A litter of hybrid kits to grow his army.
But this runaway harem slave needed more than a simple breeding. She wouldn’t tumble into desperate, blind love around his knot like an untried virgin. The state of her Biquea glands told him there’d be no manipulating her with hormones, for he knew better than most what it took to turn a Hathorian female into a prince’s breeder.
The sheer amount of abuse and neglect.
A female like this wouldn’t know to be grateful for a gentle approach—she’d condemn it.
No, what this defiant creature needed was a new master.
The Alpha wrapped his hand in her thick, black locks and wrenched her head back. Sending her into a submissive state with little more than a flick of his wrist.
“I’m going to breed you, Omega,” he whispered, lips tracing her ear. The slur slipping off his tongue with cruel ease, his prick weeping pearly tears of eager joy. “You’re going to spend the rest of your life producing soldiers for my army.”
A ragged sob burst from her lips. Wet with spittle, edged with helpless desperation. “P-please, Ha—”
But he was the one who needed, so he clapped a palm over her mound. Right hand snaking around her hips and between her legs, he plugged her weeping cunt with his three thickest fingers. Spread her labia and traced her opening. He worked her, then, playing in the mess his brothers had left, teasing her glands as she cried and lurched.
She moaned, gushing over his fingers. Surrendering her weight, her breath whistling and cold against his palm.
Sensing victory, he grinned. Eager to sink into the wet heat between her thighs at last, he shoved her back to hands and knees. Positioning her so that he might see where her tail had been, the elegant, twisting ink that traced her spine and marked her lineage. All so he could run the blunt edge of his nails over the scar and watch her come undone.
In an instant, pretty mewling became guttural. Shivering muscles began to spasm, and the few words she had left devolved into an untethered wail of denial.
But the Alpha wasn’t finished. Had scarcely even begun.
He dipped his cock into her heated channel, groaning when she began to clamp down. Compressing his knob in a silken fist.
“Such a tight cunt, Omega,” he crooned, mocking as he made another fist in tangled, wet hair as he began to burrow deeper. Fighting her Biquea glands for every millimeter gained. “And here I thought Micah had ruined you for all of us.”
She hiccupped, but said nothing more.
Kneading her hips, twisting her neck to keep her helpless beneath him, the Alpha sank inside. Enjoying every stolen inch. The press of glands swollen to ludicrous proportions gave her the grip of an innocent—gushing slick and cum, the welcoming passage of a seasoned whore.
“Ugh,” he spat and slapped her ass to make her clench around him. “Perfect little breeder. Take it.”
But before he sank his knot where she needed it, he withdrew. Sluicing through the tight ring just inside, he teased her to the edge of madness. Worked her pussy until he’d purged her depths of any hint of another male, the mushroom-flare of his cock scraping her clean until her glands expressed a rush of fresh slick.
“Mmmphh,” she grunted, cheeks red. Eyes black and rimmed in white. “Pllluhh—”
That was all it took to make the breeder cum. To make her to spray his thighs with milky fluid too thin to be mistaken for semen.
She only sobbed harder, thrashing as he tormented her with the tapered edge of his knot. Rubbing at the front wall of her cunt, he withheld the shuddering impact of hips on flesh. Reveling in the thrill of debasing the feisty thing as she whined beneath him.
“Beg,” he said again, pinning her with left hand, wrenching her head back with the right. “Beg for this knot or suffer without it. I get to cum either way.”
Instead of obeying his command, a midnight black glare rolled to meet his working eye. And she scowled, showing the smooth line of blunted teeth.
When she snarled defiance, the Alpha fell in love.
And then she stopped him cold in the middle of a promising rut.
“Hadim, please!”
Chapter 22
A shadow moved through the forest. Silent, yet watched by the small woodland creatures who knew to be wary of an apex predator. Who knew that to stalk the hunter was to grow fat on the easy bounty of discarded scraps.
Without breaking so much as a twig, the hunter oozed from the shadows that clung and begged for his return. A shaft of sunlight brightened hair matted with mud and filth, highlighting a mane that hung in clumps from bare shoulders. Dusty skin coated in a protective layer of grime—camouflage from hungry, opportunistic lurkers.
And through the gloom, eyes that gleamed with a rich amber hue. Unnatural.
The most obvious sign of one plagued with the Trax virus.
Infected.
Thick shoulders bunched as the hunter paused, braced against a tree. Gaze fixed to a small herd of four-legged grazers.
Deadly, razor sharp antlers curved back from a muscular torso—proficient in disemboweling a predator without much effort, the antlers also served to shield the back of the neck. The creature’s only true vulnerability, evolved to be inaccessible from vicious predators more lethal than even he.
There were no weapons clutched in those massive, calloused hands. Nothing to throw, no traps to set. There was only him and the weapon his body had become.
The hunter lifted one heavy foot, paused, then placed it between leaf litter and exposed stone. Pressing ever closer to the herd. Senses keyed to the slightest change in their mood. In the environment around him, and most of all, in the way his bulk moved through the wood. Taking care to remain hidden until the herd forgot to be wary, when they relaxed into the beautiful warm day and ignored the impulse to run from ravenous shadows.
Opportunity came when the herd’s bull dipped his heavy head to graze. His guard down, swiveling ears and deadly horns relaxed as he munched on sweet summer grass. Surveying his females with a lazy flick of a short, bushy tail.
The hunter edged closer, mane rising up where it could, where the clumps of dirt and matting allowed for such a display that would go unseen by any who could comprehend the warning.
And there he would wait, muscles locked. Lurking in the shadows for the perfect moment to strike.
It came when the bull bounded off in chase of a female displaying the signs of fertility. She dropped to the detritus, her slender twisting horns leaving deep gouges in the forest floor where she dragged them through the dirt. The ridge of fur along her back tightened and stood stiff, musk glands exposed to the humid afternoon air. Signaling her readiness.
Abandoning his herd in the heat of the moment, the bull went wild. Snorting and puffing, a pink cock slid from furry sheath. Twisted and thrashed against the female’s rump.
When the bull mounted up, the hunter struck.
In an explosion of pent-up energy, he lunged from his perch. Claws fully extended, a bellowing roar was expelled from the bottom of his gut—one that made the herd flinch as one being, a hive-mind of terrified flesh moving in the same instinctive direction.
Away.
But the hunter already had his prize by the throat.
A sickly yearling with hardly enough bulk to last through the winter. Horns not yet fully grown and not the deadly weapon the bull would use to defend his herd. This young buck had a bent foreleg, where it may have broken and healed. Knit back together wrong.