Page 30 of Sinadim

Sinadim took pity on her when she frowned, as she struggled to bring details forward from the back of her hormone-addled brain. He hadn’t missed the way she’d melted against him. Noticed when she let that little pink tongue flick out to taste a drop of sweat when it trickled down, over his collarbone. “Tell me, brave girl.”

“Sickle,” she whispered, snuggling closer. “His name was Sickle.”

Hiking her up, adjusting that insignificant weight, Sinadim gestured for the Razie to erect his tent. Cooing in sympathy at her meaningless reveal, because the truth was… he didn’t know the names of any Hathorian males, inside the Silver City, or not.

They were servants.

Playthings for Anhur queens to decorate. Traded amongst elite women at a whim.

But ultimately… not his concern.

No, until an Omega female aged out of his harem and needed to be bred by one of her own, Hathorian males weren’t something Sinadim had ever wasted much time considering.

“Foolish chit,” Balkazar snapped, making her startle and cling as the war chief materialized from the shadows. “This is meaningless information, and now we’re hamstrung, just as surely as Varjim!”

It was true.

Already, they’d come too far to turn back. The bird she’d no doubt stolen was ill-suited for desert travel, much less the grueling trek that lay ahead of them.

“Feed the Walleri,” Sinadim ordered, turning toward his simple tent. “Save it if you can. Slaughter and dress it if you can’t.”

In spite of himself and his irritable temper, Balkazar grinned, offering a flamboyant bow. His grin grew lecherous when Sinadim kicked aside the flap of his tent and disappeared inside with the tiny female clinging to his shirt.

Alone, he set her down with tender care, and commanded her to, “Tell me of Sickle.”

“The Master’s son⁠—”

“Veli Zaganos is dead,” Sinadim snapped, letting his mane flare. The scent of Anhur fury filling her simple mind with the desperate need to submit. “I served his pathetic, wilted cock to you and your sisters before I claimed you for my own. He is not your master.”

She paled. Visibly. Cringing back from the stink of a dominant male—a prince, no less—the dainty thing before him trembled. “I-I’m s-sorry. I didn’t-didn’t mean⁠—”

“Peace,” Sinadim cooed by way of apology, trailing claws through silky hair. Trying to soothe. Straining to squash his instinct to dominate, so the dainty female might know a moment’s peace and come to him willingly. Easily. Without the need for coercion that would only traumatize her further. “No ghosts can harm you here.”

Shivering, her breaths shallow and quick, she blinked glassy, luminous eyes—but made no effort to escape his touch or lean into it.

Patient, despite the Anhur urge to use force, Sinadim waited. Giving her the space and time she needed to relax between breaths, he focused instead on the scent buried beneath the shadow of the dead.

For it was there, beneath the stench of terror rising from her skin.

The truth.

Driven by instinct.

Enslaved by helpless arousal.

That distinct aroma told the story of why she’d come all this way.

To him.

Hathorian slick.

This brave girl hadn’t risked punishment for escape, hordes of virginal males desperate for a taste of a breeding female, or endured the desert to bring news of one Hathorian male.

No.

The answer was far simpler than that.

Primal.