Page 15 of Sinadim

The respite was not generous.

A thumb hooked the edge of her lips—the digit wriggling back until the knuckle sat between her molars—and he forced her back down. Driving her deep as she might go in a single punishing thrust, her lips stretched in a crooked leer that made Sinadim’s stomach churn with sour bile.

Sick with helpless rage.

But the Sultan wasn’t done.

He shifted, draping one leg over Teliah’s back. Casual when he trapped her there between his spread thighs with the weight of that muscular limb.

Shaking, Sinadim’s claws slid through the meat of his palms, gouging deep rivets in his own flesh. Leaving them slick and tacky with blood that dripped between clenched knuckles and left the air peppered with the scent of so abysmal a failure. His bride shamed where he couldn’t help her.

Not now. Ringed by more spears than he could hope to fight against.

With one hand buried in Teliah’s hair, the Sultan was free to chase his orgasm. In complete control, the Anhur female was ravaged.

It was quick.

Only a few grinding pumps between breaths before the Sultan poured a flood of sperm down her throat. Barely an exhale from the male who Sinadim had yet to look away from.

His grandfather.

Rustem.

Pulling back, the Sultan let Teliah breathe at last. Left her coughing and hoarse where she had collapsed between his knees. “Take her to my quarters,” he said with a casual jerk of his chin and sent the hybrids away with a belligerent flick of his wrist. Not bothering to tuck his shaft away, he let Sinadim see the glossy coat of spittle and cream. The globs still oozing from his slit, were a promise of what would happen to Teliah behind that closed door.

Sinadim watched her go. Saw the slumped shoulders of a proud Anhur female, a warrior who was to be his queen. He took note of the way her tail hung limp and tucked, her mane flat and lifeless.

That she didn’t dare so much as a glance over her shoulder. Couldn’t bother to glance back and beg for help where none could come.

He watched it all with dry eyes desperate for a blink.

The air reeked of humiliated shame.

Hers and his.

“You may go,” the Sultan said at last. Lips curled around a cruel sneer. “I’ll have her delivered on the eve of her next season. If you’ve returned in time.”

Squashing the urge to vent his rage, Sinadim stood in a slow unfurling of restraint and fury. Ignored the acidic burn of muscle left to stillness too long, and without a blink, let go the breath caught between his molars. “Thank you, my Sultan,” he said. Toneless. Pausing for only a moment, before his clenched and bloody fist pressed once more to his heart.

And then he turned.

The embodiment of his station, Sinadim exited the reliquary with something altogether new writhing in his heart.

Wrath.

A tempest that could not be unleashed here, in the palace. Stuffed full with an army of those loyal to Rustem Karahmet—a legion of hybrid warriors who would die in service to the throne.

He held it in thrall until he was back in his quarters.

Wrenching the key from his neck, he paced before the door to his harem. Waging a battle with the murderous thing in his chest that demanded he fuck through each and every Omega female he owned, until he’d properly vented the helpless fury that demanded he claim vengeance from the Sultan’s wretched hide.

But such an action—to move against the Sultan now, without the proper preparations set in place—would spell his death. The end of his line before it had even begun.

And so he paced.

Leaving his harem untouched, mane in a full, furious flare that broadcast his pheromones throughout the room. Waiting for Balkazar to answer his summons.

And when the war chief stood before him at last, it was with icy blue eyes wide with shock at the scent permeating the prince’s quarters.