A fist wrapped around her throat. “No?” and it was the war chief who hissed at her, pressing close enough that she could taste his breath. “You’re bold for an Omega, hmm?”
She tucked her chin, aiming blunted teeth at a thick wrist, but she was no match for Anhur reflexes.
With a snarl, the war chief hauled her up with one hand buried in her hair. Only by the grace of the Nine was she spared the agony of being torn off a knot—Hadim had enough purchase to compress his girth before they were forcibly uncoupled.
She squealed all the same. Deprived. Thrashing and kicking, she aimed for the naked flesh bouncing between the war chief’s legs. Missed, and was spun around, her wrists caught between her breasts in one large fist.
“Let go!” she screeched, sticky heat twitching with renewed life against her lower back.
Against her cheek, a laugh. “As the lady wishes.” And turning her out, the war chief let her stumble away.
Legs shaking hard enough to make her trip, she went down only a few steps away from the Anhur males. Landing in a heap of rubbery bones as they laughed, leering. Eyes darting between them—and their sex organs—she searched for help. For mercy.
There was only hunger looming above.
On the left, Hadim. Blinded in one eye. Mangled. He was the sadist who’d tortured her for years, but against whom she’d already won several small battles. The monster she knew well.
And on the right, his war chief. Second in command, his intentions toward her abundantly clear, but his methods an unknown. A horrible gamble she couldn’t afford to take.
One male totally without his clothes, the other having only exposed himself for the express purpose of fucking her. Of breeding her and claiming his piece.
She scrambled back much too late. Just in time for a shadow to swallow her whole.
Terror made her turn, though she knew who caged her in.
The hybrids. Standing in a wall of bunching, gleaming muscle, their pupils black as coal, cocks swollen and needy once more.
She was trapped. Doomed to be the plaything of an entire pack run by Hadim.
Panic began to bubble in her guts, sending sweat to splash down her spine. It would be worse than her miserable life in the harem. At least then she’d had the support of misty blue eyes and a crinkly, weathered smile. In the harem, Hadim had only bothered her a few days every three months.
At least then she’d had yarrow root tea.
White-rimmed eyes flicked around the circle. Desperate for a champion to save her from this fate.
Stepping aside, Micah allowed Sickle to approach. Elegant tattoos the markings of a pampered pet who knew more about the highest fashion of Anhur culture than he did about the females of his own race. Sickle smiled, mousy brown hair pushed back from his face, exposing more of the twisting designs staining his skin with blue ink.
“Please, miss,” he murmured, showing the point of his teeth. The gesture not one of Hathorian pride, but a vehicle of hurt that only served to drive the difference between them home—her teeth had been filed short long ago. Robbing her of identity, of defense. Her mouth made to be nothing more than another wet hole that could be forced open and used.
A shiver ran over her skin, her muscles coiling. Preparing to flee.
“Miss,” Sickle breathed, showing the flat of his palms. “Let us care for you. Please.”
Ears laid back, she hissed.
“Let the Anhur ease your pain—”
She bolted, driven by pure instinct, she tried to run from these insidious lies. From the temptation of a caring embrace that would only hurt when it burrowed too deep and rotted where it lay, festering behind her ribs.
The war chief caught her about the middle, pulling at her as if she were an untried kit and not a seasoned whore who knew the burn of male flesh. Who didn’t balk when it smeared across her belly. He pressed two fingers inside her, squelching in the mess. Making her glands lurch to clasp at the invasive digit.
But he withdrew before he could do more than tease, that sticky finger sucked clean as the war chief moved to embrace the rut, no matter Hadim’s leavings. With a groan, he pressed closer and she caught a glimpse of blue eyes. Chips of frigid, hateful ice that made her gag.Glassy. Pupils claiming slow millimeters of icy blue. One staring straight at her, the other twitching and lurching in the socket. Sightless…
“No,” she hissed, shaking her head. Ears flicked back, her teeth bared.
Trembling, she tore her vision away from the specter of those beloved,insidiousblue eyes. Looking instead to her hands—hands that were soaked to the elbow in blood, claws curving around clumps of flesh and sinew… The hands of a queen…
She couldn’t look away. Entranced by shimmering phantoms too vibrant to be anything but a hallucination. A terrible nightmare she wished were more than a fever dream. Unless…
