A great shudder ran through Balkazar’s heavy frame. His mane flickering across his shoulders, he paused. Swiped one hand through the coppery gore—then cupped his swelling length. “Can you fffeeelll it, brother?” Balkazar hummed, his voice utterly unrecognizable as the male he’d fought wars beside. “The Nine are calling…”
Sinadim rocked back, feet braced shoulder width apart. A huff of breath ghosted over his lips, but that was all the time he had before Balkazar lunged.
Clashing, the two Anhur met at the edge of the pit.
Sinadim caught Balkazar’s forearms. Breath held, head twisted to the right, his blind side was protected. Straining for air that wasn’t tainted by the corruption festering in Balkazar’s blood, he gave Sickle all the time he might need to break for freedom.
“Yield,” Balkazar rattled, his voice a rumbling coo that breathed terror into the prince’s mind.
And with a snarl, Sinadim shoved with all his strength. Sent Balkazar stumbling back, while his claws sank deep into the feverish flesh of the war chief’s forearms, Sinadim found an anchor. Leveraged his grip and spun the other male off balance.
With a wet slap, Balkazar hit stone. Dazed.
Sinadim retreated, tore his eye away long enough to watch Sickle’s back disappear into the night, then said, “You know I have to do this.”
Grant no mercy…
He stooped, fingers finding the sharp edge of a sheet of rock. A primitive blade. Lightweight, yet almost too heavy to lift.
Balkazar spat a gob of phlegm between his knees, making no effort to stand. He gave up his back, chin tipped toward the ground. Hair hanging across his brow in sweaty, tangled ropes.
Feet heavy, Sinadim took a breath. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, eyes fixed to Balkazar’s thick neck.
And then, hefting his weapon high above his head, he swung.
Gleaming with an unnatural inner light, Balkazar’s eyes slid over his shoulder.
Bloodlust.
It shone through a sinister grin. The spring to this trap.
Timing flawless, the war chief hurled himself clear of danger at the last possible second. Spun, and caught Sinadim’s wrist as the blade struck stone. Leveraging himself to a full stand before Sinadim could so much as snarl or curse, he wrenched the prince’s arm back and up. Not stopping until the joint popped and rolled out of the socket, he forced Sinadim into the wall hard enough to crush the very breath from his lungs.
“You’ll see,” Balkazar whispered, his lips moving against the prince’s ear. Lined up, front to back. The press of arousal pulsed and nudged Sinadim’s tail stump.
Wheezing through the pain, the prince snarled, “Get off—”
But Balkazar was far from finished. Hauling back, muscles stiff, he took Sinadim’s captured forearm in both hands and spun his Alpha in a wide circle. Sent him hurtling toward the abyss on a joint that couldn’t support itself. Relying on taut ligaments and empty skin.
Snarling, Sinadim flailed, lashing out with hooked claws, he ripped into Balkazar’s cheek with his free hand. A lucky swing that bought him freedom, his feet planted on the edge of the pit. “Balkazar—”
He didn’t see it coming.
The fist that sailed through his blind spot found anchor around the prince’s throat. Fingers closing with force enough to crush.
But there was no fountain of gore.
No claws sinking into fragile cartilage, only the blunt tips of Balkazar’s fingers against hot, sweat-slicked skin.
“It was always meant for you,” Balkazar hummed, and Sinadim saw the eerie glow of infection ringing the war chief’s pupil. “A gift worthy of a prince…” A smile ticked at the corners of Balkazar’s lips. Choking, Sinadim spluttered, trying to break the other’s grip.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Only the horrible sounds of wretched wet breath and the scrabble of feet against the edge.
And then, “The Nine wait in the shadows, brother. For you.”
Sinadim tore free of the war chief’s fingers, teetered, and fell.
