Hot water that stank of sulfur? In the beyond, that meant only one thing—this stream was fed by a thermal vent.
Grinning now, she trudged through the water. Splashing and careless, she followed the creek north until she came to a fork. The main current split right, but the left climbed toward a clearing in the dense forest, and it was hot.
She scrambled over the bank and found the clearing to be flat red stone with no ground cover. What must have been an ancient riverbed, it had been worn but wasn’t smooth, and she could see where eddies had carved swirling circles into the surface. Where the layers of sediment that had settled over thousands of years had solidified. And, boots slapping against the wet, red stone, she jogged toward the source of hot water. Eyes flicking around the barren landscape ringed by trees.
A series of three hot springs, each on their own stone ledge. The uppermost pool drained into the bottom two, connecting them all to the main creek below. Careful, feeling her heat return as her temperature rose, she picked her way to the top. Dipping her fingers in each pool as she passed, she found them warm and deep. It all came from the largest pool, where a small underground stream met the surface. A heated stream that had once been vigorous enough to carve a cave from solid granite.
Hesitating, ears pricked and straining for any hint that the cave might be occupied, she froze at the entrance. Hearing not so much as a hint of life, she picked up a rock and tossed it into the dark. Ready to flee.
But when nothing came roaring into the light, she grinned. Absently rubbing at her cleft through the leather.
It was perfect, really. A secluded niche where she could rut with her chosen males until they were spent and drained. Far enough away from their camp to afford her a little privacy, she could trap them on her terms.
The ache pulsed through her system, eager for a male to pound it into submission.
Mouthwatering, she turned to look over the clearing. At the forest line, and from this distance, she could see the shadow of three main game trails. All easy to traverse through the dense foliage—even easier to sprint straight into a trap.
Yet although a plan was beginning to form, anxious sweat dampened her brow.
If she failed… this was it. Her last day of freedom and she’d spend it enslaved to her most basic instinct.
Something akin to fear skated down her back but tugged at her sex. Making it clench and gush, because it was already too late to do anything else.
What was fear to a Hathorian but another sort of lubricant?
There was nothing gentle about enduring a true rut, always an element of uncertain terror with an Anhur master like Hadim. She’d been conditioned to be wet and ready at the first hint of danger—but there was every possibility that she’d draw in the wrong sort of attention. That she’d find herself enslaved to an Anhur with the potential to be much, much worse than Hadim had ever been. Though her master had been cruel, it was a flavor she’d known well. A brand she’d grown accustomed to, no matter the sour aftertaste.
There wasn’t time to be clever, not now, with her Biquea glands ripe enough to burst.
Swollen and aching, it wouldn’t be long before she couldn’t help herself. Before she resorted to fucking any bottom-dweller or reject lucky enough to stumble across her in such a state. If he had a prick or tongue or protuberance of literally any kind, she’d fling herself at, on, or over it and beg for more.
She’d seen it happen in the Harem. To the females who’d matured faster than she, who succumbed to their first breeding with sweet laughs and eager smiles. Hated watching her friends become less than as their eyes glazed over and their tails lifted in invitation. Their ears standing rigid in eager anticipation.
And then Hadim would ruin them, taking pride in their downcast eyes. The way their tails tucked whenever he was near, their ears drooping terrified in submission.
Not for her.
Not anymore, for she had no tail to tuck. Nothing to broadcast her fear, except her scent itself—and that she’d buried beneath a fresh layer of dead man’s fat, harvested from the first corpse she’d come across.
No, this time they’d come to her. This time she’d choose her suitor and ignore those who weren’t worthy of tainting her bloodlines.
Teeth flashing, she got to work.
Built fail-safes, twisting rope and setting traps until her fingers bled. Cursing under her breath with such vehemence that spittle sprayed between clenched teeth, she worked until her attention began to splinter. Until her every waking thought was not about maintaining her freedom, but dulling the ache throbbing between her thighs with something thick and warm and spurting.
But when her preparations were finally made, it was with time enough to watch the first moon rise. A full moon, it was the first of the three sisters to ripen, bathing the clearing in a soft white glow.
It was time to set the bait.
Stripping out of her leathers, she went nude to the forest’s edge. Long cloak slung over her shoulders.
And then, swiping her left hand through the slick dripping between glistening thighs, she rubbed it across the trunk of a tree. Her every sense primed for a hint that she’d been discovered, she rushed to mark a trail through the underbrush. The chore giving her much needed distraction as she fought to ignore the ache scratching at the back of her pelvis.
She painted erratic tracks all the way back to the stream, fingers leaving sticky trails of slick wherever her touch landed. Leaving droplets of slick in her wake, she grew bolder with every passing second.
And then she heard voices.
Chapter 9
Diving into the shadows behind a tree, she slipped into her cloak. Fingers dancing over the buttons, the scent of putrefying corpse engulfing her once again.
She’d found a camp.
One simple, shoddy tent erected in a clearing around a rocky outcropping. A fire pit complete with roasting meat. The smell hanging ripe and alluring in a forest filled with ravenous predators who wouldn’t fear the light of a fire.
Her stomach twisted, rejecting the mere idea of food this close to her season. But beneath it, a scent she’d been craving.
Males.
Arrogant enough not to care, or too new to the wood to understand the peril, they lived boldly. Out in the open.
Driven by instinct, she oozed through the underbrush, reeking of death. Belly down, her hood pulled low over her eyes, she blended into the detritus. Pressing forward until she was close enough to hear the low rumble of conversation.
“You want half?”
She blinked, peering through the gloom to identify the speaker.
Two large Anhur males sat side by side, tending a cooking fire. Sharing something roasted on a spit, the one on the left set his teeth to a hank of meat as the other chewed. Mechanical. Precise. The muscle in his jaw bulging with every clench of his teeth. His profile defined and rugged. Jaw sharp, if rough with stubble. His face too washed out by the firelight to determine eye color as anything beyond ‘pale’.
“We’re running low on meat,” he said, and she scowled. Pulling her eyes away from the subtle hints of masculinity. Annoyed that it took so little to make her gush and squirm, that she was aroused by watching them eat.
“I’ll send Keever and Micah out tomorrow,” said the other, this one almost as large as Hadim himself, his back to her. The Alpha of this small pack, presumably—she recognized the edge of authority when it rumbled through his vocal cords. “And Sickle?”