But there was a teasing hint of her pheromones still lingering in the places she’d most recently been. Hard to distinguish from the overwhelming scent of slick hanging heavy all around him, but he knew from experience just how easy it would be to track her once their hunt was under way.
Now that he had her scent, the cloak of rot and death she’d wrapped around herself wouldn’t matter.
It never did.
Even for clever ones who needed to be broken in.
Females rarely slowed to disguise their tracks—they ran. Tiny, female brains desperate for the chase, they’d succumb to instinct. To find them already sopping wet was a perk of the job he’d loved best.
It was a biological dance long played between their species. A game of hunt and chase Balkazar never grew tired of playing.
“Ready the hybrids,” he said, gruff. Adjusting the bulge pressing at the back of his inseam.
“I—I’m coming too,” Sickle said, his eyes bright. Ears flicked forward. “I’ve never seen a Hathorian female before.”
For a moment, as Balkazar regarded the slender, decorated male, he considered his response from the side of his eye. Arms crossed over burly chest, legs firmly planted at shoulder width. Not one to be swayed by emotion, it was his impulse to forbid such a reckless and needless demand. To protect the valuable, insufferable little thing and force him to submit as an Omega ought.
But the war chief did not intend to earn the loyalty of his brothers by being impulsive and cruel. So, with a sigh, he shook the tension from his nape and offered a tense nod, returning his gaze to the forest’s edge. “Keep back and stay low. You’re useless in a fight.”
Blushing, Sickle’s gaze found the earth. “Okay.”
Balkazar and the Alpha had hoarded the dildo between them, any meager hint of slick had been lapped up before any of the pack might ask for a taste. Slick was for theAnhur, a precious libation that induced rut.
Still, Balkazar couldn’t help noticing the ginger, mincing steps or the scent of arousal that hung heavy in Sickle’s wake. Her scent potent enough to enthrall each and every member of their pack without so much as uttering a spoken word.
This would not be an easy hunt for any of them. Slick compelled a male to mate, left them all in a state of constant agonized arousal until they could find a female to relieve the tension.
What she’d done was cruel—notthe behavior of a born submissive, but something else.
A queen.
The thought made the war chief drip. Sticky and hot against his leathers.
First, they were going to run her down. Toy with her fear, the way she’d toyed with them. Dragging it out as only experienced hunters could. And then, when she couldn’t take another step, when she trembled with fatigue and her eyes shone with helpless lust, they’d take everything else.
Break her down and remake her as their obedient little slave. Cum drunk and mewling for more. Even when she was laden with young, they’d continue breeding her. Until she knew her place at their feet and ‘escape’ had been deleted from her lexicon.
It was the Anhur who’d get her first. Rutting until their lusts were satisfied, their balls drained and knots deflated.
Only then would they allow the hybrids a chance.
Poor Sickle would take what remained of their Hathorian female who’d claimed too much.
The Alpha—no longer a prince—appeared at Balkazar’s side. Blinded, disfigured, but still every bit the cunning noble he’d come to think of as a brother, still the Alpha he’d follow into the wilds without a moment’s hesitation.
“Ready?” Balkazar asked, his voice gruff with eager restraint.
Ceding the hunt to his war chief, the Alpha nodded, for no matter how skilled a leader he might have been, Balkazar was their hunter. The one with the sharpest instincts. Absent the fancy technology employed by those lazy twats hiding behind their precious wall, his skills were the best they had.
It wasallthey had, really.
And until he could train more, they’d need it—trying to follow the fragmented mind of a female losing her senses to a natural season wasn’t easy. Bore no resemblance to logic in any form. Already they’d been trying to unravel her trail for hours, but the reward for success was too great to ignore.
Adjusting himself, the war chief watched Sickle stoop at the water’s edge and drink from the stream.
“Fire-kin turn me to ash,” Sickle groaned, then plunged his head beneath the surface. Drinking great gulps of sweet water without coming up for air. Didn’t surface, in fact, until Balkazar himself pulled him up.
Sickle gasped, still swallowing. And then, “There’s slick in the water.” He lunged, trying again for the quietly bubbling stream. Fool enough to drown himself for another taste of that which was rare in the beyond.
