Laughter rolled up from deep inside Sinadim’s belly. Dark and menacing, but laughter all the same. “Clever little bitch, hmm?” His neck twisted as he regarded her with his good eye. Presenting a profile of male beauty that might have caught an innocent in that sticky trap, but held only intrigue for a whore. “What do you want?”
Her mind racing, Renegade swallowed. Discarding options as quickly as she stumbled across them. Knowing this one ask was a thing she might never have again. Negotiate like a queen standing amongst equals, or accept her fate at the bottom of a pit.
“I’ll see that Giaus fights for you against the Silver City,” she said. “But the price is my freedom. When you move to march on the Sultan, you do it without me.”
Sinadim watched her from beneath a hooded gaze. Licked the edge of a soft smile and lifted his hand. Ran his claws through the snarled tips of her inky dark hair despite the danger of contamination, and said, “No.”
She blinked. “What—”
The prince shrugged. “No.” His smirk grew wicked and he took a step. Filling her vision with the bulk of wide shoulders. “Poor, sweet Renegade. So fierce. So…ignorant.”
And then she saw a thing that made her flinch. Sinadim’s mismatched glare glittered with the same poison she’d seen so many times before.
On his father’s face.
Greed.
“It’s by design, of course. Your ignorance,” Sinadim said. “There’s so much you don’t know. About the culture you serve. The females you revere…” He stooped to meet her eye, letting her see the horrific detail of the wounds obliterating his high-bred good looks. “Your own people.”
Breath coming hard, Renegade swallowed the urge to ask why. Didn’t even feel the need to flee, such was her training.
“You marked him, girl. Claimed a mate.”
Renegade shrugged, though she couldn’t help the way her gaze was dragged into the dark. “So?”
Sinadim grinned, his mane flaring a brief warning. “Have you ever wondered why harem bitches are always bred from the back? Mounted in heat, knotted by males of a different species to whom you pose absolutely no threat? Who could tear you in half.Easily?”
At this, Renegade stepped back. Inching toward the exit without daring to look.
“The Anhur are the children of the Nine,” he said, and stood to his full height. Arms spread wide, claws a deadly point. “Conquerors who do not bow, not even to a mate. But your people?” In one fluid motion, he closed the distance between them. Towered above her. “Servants, Renegade. Ineverything.”
“I-I don’t understand—”
“No”—he clucked—“you couldn’t possibly.” The prince laid one large hand on her shoulder. Pulled her close and shattered her entire world. “Hathorians mate for life, Renegade. With every passing day, you will grow more devoted to the one who wears your mark. Every thought, every moment of your life a dedication to your mate. No other will ever satisfy your heat again. You can no more leave his side than fight your way free of a horde. So tell me,” he snarled, and caught her beneath the armpits. Lifting her high above the ground, he spun, pressed his lips to the shell of her satin ear, and said, “Does it burn?”
And then she was sailing through the air, weightless and free.
Falling into darkness.
18
Setting his teeth to a hank of charred meat, Balkazar scowled into the flames. Sat alone on his own bench surrounded by hybrids unwilling to disturb him, he chewed mechanically. Swallowed and tasted nothing. Every flex of his jaw agitating another bruise, tugging on the corners where the skin had split on his cheekbone. His ears ringing a high-pitched tune, an irritating distraction when he should have been glorying in the image frozen in his mind. Indulging in reliving the memory of Renegade’s exotic face mutilated by shock.
Her spectacular failure to manipulate a Karahmetprince.
It was a true pleasure, to see Sinadim at his best.
The prince had reeled her in, let her ramble on and on, allowed her to insult the Karahmet bloodline without retribution. He’d let her climb so high, just so the fall was all the more cruel.
A privilege to watch.
One that should have put a smile on the war chief’s face all day and into the night, butdidn’t. No, not with Sickle sulking, his back to the flames. Disrespect etched in every rigid line of his body. In tattooed hands, a bowl of cold fire char. Refusing to eat or speak, the Hathorian brat pummeled it into kohl. Ears flat, practiced actions rendered jerky and uncoordinated with a temper that simmered but couldn’t boil over, ‘cause the little shit didn’t have the balls to confront his betters.
“Got somethin’ to say, boy?” Balkazar barked, scowling through the flames.
Sickle held his silence, working instead to turn his kohl back into a solid puck, his shoulders bunched with the effort he poured into the menial task.
Balkazar sniffed, nose wrinkled. “Eh, that’s what I thought.” He took another tasteless bite and stripped the last of the oily flesh from the bone, before he said, “Get your dinner.”
