Page 20 of Sinadim

“Yes, even that!” the clerk crowed, amused by the shocked silence that followed such a claim. “Share her, if you’re inclined. Indulge in the taboo banned by the crown”—he spat a glob of derision at the floor—“and allow yourselves to have a taste of the truly exquisite. Our Netta is as rare as she is insatiable.” The clerk turned to go. “Oh, and it rarely needs to be mentioned to our elite members, but you do not need to worry about her placing a mating bite. Here, you may indulge in true freedom. Be as reckless as you wish.”

Scandalized by the very idea, Sinadim bristled. Making scathing eye contact with the clerk for the first time since this vulgar meeting had begun.

Waving him off, the clerk offered another greasy smirk. “We’ve taken care of the risk, so you’re free to indulge in your most depraved desires. Now!” he crooned, clapping his hands before directing their attention down, into the pit where movement had begun to stir. “Your girl will be ready in just a few minutes, but in the meantime, please enjoy the show!”

Left alone, the pair moved to the edge of the pit. Choosing to stand instead of taking advantage of the plush couches that reeked of stale cum and spilled slick.

Icy blue eyes grew stormy. Distant. And Balkazar began to speak as if watching from very far away. “Omega bitches come into heat once every three moons or so,” he said. Quiet as a commotion from below began to rise. “Causes a problem for places like this. Where they try to squeeze coin from a few precious, rare cunts. So they might feed their clientele an addictive substance to force ‘em to keep comin’ back for more.”

Below them, a haggard male was shoved into an unkempt fighting pit. Sands littered with debris, kicked up by feet shackled with heavy chains. An Anhur male snarled as he clawed at his restraints, frothing at the mouth.

“Only thing more rare than slick,” Balkazar droned, watching with unblinking eyes, “is the whore it comes from. Even the most high-end brothels struggle to access Omega cunt before they’re too old to breed. Before the slick runs dry.”

Sinadim glanced at his war chief from the corner of his eye. Unsettled by the glimpse of his origins.

“Even then,” he said and pulled a simple sling from his belt, “the window for collecting slick is narrow. A few days before she’s just another dry slit. Exotic, yes. A better earner than the hybrid bitches? Certainly. But…” He shrugged and let that length of leather slip between deft fingers. Measuring it. “In the end, she’s just another mouth to feed.”

Sinadim swallowed. Wondering if Balkazar—if the slavers who’d made him—knew. If they’d come across some of the sultanate’s most coveted secrets, down in the dark.

Below, that disheveled male turned gleaming eyes up. Scowling at the balcony ledge as if he knew he was being watched.

“A single Omega can’t meet the demands of the masses,” Balkazar said and loaded his sling with a heavy lead ball. “She’ll only produce slick if she’s in heat, unless…”

Something cold slipped into Sinadim’s guts. Something vile that made his mane go flat and his tail bristle, claws extending as if preparing for a bloody fight. Something taboo that drew his keen gaze down once more, into the pit. To the male frothing and foaming as he trembled with scarcely restrained rage in the pit below.

It was just there. High on his shoulder.

A dainty crescent laid in flesh.

Scars that shone white in the gloom.

“He’s been marked,” Sinadim murmured, letting a breath leak through slack lips.

It was their deepest taboo. A thing as alien to the Anhur as polyamory was to a Hathorian.

To allow a Hathorian female to set a mating mark was to invite doom. A death sentence for the Anhur foolish enough to succumb to another species’ mating ritual. Doing so was to be enslaved to a female whose needs would outstripe his own.

On the surface, allowing a Hathorian female to mark an Anhur was to have a breeding Omega who never went out of season. A girl so desperate to be bred, she alone could shoulder the burden of serving a prince.

But it was a perversion of nature.

For without a Hathorian male, it was a bond that could never be completed—the Anhur didn’t produce the mild venom needed to make such a thing whole.

Corrupted by a species not her own, she could never be satisfied. Even with a belly full of hybrid brats, she was doomed to beg until her throat bled. Her glands never expressed of the nectar that drove her to be bred.

In turn, the Anhur male bearing her mark was taken by a bottomless rut. Addicted. Obsessed. Forced to fuck his mate until she was ripe and bloated with his mutant offspring. His mind consumed with satisfying her needs and little else.

But… if he was denied access to the one thing he needed more than water or food? If she died?

It was a rut that would swallow him whole. Rendering him little more than a slavering beast. Driven mad by the urge to fuck himself dry inside but a single female, it was a sadistic torture that needed an outlet.

And any outlet would do.

Sinadim looked again at the beast in the pit and saw the truth.

Feral.

Hopelessly consumed. A creature that would fuck anything with a hole. Warm or not.