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  Sohm’lan’s breaths were coming quick and fast. Any idiot would know that one did not step between a bull and his mate, especially an injured mate. That was inviting a maiming and possibly death.

  He moved back, reminding himself that these guards did not know Mestor was his. He tried to calm his huffing and blowing. “I am not a visitor. I am Warlord Sohm’lan, Prince Mestor’s amor. Now please step aside.” There. No death happened.

  Four of the Basilisc blocking his way glanced at each other before bursting into laughter. “You are not the amor of the playboy prince. He likes his bedmates—”

  Sohm’lan shoved the speaking Basilisc hard, the door behind him rattling with the impact. “Are you accusing the Chief Warlord to Emperor Valdor of lying?” he snarled.

  At home, the Basilisc guarded the Vondorians within the palace and ensured the safety of everyone therein. Never had a Basilisc said anything disparaging about the Vondorians within his hearing. He only recognized two of the guards; the other six had to be new. The two guards he recognized were looking at the newer ones with confusion and alarm. They both gave Sohm’lan a gesture, telling him they stood with him. Three against six was not terrible odds. Though when he found out who trained these harpy slugs, he would ensure they shared the same fate as these incompetent guards. All new hires would be recalled and reevaluated.

  The leader’s lips curled, baring his teeth. “Do not think you can use your title to bully us? We were given our orders. Since you are not family, you are not allowed inside. He is already entertaining a bed-limpet and I am told the prince likes his privacy.”

  A couple of Basilisc snickered. Sohm’lan’s two allies flanked the Basilisc standing away from the four blocking the doors. They, too, sensed the trouble coming, and he trembled with rising fury.

  “The Vondorians should enjoy the power they have,” another said nervously in a conspiratorial whisper. “The houses are soon going to place a real warrior on the throne.”

  “You are treading on treasonous ground,” Sohm’lan warned. Since the agent of House Cordyl had approached ‘the Striker’ a few days ago, he had expected they would need to weed out those who colluded with the traitors. What he did not expect was for them to be so blatant about their plans. If House Cordyl wanted to keep their activities quiet, they picked the wrong accomplices in these guards.

  The six guards scoffed and snickered as if Sohm’lan was delusional.

  “Timsah Gadrius has promised us places of power if we support him, and the person he puts on the throne,” the nervous guard said quickly, her gaze imploring Sohm’lan to accept. “If you are willing to help us usher in a new age, I bet Timsah would allow you to keep your position. But support or no, Timsah will have Valdor removed before the sennight is over. If you refuse, then we can take care of you now.”

  “Be silent, you fool,” the leader hissed, thumping the speaker so hard with his tail that she staggered.

  Were they really planning a coup while in Haven Palace? Sohm’lan would have the lot of them arrested, and it was as if the group thought they would be exempt. Perhaps they did not care or believed Timsah Gadrius could really shield them.

  “Move out of my way,” he rumbled softly, uninterested in speaking to these slime-ridden skinks any longer.

  The guards sneered and a couple gripped the only weapon they could carry in Haven Palace, a shockwand.

  “I already told you, the prince does not like to be interrupted while he is fucking,” the leader replied snidely. “Be on your way.”

  Two Basilisc reached for him and he glared at them with disdain. As if they could move him when he did not want to be moved. He shoved them back hard, an arc of blue electricity jumping from his hands to the two guards and they crashed into the door, falling to their knees. The Basilisc Sohm’lan knew engaged the traitors nearest them, leaving him with the last two. The edge of his vision turned red and his body buzzed. Knowing his Tori was on the other side of the door only fueled his fury. He fought the four guards who blocked his path, breaking wands and then hands. No one kept him from his amor!

  Shoving guards out of his way, he reached for the handle and his legs almost buckled under the weight of two Basilisc jumping on his back. He vaguely realized his scales were brighter, his core warming—like when he healed Mestor, but slightly different, aggressive. Glowing electricity arced between his fingertips. Reaching over both his shoulders, he grabbed handfuls of uniforms and channeled his power to throw the slugs off. They flew into the doors which burst open under the force, the Basilisc rolled head over heel into the room.

