Renegade: The Feral Court, Book II

She is the key to his revenge. A vessel of vengeance. A treasure to be shared between brothers.

Greedy, desperate to possess such a treasure, Sinadim would see her bow at his feet and birth him an army. And fight though she tries, her body makes demands she cannot deny...

Soon, she will come to him—and she will beg.

Shifting to ease the ache bunched between her shoulders, she sighed, grumpy at being made to stand and wait. Her fingers twisted in the wisps of fabric swishing about her hips. Bushy tail held stiff at her back, a clear display of irritation she’d stifle the instant she was escorted from the sanctuary of these rooms, for her kind was bred to be submissive. Obedient. Engineered over a thousand generations to suit the biological needs of a species not her own. A much larger, predatory species, yet genetically similar enough to create viable offspring.
The Anhur.
Bigger and stronger than her kind, they’d come from the western seas on boats made of bone and found easy prey. Capable of slaughtering the greatest Hathorian warrior with a single swipe of deadly claws, the Anhur had indulged themselves. Invading small villages and roaming packs of her ancient kin, they’d taken slaves and obliterated ancient bloodlines at whim.
Entire clans fell in a day. Any females of breeding age were put in chains and sold, the fighting Hathorian males hamstrung. Crippled. Their deadly canines filed short and blunt, while conical, expressive ears were clipped and shaped to suit Anhur fashion.
Left emasculated and utterly unrecognizable as Hathorian without their teeth and ears.
Pillaging resources, the Anhur took as many war brides as they could feed—and gifted the males to their wives as pets to be coddled and displayed. But it didn’t take long for those stolen daughters to grow round with the offspring of the conquerors, for the Anhur queens to give birth to unusual kits while their mates were getting rich on the bounty of their conquests. 
Hybrids, born bearing the marks of their lineage.
Tiny at birth, they were born in a litter of their siblings just as pure blooded Hathorian children were. 
On their nape, the sparse, dense fur of an Anhur mane traced the top third of the spine.
But as they grew, it became clear these children were different than either species. In adolescence, they stood taller than even their fathers. Their canines grew long and deadly, the only hint that Hathorian blood ran through those massive veins. 
It wasn’t until the babes matured that the Anhur realized what a gift they truly had.
Hybrids were sterile.
Bigger than their sires with the obedient temperament of their mothers, they were perfect soldiers bred to die in petty wars between Anhur clans. Fighting males incapable of producing offspring of their own or threatening pure-blooded Anhur children for the rights to inherit their father’s holdings. Hybrid females were strong, obedient maidens cherished in the fields and kitchens across the land. Beloved nannies to Anhur children, wet nurses to the many Anhur queens who could afford luxury.
The hybrids transformed Anhur life—and the Hathorians were enslaved by the millions. Stripped of their heritage, their identity… their names. Generations of slaves that would never know anything but this.
Sighing, the girl huffed. Impatient to get on with the tedious chore ahead, for though empires had risen and fallen since ancient times, nothing had changed for her people. And she was no different.
Hadim was coming.
The Anhur male who’d claimed the rights to her womb before she’d even been old enough to carry. Her bloodlines were ancient, cultivated over two thousand years of selective breeding intended to complement the Karahmet royal family.
Promised before her birth to breed for the most promising son of the Sultan, her children would be sterile hybrids. Betas. Meant to fill the barracks, fight, bleed, and die with honor, but ask nothing for themselves.
It was a dreary life, certainly, but to one such as she, who couldn’t come and go at will? The life of a hybrid offered a tantalizing glimpse of something she’d long dreamed of claiming for herself.
Freedom.
Movement caught her eye. An approaching shadow moving on silent feet—she recognized the action of a born submissive. One of her kind sent to relieve her, at last. 
Dipping her head in a show of respect, in spite of how long she’d waited, the girl offered a pleased smile and said, “Matron.”
“Omega,” the other returned. Addressing the younger female by the title given to those of breeding age. A slur, but one used with affection between those who were born to endure.
Wizened and gray, her bearing years long past, the matron now filled the role of instructor. Tasked to teach the next generation how to please their masters. How to mewl and present so the larger males were not encouraged to damage them too badly or force obedience.
The matron had been preparing her since Hadim had claimed her for his harem. Every three months, when her cycle peaked and her follicles ripened, she was groomed with careful precise fingers. Prepared to submit while she was at her most fertile.
And she was going into heat now.
