Page 6 of Sinadim

Thoroughly amused, Sinadim clapped the war chief on the back. “If it were up to me,” he said, “I’d let you indulge yourself with every clingy little Hathorian virgin in my harem.”

“And I’d die of dehydration, my balls a pair of shriveled prunes, a happy grin frozen on my withered face.”

As they made their way to the fighting pits, they were kindred spirits bonded in crass humor. Just for a moment. Not just a prince and his war chief, despite Balkazar maintaining a respectful half-pace behind Sinadim as they entered the arena.

Brothers.

Friends in a place where such bonds were weak and unseemly.

Before an audience, however, the appropriate masks fell into place on a blink. Their stations resumed without a spoken word.

And despite a troth exhibition being a private, intimate event meant for the royal family and the blood-kin of the suitors, a respectable audience had gathered around the fighting pit.

Foreign ministers and spectators from the highborn ranks filled the intimate seating, surrounding the kin of both Teliah and Demure, who occupied benches on opposite sides of the pit. Separate, yet close enough that they didn’t dare speak for fear of being overheard. They merely watched, fathers and brothers observing the firstborn females in their line as they prepared for battle.

The right to claim a mate.

A ring filled with black, volcanic sands, it was as exclusive as it was primitive. Kept free of moisture in their arid clime, each match was as much against an opponent as it was a test of stamina. The ultimate measure of endurance, the sands were utterly unforgiving to any who lacked the fitness required to enter.

Of the dozens of noble Anhur females who’d competed for the rights to his royal hand in marriage, the competition had been whittled down to these two.

Teliah and Demure.

Both of them worthy enough, despite his preference for experience.

Truthfully, Sinadim wasn’t all that concerned with who won—he’d enjoy them both. Their sole purpose to take his seed and whelp the full-blooded Anhur brats who’d carry on his bloodline. To bear the males who’d one day fight and scheme to take his place.

Many of his own siblings and uncles speckled the stands, each surrounded by their entourage of bottom feeders hoping for a few scraps discarded by the elite. To glean some small measure of favor, a token of affection or wealth. All of them eager to watch the bloodsport, for Sinadim fully intended the winner to be their next queen.

His eyes settled on the rat-face of the one uncle he’d been hoping would attend.

Ahmelek.

“Sinadim, my son,” came a gruff, impatient drawl from inside the royal pavilion. A voice the prince loathed, for it belonged to his father.

Hadim.

Eyes narrowed, lip curled, it was a downright pleasant greeting, but only because they had an audience. “So gracious of you to bless us with your presence at last.”

Mane bristling beneath his mantle, Sinadim pressed his claws into the meat of his palms and forced a smile. “My apologies, Father,” he said, and ducked the heavy flapping fabric of the royal tent, Balkazar hot on his heels. Bracing one hand on the back of his father’s chair, he stooped and pressed a kiss to his mother’s cheek. Eyes flicking toward the tattooed face of a Hathorian male kneeling at her feet—one who stood in a swirl of graceful silks, and collected a pitcher.

Hadim sucked a breath through nostrils pinched white, and scowled. “You show up late to the final exhibition reeking of the rut, and don’t bother to offer so much as an excuse?” Hadim snapped, glaring when Sinadim assumed his seat immediately in front of his parents. His back left carelessly exposed.

With a shrug, Sinadim accepted the goblet of sweet water his mother’s pet offered and let his voice carry. Knowing all the gathered spectators were listening with a greedy ear. “I thought only to offer evidence of my virility.” He took a hearty pull from his goblet, nodded, and shooed the Hathorian male away with a flick of his claws. “What better way to honor the gift of daughters such as these”—he stood, flung his hands wide, and grinned at Teliah and Demure in the fighting sands below—“with the promise of hale Karahmet heirs, guarded by the largest army of hybrids any in the Sultan’s vast army might offer.”

“Oh, well done,” Samina said, his mother’s laugh high and tinkling as she bade her pet to kneel at her feet once more. Threading her claws through his tousled blond hair, she played with the velvet shell of Hathorian ears. A coy grin fixed to her lips. “Spoken like true royalty, my son.”

Sinadim grinned, reclaiming his seat. His tail swept off to the left, ankle crossed over his knee, he clapped his hands. “These games have been long,” he said, addressing the final two females seeking his hand. “You’ve been tested and shown your worth, honored your kin with skill and strength that will be remembered for generations to come. And if I were permitted,” he added, a conspiratorial lilt to his voice, eyes flicking to the opposite ends of the arena, “I’d be pleased to take you both as wife.”

The audience laughed, as he knew they would.

“And while tradition has value,” he said, voice raised, laced with the strength of confidence expected of his station, “I cannot abide watching one of you lose and walk away with nothing.”

“What are you doing?” Hadim hissed, sitting forward.

Sinadim ignored the Heir. “As tradition dictates, the winner of this final match shall be my cherished lady wife,” he said and pressed his hand to his heart. “But the other will have the pleasure of marriage to my uncle, Ahmelek.” Gasps rang out, echoing around the arena as he pressed on, shooting a sly grin at the cluster of gathered kin. Knowing Ahmelek was there, seething at so underhanded a gift. “And may our families be ever bound in war and happiness.”

“I had plans for Ahmelek,” Hadim snarled under his breath.