  “I will see Prince Mestor now!” he bellowed. The other two Basilisc jumped onto him, clinging like pesky barnacles.

  He stalked through the entryway and was hit by the overpowering stench of illness, blood, and death. Had Mestor perished while these slimy skinks stood outside? The thought drove him mad with grief so immediate and potent he thought he would explode. He roared a challenge, throwing off two more guards who attempted to take him down to the floor. He held nothing but contempt for them. He did not buckle under their feeble onslaught, tossing them in a flash of claws and tearing clothing. He fought like he had not since Niobe lay dying in youngling birth. He bellowed his pain and rage, stomping on the guard who fell closest to him, making sure he would not be getting up anytime soon. The other he grabbed by the throat and lifted her off her feet, tossing her into the nearest wall as if she weighed nothing.

  Spinning on his heel to take care of the last two, he found Kryp standing at his back. His hand-to-hand combat was more like a dance as he protected Sohm’lan. The Dire D’Noss laughed happily, enjoying how he confounded the Basilisc who could not seem to land a strike on the youth.

  “Warlord Sohm’lan!” Kryp called out excitedly. “Excellent greetings. Are we killing or incapacitating today?”

  “They will be arrested and questioned,” Sohm’lan replied, grabbing an intricately-carved chair.

  “Fantastic!” Kryp executed a move Sohm’lan had only seen Zeus do, jumping straight in the air without the benefit of a tail to give him height, and spinning with such power that when his foot connected with the guard’s head, the Basilisc collapsed, unconscious. Sohm’lan smashed the chair into the second one, who crumpled into a heap next to his comrade. He was impressed the chair did not break.

  He spun, counting the four bodies before searching for more enemies. In the hallway, the final two Basilisc were kneeling, fingers laced behind their heads and guarded by Sohm’lan’s two allies. Kryp grabbed the heels of the unconscious ones and with surprising strength, dragged them out into the hallway. A reedy voice called Sohm’lan’s name.

  He turned again, looking until he found Mestor attempting to rise from the chaise in the corner, a protective hand over his stomach. Not dead, Sohm’lan chanted to himself as he rushed to his amor, falling gracelessly to his knees. His relief was so poignant that he buried his face in Mestor’s lap to hide the hot tears escaping his eyes. The smell of illness and death was strong and harsh. Why had Mestor left the infirmary like this?

  “I needed to see you,” Mestor said calmly, stroking his ridge, his claws scraping against Sohm’lan’s scales soothingly.

  He made a wounded noise, rising to press his forehead against his amor’s. “Tori, we need to get you help.”

  Mestor’s eyes crinkled as he grinned. “It is only time for the bandages to be changed. It can wait a little longer. I would rather drink in the sight of you.” He made an almost purring sound. “Tori… I like this name you have given me.”

  Sohm’lan ignored Mestor’s pleased rumble that caused his scaled to tighten. “Why have none of your guards or anyone else for that matter not healed you?”

  “I wanted only you to touch me,” Mestor replied, unrepentant.

  “Healing does not end in sex,” Sohm’lan groused, trying to keep from being pleased. It was a small stroke to his ego that Mestor did not want to be touched by another. “You are never to delay healing simply because
I am not around.” He needed to be firm so Mestor would not deny help again.

  “They are going to put me in a regen tank once the venom has been removed.” Mestor soothed.

  “You smell like death. When I came in, I thought you had perished with no one to help you,” Sohm’lan whispered, cupping Mestor’s face between his palms. He did not like the look of Mestor’s scales. They were not glossy black but a dark gray.

  “The two sane Mar’Sani have restrained the others. They called for Dr. Solon and Captain Hesperos,” Kryp said before plopping down on the loveseat. “The captain is going to be very upset. He called for a change in guards and left Mestor in my care when Mestor started dozing. He was going to eat and then return to take Mestor back to the infirmary for his bandage change.”

  Sohm’lan did a double take at the sight of the horrendous stockings Kryp wore.

  “Thank you for helping Sohm,” Mestor said, wincing as he moved closer to the edge of the chaise.

