. Change of this nature occurs over generations, Balkazar. Not regimes.”
“Tengit is a living example,” the war chief retorted. “Proof of concept.”
Vibrant green eyes flashed a warning as the prince scowled at him. “So the counsel of my war chief is to throw away decades of meticulous planning in favor of marching on the Silver City under a flimsy banner of change, my army supplemented with whores and veterans?” He laughed, and it was a dry, reedy thing. “We’d be lucky to clear the first leg of the desert, let alone break the silver gates.”
