Page 29 of Her Feral Beasts

“Fuck off. No.” Greg proves he has a death wish.

“Do you not know who that is? Fuck man,move.”

Scythe ignores their disagreement, pulls out a seat and turns it so it’s facing the rest of the hall. He sits on it, crossing one leg, the picture of the king of ice at court.

Savage, our king of blood, calmly puts his tray down next to the cretin lion. Before the guy can utter a word, Savage reaches over and violently slams the lion’s head down on the table. There’s a satisfying crunch as his nose breaks and he slides sideways to the floor, unconscious. Savage’s done this so many times over the years that he knows the exact pressures to use to give a concussion, a brain bleed, and a death-blow. In another life, he could’ve been a surgeon.

Savage puts his tray on top of the blood like it’s not even there and sits on the lion’s seat, grabbing a steak and tearing into it with his teeth. Chewing, he looks around at the lion’s friends and points to the beast on the floor. Two of them immediately run forwards and drag the guy out of there.

Scythe doesn’t watch any of it, just quietly observes the hall with his hands clasped in his lap.

I sigh and sit down opposite Savage. Scythe will deal with business while I eat. That’s what he does best.

Unlike Savage, I use the ugly bamboo fork and knife, ready to scarf every last crumb on my tray as I sit back and watch the show.

The first to approach is Yeti, a trustworthy Siberian lion we’ve known for years, an enforcer operating under us and one of the few who we allow to know us on a first name basis. Yeti is a beast who gets a job done, whatever it is. He’s a thinkeranda killer, which is pretty rare as things go. That’s why I respect him and his judgement.

“Good to see you, sir,” he says respectfully to Scythe, inclining his golden head to us all. “Xander. Savage.”

“Yeti, sit with us,” Scythe rasps, indicating a chair at the table. “Are you well?”

Those in the vicinity visibly cringe when they hear Scythe’s voice, but Yeti breaks out in a smile like he’s happy to hear it. “Thank you. I’ve been well.”

Yeti parks himself next to Scythe and promptly gives him the lay of the land, telling us the ins and outs of the academy, and introduces those who approach. For the next half an hour, the young criminals and fighters of the state come to pay their respects.

Those who don’t know him personally know him by name and reputation. Within half an hour, we know who is smuggling in contraband and how, who’s got drugs, who’s blackmailing who, and who’s likely to land themselves in Blackwater Penitentiary, as well as any other dirt. We also mark which of the beasts are involved in trafficking and breeding rings in the outside world.

Once business is done and the line dwindles, a few unmated animas saunter forwards and offer themselves. There’s not all that many unclaimed women here, but enough to keep the unmated animus’ aggressively competing, so it’s smart of these ones to come up to us to seek protection.

I’m interested in how Scythe will respond because he’s not discussed the snake girl with us, outside of fulfilling our blood pact to deliver her to her father. Even so, she’s still technically our regina and the animus in all of us responds to other females differently now. Which is to say, not at all.

My eyes dart over to said snake, and she’s watching us with a frown. She notices me looking at her and quickly averts her blue-eyed gaze.

That’s a weak snake right there. Prey, more than anything, and it makes my hunting instinct rear its ugly mug.

A pretty brunette in a crimson crop top and matching mini skirt curtseys at Scythe, which is impressive in the black stilettos she’s got on. In a sign of submission, she bares her neck by flipping her long hair over her shoulder. I get a whiff of her and there are so many scents there, we all immediately know she’s been with half a dozen unmated males this week. Girl’s got a healthy appetite.

“Hello, Mr. Kharkorous,” she purrs, glossy red lips curving into a seductive smile. “My name is Sarah.”

Yeti glances at Scythe. It’s well known that our shark doesn’t touch women—or men for that matter—but it doesn’t stop them from trying. When none of us offer to claim her, Yeti clears his throat. “We see you, Sarah. One of the others will be in touch. Off you go.”

Sarah pouts and doesn’t move away, glancing first at Scythe then at me. I’m just behind him, and now that I’ve eaten my food, I’m leaning back in my chair, my legs spread wide and my arms crossed. Her anima must have no sense of self-preservation, because she saunters past Scythe and plonks herself down on my lap.

My animus wants to vomit at the feel of another anima on me.

“You stink of cum,” I drawl. “Get off.”

It’s probably one of the worst things you could say to an anima presenting herself to you, so she recoils while still on me. “Fuck you!”

Smoke billows from my nose and she stares at it.

“If you like your hair on your head, Sarah, go,” Yeti warns.

But she doesn’t listen and runs her long nails across my chest. “I don’t mind a little heat.”

I glance at her long hair. It ignites instantly.

Sarah screams at a pitch that might ruin my ears and lurches off me, flapping at the flames and jumping up and down, only making it worse. The acrid smell of burnt hair fills the area, and Savage wrinkles his nose.

---