  “You need—”

  “I need to stay here with you,” Mestor interrupted grumpily. “With Dr. Solon on the way, he will bring everything I need. No. What I really want now is something soft to lie back on.”

  Sohm’lan was not going to argue. He rose and carefully lifted Mestor in his arms. He grinned at Tori’s undignified squawk.

  Kryp jumped up. “Where are we going?”

  “Only to the sleeping chamber.” Sohm’lan crossed to the ornate double doors that did not smell like Azaes and Ariafella.

  The young Dire D’Noss hurried ahead and opened them, revealing an opulently appointed sleeping chamber. Sohm’lan crossed to the heavy-framed platform and waited as Kryp pulled the covers to the end.

  “Wait a moment while I grab some linens to keep him from fouling the bedding.” Kryp rushed to the lavatory. A couple of bumps and a small crash later, he rushed back into the room with an armful of thick towels.

  Mestor snorted out a laugh only to stiffen and hiss. “The medicine is wearing off. My abdomen feels as if someone tried to scoop out my intestines.”

  “Not funny, Tori,” Sohm’lan snapped. “If you were not in so much pain I would… I would… I know not what I would do, but you would dislike it.” His amor’s snort-hiss said Mestor did not believe his vague threat. “Tori,” he pleaded. Sohm’lan did not miss that Mestor’s eyes warmed with each use of his shortened name. He was not above using it or anything else to get what he wanted.

  Kryp layered the material on the mattress. “It is good that you find humor in your situation. I hope I can do the same when I am terribly injured.”

  Sohm’lan worried that Kryp was perfectly serious, believing he would one day be as injured as Mestor.

  “Prince Mestor’s situation is not something you should aspire to,” he chastised. Kryp had grown on him since their first conversation. He did not wish for the youngling to run heedlessly into danger.

  “Now you sound like Grandfather Wrik,” Kryp groused, patting his construction.

  “He sounds like a wise male.” Sohm’lan gently set Mestor on his feet.

  “He is the wisest, but you know as well as I that war is coming. I will not sit in safety and wring my hands. I have the best schooling and martial arts training available under my belt. I will be putting it to good use when the V’Saar decide to make their move.”

  Seemingly content that the nest he made was ready for Mestor, Kryp stepped away, placing the spare linens on the nearby table. Sohm’lan thanked the youngling and got a beaming smile in return. “I will go and make sure those who attacked you are properly arrested. Palace security will have questions, but I will put them off until you are ready.”

  On quiet feet Kryp left, closing the doors behind him with a royal bearing. Sohm’lan stared after him. “That youngling is a paradox. One moment he is an innocent, bouncing around and carefree. In a blink, he is a honed warrior with aged eyes.”

  “Perhaps all Dire D’Noss are like that,” Mestor replied, tugging at the knot in the robe’s tie.

  He brushed Mestor’s hand away, carefully undressing his amor, getting his first look at the bound wounds. He had scanned the reports Valdor had unlocked for him while he waited to be debriefed but seeing the damage up close made the bull in him want to sequester his Tori and kill anything that invaded his territory.

  “Please tell me you murdered the V’Saar who did this to you.” Sohm’lan wanted to touch, to heal. His core heated again as if jump-started by the very sight of the wounds.

  “I can feel your power calling to mine,” Mestor whispered, straightening slowly. Sohm’lan did not like how the scales on his abdomen looked as if they were going to fall off. “When you burst through the doors, the two Basilisc rolling into the room, and you stalking in like an oncoming storm…” Mestor made a rough noise. “If I was not this injured, I would have already had my way with you, witnesses or no. I have to say, I knew you were strong but watching you easily throw the guards off your back was quite arousing.”

  Sohm’lan pressed his forehead against his Tori’s, staring into the red-streaked yellow eyes of the bull he would give everything for. “You need to lie down. You do not need to prove your strength, not to me. I already know you are, have spent half my lifetime witnessing your strength of will, of heart, of mind, and of body.”

  “You just want me on the sleeping platform so you can have your wicked way with me.” Mestor’s voice went from raspy to rich and husky with desire. His pheromones tickled Sohm’lan’s nose.

  He raised his brow ridge and Mestor’s weak smile grew. “All right, all right. I will spread myself like an invitation across the linens, waiting for you to come.”

