Clinging to the wisps of his composure, Sinadim took another careful step to the side. Matched every one of Balkazar’s movements. “I do.”
Balkazar’s eyes gleamed through a fog of recollection. “Took her until her heat ran dry, eh?” He thumped a fist to his chest. “Got her fat with one o’ mine, too. Right beside yours.” A misty smile touched the war chief’s eyes, then. And he sighed, his mane flaring to a full stand before it lay flat and tame. “I shoulda been gutted for touching a bitch of that quality, but you gave me a shot at her womb.”
Offering a placating smile, Sinadim said, “I remember, brother. She was to be your prize, when I took the Sultan’s throne. A gift for your unwavering loyalty. The first omega in your own harem.”
“You’ll be a good Sultan, my prince. And…” Balkazar’s eyes gleamed with an icy sheen. Glowing with an intense inner light. A veil of madness that set Sinadim’s teeth on edge. “Wouldn’t mind gettin’ my knot milked again, eh?” the war chief hummed, circling toward the edge of the pit, he took a deep breath as he stared into the abyss. “She’s not in heat anymore, our Renegade. But heard it’s better when she’s dry. Tighter. Less of a mess.”
“Just the small issue of her declining health,” the prince returned, and didn’t blink as Balkazar exposed his back. He watched. Readying himself for the moment of reckoning that grew ripe on the vine. “Nothing can change that—”
Jerking, the other male spun. “Change!” Balkazar snarled as if he’d only just remembered why he’d come. Shaking his head, he flung droplets of ooze in a sweeping arc. “Can smell it on the wind. A new kingdom. A new throne.”
Sinadim shivered, swallowing back the urge to distance himself. To set the other male off and draw more of Balkazar’s fractured attention upon himself. “I don’t understand,” he said carefully, words slow. A soothing rumble.
Nodding, Balkazar staggered and slipped on a heap of loose shale, but caught himself before he fell. “But youwill. It’s the change, my prince. Don’t you see? Wasn’t meant forhim.”
Sinadim’s breath caught, but he’d heard enough. “What are you suggesting?”
Arms spread, the war chief roared. “I feel incredible!” He sneezed and it was gummy enough that his forearm glittered with snot where he swiped at the slime. “That little bitch wasright.It’s a gift from the Nine themselves. One worthy of a prince, but she stole it. Gaping, vile whore”—Balkazar sneered, shoulders bunching, claws flashing a warning in the gloom—“all she wants is your seed, you know. Thirsty slut. Needs to be broken over a dry knot an’ stuffed end to end. Like the old days. Two at once. Together.”
“You’re infected,” Sinadim whispered, and it wasn’t a question. There was no denying the scene unfolding before him. The horror of what needed to be done.
“Progeny instead of death!” the other howled, and lunged. Swinging a fist full of claws at the space where Sinadim had been standing only seconds before.
But the prince was ready. He didn’t dip or dive—he lashed out with an elbow, and caught Balkazar across the brow. A spectacular strike that resulted in a bloody show.
Balkazar merely grinned, tasting himself as his face was painted in a wash of shining red.
Retaliation was swift, the other male stocker than the prince. Muscle dense and meant for battle, where Sinadim was long and lean, he tucked his shoulder and charged with his head down.
Sinadim’s knee stopped him short, cracking into the top of Balkazar’s thick skull with enough force to stagger him. Lending the prince time to dance away, he skirted a large boulder on the far side of the pit—and stopped short.
Sickle.
Huddled in the dark. Staring up at him with wide, honey eyes.
“Fuck.” If the war chief followed Sinadim’s path, Sickle would die.
So Sinadim spun to keep the war chief in his line of sight. Stood between Sickle and certain death, motioning for the Hathorian male to move with a click of his claws, he watched Balkazar regain his feet. Watched him slip and land with one hand braced between his knees, and try again.
“Shouldn’t be surprised,” Sinadim drawled, pulling the focus onto himself with arms spread. Inviting the challenge with a smile that tugged on his scars. “Never figured you to be desperate enough to risk infection, but then”—the prince’s smile grew sharp around the edges, taunting and cruel—“you’ve always been happy to lap up whatever cream I’ve spilled, haven’t you?”
A low rumble raked over Balkazar’s vocal cords, deep enough to be felt instead of heard. “You don’t underssstand, my prince,” Balkazar slurred, and hooked his claws under the lip of the prison’s latticed ceiling. He tore it free and sent himself tumbling to the loose shale yet again. Leaving the prison open, the pit a hungry yawning maw between them. “I’ll show you, brother. From the source. You’ll taste the Nine from the source—”
“Brother?” It was Sinadim’s turn to laugh. “You’re no kin of mine.” Stalking closer, the prince held himself at the ready. His gaze sharp, assessing the fallen war chief with a keen eye. Waiting for that instant of opportunity he could smell on the wind. Fermenting as it grew near. And then, “I relieve you of your duty to the Karahmet throne.”
Grant no mercy to the infected unworthy.
For a moment, Balkazar did nothing but stand there, heaving for breath. Winded. Shocked.
And then his icy blue glare flicked to the opposite end of the pit. Flashed with a gleam of menace.
Movement.
Sickle, trying to escape the clash of giants.
Lurching, Balkazar launched himself around the far side of the pit. His movement jerky, lacking all finesse as he barreled forward. And in a clatter of loose stone and clicking claws, Balkazar threw himself between Sickle and the only way out. Panting through gaping jaws, he said, “No room for relics… that… can’t adapt, eh boy?”
“He’s older than you,” Sinadim barked, and with one hand, he ripped Sickle off his feet and hurled him back. Into the safety in his shadow. “Run,” he spat without bothering to look. His claws flashing, Sinadim caught Balkazar’s flesh and tore open his chest.
