Hadim’s bedroom.
She’d only ever gone through that door once.
Skin aching with a mild fever, she grew damp but not wet. Needy yet repressed. And no matter the sickly scent of repetitive breeding that hung heavy in the air, the lips of her shorn pussy had become sticky with the rush of hormones pumping through her blood.
Heat.
The all-consuming urge to be mounted and stuffed full. To be knotted by an Anhur male, stretched and stimulated until the inflamed gland inside her was compressed. Until it was drained of every last drop of fluid—the swelling forced into submission by a thick knot—she couldn’t rest. Couldn’t sleep or eat or do much of anything that wouldn’t result in being mounted by her captor.
Her master.
The instinct was strong. Unavoidable.
Bred into her kind over a thousand generations to be more pleasing to an Anhur male. More receptive. To take more and take it deeper, she was genetically predisposed to be ready for him at the onset of every new cycle. Her scent modified to emit pheromones utterly irresistible to their masters.
He’d swell first, she knew. Triggered by her pheromones, his sack would fill with chemicals, pumping truly homicidal levels of testosterone through his blood. In an inexperienced male, that urge would drive him to take a female or die trying. Issuing challenge to any foolish enough to get in the way of his claiming a chance to breed—willing or not. Rejection was merely an obstacle meant to be overcome. Fighting to the death over breeding rights a common,honorableway to die.
But in an experienced male like Hadim?
There were no challengers to Hadim’s harem.
They were all dead.
His living male siblings were either subservient or uneasy allies, unwilling to challenge the named Heir to the Karahmet throne. Even Hadim’s sons were still on the tit, banished, or kept well under thumb.
Guts twisting, the girl fidgeted where she stood. Wishing she could bolt from these rooms and find a male—anymale—to ease the ache pulsing inside her. Any but the one she’d been promised to since before her birth.
“It’s time to let the boys battle for a girl of their own,” came a female voice from the hall. “Give them something to distinguish themselves.”
The door swung open, revealing Hadim and his wife, both dressed in ceremonial, gold-plated armor. Their hair groomed and doused in scent-neutralizing oils common amongst the upper echelon of Anhur society. Acutely aware of the advantage they had over her, for to disguise their scent—and all that went with it—was to hold power over those whocouldn’t.
Averting her eyes, the girl cringed back from the dominant pair, star-struck by the imposing figure of the statuesque Anhur female Hadim had taken as honored wife.
Samina.
A celebrated warrior, mother of royal bloodlines, and a trusted adviser to the king—she was everything the smaller female wasn’t. Everything she’d never dared to hope she could one day be.
An Anhur queen.
“Don’t ignore me, Hadim,” Samina drawled, slipping out of her over-cloak, tossing thick, sandy hair over her shoulder.
With a snort, Hadim pulled at the laces on his throat piece, discarding it in a careless heap. At ease in his private quarters despite the scantily clad female waiting patiently to be acknowledged.
To be bred.
Stripping off his bracers, Hadim took his time in responding. Head tipped in her direction, just for a moment. And then he scowled at his wife. “Our sons don’t need their mother to coddle them soft, Samina. Do you intend to put their cocks in for them too?” He laughed. “If the brats think they’re old enough to start collecting a few bitches, they can damn well fight for it. Like I did. Like their grand-sire before me.”
Samina shucked her heavy breastplate, cracking her neck with a deep sigh. Beneath the protective layer, the swell of a heavily pregnant female. “I’m not coddling them. They’re plenty old enough, my love, and you know it. Besides, if you give them only one between all six, we shall see which has the most promise.” She offered a smile, lips teasing and playful where they crinkled at the edges. “You need to name an heir,” she said, easing into a plush chair, hands draped over her swollen abdomen. “It’s long overdue. Since we lost Sinadim—”
“Enough,” he snapped, the stiff ridge of his mane rising up along his spine. But for a moment, Hadim did little more than eye his wife. And shaking himself, said, “Fine. They can have this one when I’m done with her.” He discarded the rest of his armor. “Beginning to wonder if she’s barren anyway.”
Straightening, Samina eyed the girl with keen interest. “Well, isn’t that convenient! Lets the boys practice without giving them a proper breeder. No kits running wild underfoot to threaten your position.” Humming low in her throat, Samina approached the girl. “She’s otherwise capable? Pleasing? Triggers your rut without issue?”
Hadim shrugged, unlacing his pants with his left hand, reaching for the girl with his right. Lips pressed to her cheek, he took a breath of the Hathorian’s fine, pale skin, letting her scent fill his brain. “I’ve been breeding her for a little over three years, and she refuses to take.”
“Are your cycles regular, Omega?” Samina asked, her tone not altogether unkind, despite the racial slur.
The girl swallowed and said, “Yes, mistress. Every three months, with the moons.”
