Page 8 of Sinadim

Hadim smiled, then. And it was wicked with something that went unsaid. “Off with you then, boy. You still need the Sultan’s consent to breed the bitch.”

Mane bristling beneath his mantle, Sinadim held his tongue and returned that smile with one of his own.

“Give my regards to Veli Zaganos, hmm? I’m sure you’ll manage to secure access to the Zaganos Kesh. The drought on our southern border has ravaged our own supply.” Hadim adjusted his belt. “I don’t need to remind you of what’s at stake,” he said, “should you fail today. What it would mean if we cannot brew the oils needed to keep the Omegas ripe and docile.”

To this, Sinadim merely inclined his head and said nothing at all. Preferring to side-step the insult that he was somehow unaware of the state of his own cache of the delicate, precious oil. That he might be ignorant of the consequences should that stockpile run dry.

“Nineteen percent of the Karahmet trade revenue,” Hadim pressed, saying it nevertheless. “And⁠—-”

“And a legion of Omegas falling to the madness of natural seasons, yes,” Sinadim drawled, unable to hold his tongue after all, claws lengthening inside the cage of balled fists. “I am aware of my duties, Father.”

“Are you?” Hadim retorted, cocking his head. “Rut can be rather addictive to… inexperienced males.” He clicked his tongue. “And here you are, reeking of it. Not even the courtesy to wash the slick off your balls as you posture and strut before your new bride and her entire family.”

Heat kissed Sinadim’s cheeks, the reprimand landing, for even now, his blood was still sluggish and thick. His knot still eager to find purchase behind the pelvic bone of his favorite Omega—or any of the others locked away in his vault.

Point made, Hadim flicked his tail and followed his escort from the pit, leaving tension in his wake. The Heir tossed, “I expect a full accounting of your negotiations on my desk tomorrow morning,” over his shoulder as he stepped from the tent.

Alone, Sinadim took a breath still laced with tension, and turned to address his war chief. “I think thanks are in order, brother.”

Stepping closer, Balkazar lifted a curious brow. “My prince?”

“Aren’t you glad you didn’t place that bet?”

3

Sinadim didn’t bother washing his balls.

He lounged before the foreign Zaganos ambassadors with his knees spread wide as they might go. Reeking of rut and slick as he watched the Zaganos Alpha and his pompous shit of a son posture before him. Knowing the casual disrespect was enough to infuriate the other males. To keep them unbalanced during delicate negotiations of a precious resource the Karahmet sorely needed and the Zaganos had in abundance—no matter what the list of accounts spread between them might claim.

The Zaganos clan manufactured the bulk of the nation’s Kesh.

And in times of drought, inland, desert clans struggled to grow enough of the precious ingredients required to keep their harems ripe. Fertile. To prevent them from falling to a dreaded natural season that made breeding them infinitely more difficult for any but the most experienced males.

It was a dynamic that forced trade deals between enemies when the ungrateful cur should have dropped kegs of it at their Sultan’s feet in honored homage.

But Veli Zaganos was the predatory sort. Never one to miss out on a cutthroat opportunity. And always, always lurking with a second, hidden blade to twist in his favor.

Not quite powerful enough to claim sovereignty from the Karahmet sultanate, the Zaganos clan were ocean-side merchants. An insignificant military threat on their Eastern border, but a worthy opponent when seated at the negotiation table.

Sinadim had been tasked to deal with Veli since he’d been named Firstborn.

“Congratulations on your impending nuptials, my prince,” Veli drawled, plucking a pitcher of honeyed wine from the table as he waited for a glass. “Teliah fought with enchanting grace that brings great honor to her house. I have no doubt she’ll bear many fine sons to carry your name and bring an endless bounty to the Karahmet throne.”

Inclining his head, Sinadim’s eyes flicked toward movement from the shadows.

An Omega male approached with three silver goblets, eyes downcast. Presenting the tray to Sinadim before moving to the Zaganos males.

The boy was his mother’s creature. The very same who’d offered him drink at the toth exhibition, no doubt tasked to listen and watch with Hadim’s shrewd glare. To report on the outcome of this meeting. Those expressive, pointed ears flicked and twitched at every tiny sound, displaying every whisper of emotion in the way fine hairs trembled and lurched.

Beneath the prince’s scrutiny, a drop of sweat gathered on the Omega’s tattooed brow. Slicing through the delicate swirls of dark ink, reeking of anxiety the longer Sinadim looked.

“Prince Sinadim,” Veli drawled, cool and cultured, yet slimy beneath the façade. “May I introduce my named heir, my son Varjim Serc-Feric Zaganos.”

Sinadim’s brow rose as he glanced at the younger Zaganos, a taller, thicker version of Veli. Impressed, by nothing but the number of syllables in such a pretentious name.

But Varjim didn’t bother to address his prince with the respect Sinadim was due—his eyes were for the slender Hathorian male in their midst.

Posturing where he stood, too young to disguise the flare of his mane or tear his predatory glare from the smaller creature. Reeking of youth and testosterone, Varjim smirked down his nose. “Omega,” he barked. “I’ve heard the males of your kind can take a knot just as well as the females. Is that true?”