Determination sharpened her gaze. A beacon of defiance shining bright in the fog, she trudged on. Following the river back to her den.
Hadim wouldneverget the chance to see her grow round with his brats.
She wouldn’t let him.
“Just have to… soak in the water,” she said, shuddering. Every step sending a bolt of agonized pleasure zinging through her nerves. “Glands will be smaller”—a gasp hissed through her teeth—“heat will be better.”
The smooth red stone came into view as she rounded a corner, the fog thick with a biting edge of sulfur. Thermal vent actively bubbling where it hissed and spit, lending a tempting twist of warmth to the evening breeze.
“Heat…” Luminous eyes turned into the warm wind. “Heat makes it better,” she said, headingnotto the cooling creek, but to the hot springs.
Confused,helpless, she dropped into the uppermost hot spring with a low hiss as the heat seeped deep into her muscles.
Core temperature spiking, and with it, her arousal.
Slick gushed between her legs, mixing with each swirl of heated water. Filling the pool with the potent pheromones unique to her pedigree… before it was carried downstream.
Chapter 10
Clenching his fist just to feel his claws extend, the Alpha stared into the flames.
Blind in his right eye. Depth perception ruined, the wounds still festered all these many moons later. And yet, it always took a moment to adjust to the black wall that was his new blind spot.
“It’s looking better,” Sickle said, dabbing at the corner of the Alpha’s ruined eye with a warm compress. Tending old wounds with a delicate touch—a welcome relief to the heated, ever-present itch of lingering infection.
A parting gift from his father.
“I think using the scarab beetles improved the scar tissue,” Sickle said, squinting, a frown creasing the Hathorian’s tattooed brow as he manipulated the tight, thick skin. “Does it still itch?”
The Alpha took a breath, but was cut off by the approach of his second.
“Quit fussing,” Balkazar snapped, mane flaring briefly in warning before he settled on the Alpha’s good side. “Doesn’t need your motherin’, boy.He’ll live.”
Startled, Sickle stepped back as if struck. Arms crossed around his ribs, massive velvety ears pressed flat against fluffy blond hair. “Scars can cause horrible pain if they’re left untreated—especially on the face.”
“Scars’ve been there for what, six months now?” the war chief chuckled, claws extended as he scratched at his jaw. Eyes locked on the slender male’s decorated face—the gaze of a predator looking for a fight. “Leave it alone,” Balkazar rasped. “They’re healed.”
Soft Hathorian features grew hard, and Sickle took a breath. Determination settling into his every muscle, he flashed sharp teeth at the war chief, then dipped his fingers in a warming pot beside the fire. Brandishing a fresh cloth soaked in the stinging scent of medicinal herbs. “All I’m doing is—”
“Fretting,” Balkazar drawled, goading the slender male. Legs crossed at the ankles, lips twisted in a derisive sneer. “You’re motherin’. And unless you’re aiming to lift the tail for him and sate his rut, piss off.”
“Fine.” Color touched the Hathorian’s decorated cheeks, a band of heat glowing pink across the bridge of his nose. “If you have need of me, I’ll bemotherin’the new recruits. And that’s a willow bark and peppermint compress,” he added, meeting the Alpha’s one-eyed gaze. “It’ll help with the swelling and itching. Leave it on until the cloth goes cold, unless you’d prefer to suffer.”
The Anhur males were silent as they watched him go, but it was the war chief whose lips parted over a grin. “Good for him. Nice to see the boy finding his balls, eh? Didn’t even call you Alpha once.”
“He’s older than you are,” the Alpha said, his claws extending once more. Straining not to scratch.
Balkazar shrugged. “Then it’s about time he grew a spine.” Jerking his chin in the direction Sickle had gone, toward the trio of hybrids working to take down their tent, the war chief said, “Just need a few more recruits like those three, and we’ll be on our way.”
The Alpha snorted, not bothering himself to engage with this argument again. To do as Balkazar demanded and build an army of rejects in the beyond. Storm the Silver City. Take vengeance for being exiled and stripped of his inheritance. His army of hybrids had been slaughtered, his harem seized, pillaged of hard-won noble Hathorian bloodlines that had produced fine, powerful hybrids.
All of his females had no doubt been distributed amongst the Sultan’s favored sons. Any hybrids still on the breast dead or made into eunuchs.
He had nothing.
No longer was he a favored son of the Karahmet bloodline, but an exile. No better than any other he might rule.
To fight back now was hopeful nonsense—he’d been dealt a mortal blow. Knew when to yield, where the war chief did not.
