With a backward flick of pointed, velvety ears, Sickle said nothing.
Mane bristling at the unspoken challenge, Balkazar chucked his bones at the back of Sickle’s head.
Snarling, Sickle stood in a rush. Threw his things into the fire with enough force that a plume of sparks leapt toward the stars, then forced a tight, “Fuckyou,Balkazar,” through clenched teeth.
Balkazar’s lip curled. Sneering at his back, he went very still when Sickle marched down to the river without a backward glance.
He sniffled. Horked a gob of spit and phlegm into the flames and didn’t blink. Head twisting, he tracked Sickle’s movements until the boy was swallowed up by darkness.
“His temper will cool,” Micha rumbled, his deep voice a soothing purr that only served to infuriate the war chief further. Eyes downcast, Micha picked at his food, the only one brave enough to offer an opinion. “He just needs some time to deal with the loss.”
Balkazar stood abruptly, paused to stretch his back free of the aching kinks gnawing at his kidneys, then turned toward the river.
With the prince taking his turn monitoring the prisoners from escape, Balkazar was in charge of the camp.
Thepunishments.
Shifting onto the balls of his feet, the war chief stalked the night. Letting his eyes adjust to the gloom, he tipped his head back and tasted the wind. Caught the scent of Hathorian male, and followed until he heard a soft splashing. Until he saw the naked curve of Sickle’s back and found the slender male bathing in the river. The slender, lightly muscled limbs of a male who hadn’t been born for hard, physical work. Not the form of a warrior, yet his time in the wilds had served him well. No longer soft and feminine, Sickle was lean and rangy, the skin beneath his ink glowing with health and new strength.
Balkazar blinked, the subtle action sending a streak of pain rocketing through the swollen tissue ringing his left eye. Echoed in the right, the jelly bruised in both.
Lip curled, the war chief sniffled.
“I don’t want to talk to you, Balkazar,” Sickle snapped, whirling toward the sound.
And just there, in his voice, a delicious quiver of fear that whet the war chief’s appetite for a hunt.
Tongue darting out, Balkazar licked the edge of a twisted smile. Swiped at the sweat beading on his brow, and took a step toward the other male. “You’re an insolent brat.”
“And you’re not my Alpha,” Sickle snapped. Arms crossed over well-formed chest, his tattoos bunching with the subtle action.
Low and rough, the war chief laughed. Claws dimpling his palms. “Big words for such a little shit.”
The distant reflection of flickering flames danced in Sickle’s eyes, betraying how wide and luminous they’d grown. Pupils blown wide, rimmed in white. A glassy mirror that was tight around the fringe, stiff with a counterfeit bravado Balkazar knew well, for it was the same lie he’d seen too many times to count.
The wind picked up, ruffling the war chief’s mane. He shivered, a drop of sweat trickling down his cheek before it too, was brushed away.
“What?” the Hathorian barked, too green to do anything but break.
Balkazar took a breath and tasted prey. “I’ve just been thinking,” he drawled, and pawed at his right ear. Working the point of his claws into that narrow, waxy tunnel to stop the infernal ringing.
“Thinking? Ha!” Sickle said, hands on his hips. “Isn’t that Sinadim’s job?”
With a snarl, Balkazar splashed into the river. Long-legged stride eating up the ground between them, he caught the smaller male by his scruff. Shook him about as if he were an unruly kit who needed correction. But where an Anhur had a mane of expressive coarse fur, Sickle was smooth. An inarticulate mute. And instead of a mane, he caught the boy’s flesh with the point of his claws. Forced him beneath the surface of the water before he hauled him up, spluttering and coughing.
Sickle cursed, going still as he was hefted from the tepid river. Nudity bouncing, his skin glistening beneath the watchful gaze of three moons. Toes brushing the rippling surface, both hands anchored on Balkazar’s wrist. “What the f—”
“I’ve been thinking,” Balkazar said again, and tossed the feeble creature back onto the shore with a casual flick of his wrist, “perhaps your usefulness has expired.”
“That so?” Sickle gasped, braced on all fours. Trying to right himself, to reclaim his footing before the war chief cleared the river. Favoring his right leg in a way that denoted just how hard he’d kissed the stone. Dragging it behind him, knee stiff, he crawled.
He wasn’t nearly fast enough.
Balkazar fell across his back. Pinning the boy with his weight, he took a moment to admire the marks scoring the back of his neck. To see the damage he’d delivered to such tender flesh without any effort at all, wounds that bit deep enough into the muscle that blood hadn’t so much as bothered to well up around the punctures.
“Did you have something to say?” Balkazar cooed, and sniffled. Wrapping his forearm around Sickle’s throat, he squeezed, shivering with the thrill of having something so dainty at his mercy. “I’m here to help. All ears.”
“You gonna rape me?” Sickle spat, and flashed the point of his teeth. Scowling from the corner of his eye all the spite he could manage. Ears pressed flat, still and non-threatening where he was pinned to cold stone. “Leave me for dead?”