  Sohm’lan groaned, either at the innuendo or the blatant enticement, he was not sure. He grasped the back of the robe and carefully pulled it down Mestor’s shoulders and arms. Then he helped his amor onto the sleeping platform. He refrained from taking a closer look at the gel bandages that were dark with the substance the nanites pushed out of Mestor’s body.

  “Stay here. I will return shortly,” he promised before quickly stepping out of the sleeping chamber. He could not leave a threat at his back with his amor so grievously injured.

  The sitting room was empty, the exit to the main hall closed. When he went through those doors, the six Basilisc who had attempted to keep him from his Tori were kneeling. Their expressions held shock and a bit of fear. Palace security spoke with Captain Hesperos, Kryp, and Valdor. Ashari and Azaes talked to the two Basilisc who had fought alongside Sohm’lan. Monticore waiting at the end of the corridor did not look happy. The Basilisc were going to have trouble retaining their right to guard the royal family within the palace unless Valdor interceded on their behalf. Unfortunately, until their loyalty could be ascertained, Sohm’lan thought the scope of the Monticore should be expanded, at least temporarily.

  “Warlord Sohm’lan,” Valdor called.

  He might as well give his statement to the palace guard and Valdor at the same time so he would not have to repeat himself. “Your Highness, I apologize for the disturbance.”

  Valdor opened his mouth to speak, but Kryp beat him to it. “As if you have anything to apologize for. Everyone knows not to step between a Mar’Sani bull and his mate.”

  Valdor gave Kryp his full attention, gaze sharpening. “Is that so?” he prompted, deceptively calm. “What else do they say?”

  Kryp straightened as if facing a stern instructor. “Only brainless, tailless skinks enter the domain of a Mar’Sani family expecting to encounter inexperienced young. The bulls will attack and wear the entrails of their enemy as a warning to others to stay way.” He slouched back into what Sohm’lan had begun to think as his, ‘Look I am a youngling too innocent to know anything,’ pose. “That is what my instructors say, not that I believe all of it because who in their right mind would want to wear intestines for any length of time. And the insult is mine. I spent time learning Mar’Sani slurs while on The Gorgon.” Kryp looked Valdor over as if imagining him wearing
entrails.

  Sohm’lan coughed into this fist even as Valdor’s eyes narrowed. He hurried to give his report. “As I was saying, I had come looking for Prince Mestor when the infirmary staff said he left with his guard earlier. When I approached, the Basilisc denied me entry even after I told them Prince Mestor was my amor. I took exception to their continued reluctance and treasonous talk.”

  Kryp clicked his teeth excitedly. “He threw two through the door. With two more hanging on him. Grandfather Wrik is going to be pleased I made such wonderful friends!”

  Valdor’s eye twitched but his expression remained neutral. “Did they give a reason for their stance?”

  “I would have them questioned about their ties to Timsah Gadrius and House Cordyl. They are expecting something to happen soon that would remove House Vondorian from power,” he advised.

  “That bull has caused me so many problems,” Valdor grumbled before looking at the palace guards. “Please inform the Galactic Imperials that I expect a power grab in the next few days. We will try to keep it violence-free and contained, but I am not sure that will be possible.”

  “Yes, Your Highness. They may want to speak with you after I give my report,” the guard replied.

  “I will keep my schedule free for them.”

  The palace guard clicked her heels, ordering those with her to take custody of the bound Basilisc. When the Monticore moved, they not only allowed the palace guards out but Dr. Solon in. He pushed an enclosed hovercart, his expression promising someone’s tail would be twisted, if not torn off, once he was finished.

  “Your Highness. Warlord Sohm’lan. Could someone kindly take me to Prince Mestor?”

  Oh, yes. There would be a good amount of yelling involved.

  “Come with me Dr. Solon,” he said before turning and bowing to Valdor. “Your Highness, if you will excuse me to see to my amor.”

  “You are excused. Perhaps you can find some way to appease Mestor’s restlessness.”

  Sohm’lan hid his smile. “He will be healed before the end of the day. Afterward, his impatience can be redirected.”