She had hated her life of service to Hadim. Hated being used and bred, talked about as if she weren’t capable of speaking for herself. But most of all, she’d hated being kept in the Harem. Unable to see the sunlight, unless she was in Hadim’s rooms being fucked silly and knotted placid. Only seeing the sun through a tiny slitted window in the breeding rooms.
But that was before she understood what it was she’d given up. The point not made obvious until she’d been tossed in a prison cell amid a hoard of unattached males, each taking great, woofing breaths of her scent. Prisoners and criminals, sold into the labor forces that kept the Silver City gleaming. Chances were good that she was the only female they’d seen in years—maybe ever, for some of the younger ones had been driven into rut after their first breath of her scent. She’d watched them devolve into savage fucking, shocked speechless as male flesh speared through male flesh. Growing ripe and aroused by the display of flexing and bunching muscles. All that masculine energy clashing and fighting.
And then she was made aware of a startling truth.
Samina had been right.
Life as Hadim’s concubine was that of a pampered doll. Under the master, she’d never wanted for food or comfort. An entire harem of Hathorian females were at her disposal. They’d formed a generous sisterhood of support, and without being told, the elder generations lavished their advice upon the younger. Caring for the daughters that weren’t theirs, they’d built a community in the dark.
With a single mistake, she’d lost access to a whole quiet culture of Hathorian history.
Her people, now forever out of her reach.
And in that moment, there was nothing she wouldn’t have given to take it back. A lifetime of bearing Hadim’s hybrids, only to end it teaching the next generation how best to take a thick knot.
She’d been cherished by a bearer with faded blue eyes and sagging dimpled skin.
With a whimper, she squeezed her eyes shut—and recoiled. Assaulted by flashing images of muscles tearing free from tendons. Of flesh with holes growing wider as it was pulled asunder by a merciless grip. Blood whizzing around and around, painting everything crimson. Of one eye rolling until it went white… and the other… the other rolling to stare directly at her.
Accusation gleaming in that faded blue iris.
Feet sticking to the grime, she stood in a rush, letting the muck squelch between her toes.
“That’s it, baby girl,” the male with black teeth drawled. Straightening when she moved, posturing to catch her attention, his mane standing on end where it wasn’t matted to his nape. “Come to Horace.”
Sneering, she stalked away, ignoring him. Ears pressed flat to her skull, tail whipping in a fluffy arc at her back. Agitated, she was able to walk a straight-line forward, then back, lest she get too close to either side and get snatched up by grabby fingers.
Instead of ending her, Hadim had given her to the guards at the wall. Banished her from his home, he’d cut her off from everything she’d ever known. The males posted at the wall were… unfit for civilized society. Unable to fight for a harem of their own or simply not given the opportunity. It was the way of things. That so many young males would never know the touch of a female.
Anhur or Hathorian, they were claimed by the strongest warriors. The most promising princes. Hoarded and jealously guarded, no matter their species.
As a consequence, young males were known to form packs, roaming from one hellish living situation to the next. Left with no options, no hope for continuing their lines, they were forced to live together. Surviving on a meager life of crime and the company of their pack brothers.
Most couldn’t climb the hierarchy fast enough to escape their end.
It was the fortunate few who were offered a position guarding the wall. Those Anhur rejects were made to watch the fires of the great beyond, as if those who lived in the wilds were capable of scaling the great sloping cliffs.
Hadim and Samina had stood united, hands clasped as they shoved her forward, honoring those who kept their society safe with the gift of a dishonored breeder.
It was an unparalleled gesture. To make a prize of a bloodline such as hers, was an eloquent solution for a unique problem.
That’s what he’d called her, when Samina had dragged her back to the master’s room, still dripping gore. Still too shocked to speak, much less defend herself, her eyelids sticking together with every blink as the matron’s blood grew tacky.
The royal pair had stayed to watch her being mounted, Hadim barking that she be denied a knot while in heat. Made to suffer, so she might be more compliant with the dreary, brutal life she’d been given.
Desperate to please, punished forever.
When they were satisfied their orders would be obeyed, when Hadim and his wife had retreated to their quarters, the girl allowed herself to cry. Cheek pressed to the cold stone atop the wall, her insides being pummeled by the captain of the guard until she succumbed to the bliss of darkness. Waking in her dank little cell, surrounded by criminals.
“Please,” one of the younger Anhur males whined, pacing at the edge of the bars. His cock bulging through tattered pants, tail limp and twisted at an awkward angle. “I’ve never had a female! She smells”—jaws hanging slack, he inhaled, tugging at his prick—“sssooogood…”
“You wouldn’t know what to do with her, runt,” snarled another. This one older, his face mangled by hideous scars.
Growing more irate by the instant, the girl hissed, her ears flat. Tail tucked.
“Aww,” Horace cooed, working himself hard once more. “Little girl has teeth. Come see if you can use them before I fuck a litter of brats into your belly, hmm?” Grunting, he wedged his cock and balls between the bars. A lewd display that made her ache, nevertheless. Her heat still working its way free of her blood, the instinct lingering. Still poisoning her mind. “What’s your name, baby girl? I wanna know what to say when I tell you to take this knot.”
But her name would never cross Horace’s lips, because she didn’t have one. She had a tattoo that bore her lineage. The twisting, elegant designs traced her spine, utterly meaningless to her, but decipherable to the Anhur at a glance. Not knowing that was the mark of an underprivileged male who’d never so much as seen a real harem.
