And then he lunged.
With a flick of his dainty, Hathorian wrist, a blade shot forth. Flashing in the fading light, faster than the charging infected. It landed with a decisive thunk, one that seemed to register long after the blade had stuck its mark.
And for a moment, they were frozen in a tableau. Sickle holding the pose exactly the way Balkazar had told him. The infected still, brow folding in gentle, almost innocent confusion.
Wheezing once, the feral male whistled high at the back of his throat. Foggy eyes going wide. His hand—missing two and a half fingers—clutched at the steel protruding from the base of his windpipe. Dislodging it just enough to let the blood really flow, drowning out any sound that was leaking from a ruined voice box.
He fell before it could be worked free, the watching pack gathered as the creature breathed its last. Lips moving around a wet, “Priiigussss,” he soaked the detritus in gushing crimson.
Huffing, Sickle adjusted his sweat-damp hair, then took a step toward his victim.
“Leave it,” the Alpha barked, large hand clapping over a slender shoulder. Stopping him in place with a heavy scowl.
“But my knife—”
The war chief stepped between the Hathorian and the corpse and said, “Shouldn’t have thrown it if you wanted to keep it. You know the rules. No exposure.”
“But—”
“Look at him,” the Alpha snapped, stepping around Balkazar. Forcing Sickle’s eyes to land on the thing that had once been a proud Anhur. “Is that what you want, boy? Hmm? To be put down and left to rot instead of given to the fires? Unable to go into the arms of the Nine?”
It was Sickle’s turn to scowl, and he did it in such a way that the Alpha had to struggle not to laugh. “Of course not,” Sickle spat. “Leaving a blade behind is wasteful. That’s all I meant.”
Indulging the fancy little thing, the Alpha offered a gruff smile. “I’ll have a new one forged for you once we’ve claimed this girl.”
Sickle rolled his eyes, but relented. Going where he was led.
“We’re getting close,” Balkazar said, keeping their pace slow. Sedate. Following the sweet, teasing trail of slick—ears primed for any hint that there may be more infected roaming these woods. Tense, right down to the hairs bristling along his nape, Balkazar appeared cautious as he navigated through the wood. Looking for the minuscule signs that her passage was recent, that the trails of hand-painted slick where converging in some semblance of logic.
Impatient, the Alpha pushed aside some dense, hanging foliage, and the forest ended. Revealing a barren clearing complete with a three-tiered hot spring, and what looked to be a rocky hillock with a sheer face of red stone.
“My prince,” Balkazar hissed, seizing his arm and trying to slow his pace.
The Alpha shook him off, hackles raised. His attention caught by the logistics of this oasis.
Defensible, fresh water supply, secluded. It was a perfect little knoll, one the Alpha could see himself—
He stepped on something that snapped. Something that crunched underfoot.
In an instant, his field of vision flipped as he was hauled off his feet in less time than it took to blink. Breath torn from his chest with the sheer velocity in which he was snatched up. Limbs askew, he thrashed, looking for the attacker—blinded by defensive rage. Snarling, sinking his teeth into the nearest warm flesh, he clamped down. Slashing and howling, drawing blood.
Balkazar’s scent spilled thick and cloying. Familiar.Anhur.
A threat.
Blood rushed into the Alpha’s mouth, igniting his murky, testosterone clouded brain with a spark of pure rage. Blood lust rising hot and fast, he shook his head. Driving his teeth straight into the muscle. Deep as they could go. Instinct taking hold, he was triggered by the coppery tang rushing over his tongue.
A roar pounded at his ear drums. The body of the other male writhing beneath his weight, fighting when he should have relented. Submitted. Instead, he rose to the occasion, challenging a Karahmet prince for breeding rights.
Insolence would be addressed with lethal judgment.
“Stop!”
Though shrill, the shout was loud enough to be heard over the scream of deadly instinct, loud enough to drown out the smell of testosterone fogging up the Alpha’s brain.
Sickle. The dainty Hathorian stood below them, alone at the forest’s edge.
“It’s a trap,” Sickle said, liquid brown eyes ringed in white. “She set a trap.”