Her scent cloying, broadcasting her ability to catch Hadim’s seed. Warning all other females to stay away or be willing to fight.
“Behave yourself tonight, girl,” the matron said, voice pitched low. Intimate. “The master is in a state. Been into the cups with the mistress, I think.”
Sneering, the girl rolled her eyes. Her ears flicked back, tail rising in a dark, fluffy arch that signaled her opinion on the matter.
The matron tsked, soothing with a soft touch. “None of that, sweet girl. You know what that temper of yours does to him.” 
Leaning into her soft palm, the girl dared to soak up the maternal comfort. Eyes drifting closed as unwanted memory burbled to the surface. Bruising fingers. The cut of sharp teeth and cruel words dampened only by the burning stretch of being mounted by a large male utterly unconcerned with the risk of causing damage.
“I hate him,” she whispered, voice a frail warbling thing.
The matron took a hiccupping breath, then wrapped her in a squishy embrace. Her cheek pressed to a generous bosom that had nursed dozens—she’d often wondered if this particular matron had been her bearer, or if the other female was just conditioned to be motherly after being forced to birth young she’d not been allowed to raise. 
“Submit with grace. Please him as best you can, and I’ll have tea brewed and waiting for your return.”
Lips quirked in a watery smile, the girl nodded, following the matron to the dressing table.
Experienced enough to know what to expect of the next few days, the girl relaxed as the matron went about preparing her for Hadim. No matter what came next, being pampered was never a thing she could refuse.
For one such as her master—a prince wealthy enough to keep a large harem of breeding Hathorians—the event was little more than a chore.
Rough breeding without the messy Hathorian quirks despised by the Anhur males and their queens alike.
The matron held out a tall, thin glass filled with milky liquid. “Hurry now, while it’s still cold.”
Without daring to sniff the offensive offering, the girl set the vial to her lips and threw it back. Swallowed with a grimace, her tongue smacking the roof of her mouth. “Blehhh. Foul shit.”
A playful smack bounced off the crown of her head, making her ears twitch. “Don’t let the master catch you being so crass.”
It was a suppressant designed to ease the symptoms of a Hathorian heat, for when her people went into season, their instincts took over. Without that foul concoction, she’d be driven to build a nest. Mindlessly lifting her tail for a worthy male to catch her scent, to mount her in a nest of her making. And when she was ripe, her sex would glisten with a viscous fluid known as slick.
A lewd, disgusting display unique to her kind. One that had gone out of fashion long before she’d been claimed by a large harem.
Hadim preferred his females tame, their seasons short, litters vast, and their teeth filed down to harmlessly dull Anhur replicas. That he’d left their ears intact wasn’t a gesture of kindness, but one meant to highlight their station as slaves.
Her heat cycles were engineered to last three days, though she was really only receptive to male attention for the first two. After her heat had set in, her blood would surge with a potent cocktail of hormones unaffected by the suppressors. Driving her to seek out a dominant male, her mind cluttered with a dense fog unbreakable by anything but time—or a thick, spurting girth of an Anhur male.
Generations of selective breeding had exacerbated that natural trait in the Hathorians, making a new subspecies disinterested in mating with their own males. Unnatural though that might have been, it was no accident. Only the most pleasing females had been selected to pass on their genes, only those who’d been unable to resist their season. Those unable to fight their most basic instincts.
“Sit here, sweets,” the matron said, fingers dancing through a section of fine, black hair. “The master requested braids.”
Swallowing her vitriol, the girl remained still as her hair was fixed. And when the matron handed her the end of one woven rope, she pinched it in fingers that did not tremble. Even knowing just how Hadim liked to use her braids as leverage, her stoic demeanor was tainted by the hormones flooding her system.
Already, she could feel her attention drifting. Her mind tracing the shape of a tube of lipstick. Recalling the scent of Hadim’s sweat after he’d gone into rut to match her season. The heady scent of an aroused male pushing all else to the background. And so she’d remain until the worst of her cycle had passed.
A mindless slit, begging to be filled. 
She’d heard the other girls talk of their time with Hadim and knew she didn’t have it as bad as some. That she wasn’t a favored Omega, her season enviably mild, and her time spent with Hadim reduced to little more than two long days of terse obligation.
The matron handed her a pot of scented oil without making eye contact. And with deft fingers, the girl swirled her first two digits through it, turning her back to discretely slip those fingers inside herself and replace the lubricant she wasn’t allowed to produce.
“All set?” 
Exhaling a held breath, the girl adjusted her skirts and offered a tight nod. Wishing she could refuse what was coming next.