Page 110 of Song of Her Siren

She let out a derisive sort. “They’re not that clever.”

He wanted to argue that perhaps they were, but thought better of it, lest she turn his cock to ash. She dismissed him with a sneer, and he hurried out of her bedchamber as if he was being chased by poisoned darts. He didn’t dare disobey her, though he knew that once they killed Thorin and turned the shifters, the white witches would prepare for war.

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Cenric, King of Itarian

Centaur Stronghold, Caldaria

HEAD HELD HIGH, KINGCenric clomped through the center of the gathering hall, a long wooden tribal lodge with a thatched roof. Warm hearths at either end cast a pleasing glow throughout, illuminating hay dust particles in the air. This hut had been built by Cenric’s great-grandfather out of Periculian Pines, able to withstand strong winds and even a giant’s fist and had served the centaurs for centuries.

He glared at other stallions who kicked their hooves, daring them to challenge his rule. He would not back down, nor would he run like a coward. He was king of all centaurs and would be respected. The vagrant shifters who’d been foolish enough to come scratching at their doors earlier that evening had rattled the tribe with tales of demon spiders, but Cenric refused to believe it. Too lazy and stupid to hunt for themselves, the shifters were no doubt scavenging for a free meal and a warm bed. They would get neither here. They’d been sent on their way with the warning not to come to Itarian again, lest they wanted to be impaled by centaur spears.

Now the women, children, and weaker centaur stallions were uneasy, caving to their foolish fears. Even if such spiders existed, they were no match for centaurs. They would be flattened beneath his tribe’s hooves if they dared breach Itarian’s walls.

Cenric’s stomach rumbled as he inhaled the heady smells of barley, onion, and parsnip soup boiling on the hearth fires. Though he was hungry, his desire to rut outweighed his need for food. A good rutting would relieve the tension in his shoulders. He would sow his seed first, and then the tribal mares would serve him food and mead.

He flexed his muscles while clomping around a brood of mares and their youthful fillies. As king, he had his pick of the best mares in the tribe, though tonight, he was only interested in Angeline, a fair-haired filly with a pale dapple coat and a long, dark tail. He’d been wanting to add her to his brood for a while, and he was tired of her avoiding his advances by hiding behind her mother’s flank. He cared not that her mother, Frida, protested her daughter was too young. Tonight, Angeline would be broken in on his cock.

Cutting through the crowd of mares, he snarled when they pushed their daughters behind them. He wasn’t interested in their snot-nosed foals. He wanted Angeline, with her sky-blue eyes and turned-up nose. When he reached Frida, he stopped. A beauty in her own right, with flame-red hair and alabaster skin, he’d mounted her more times than he could count. But her coat was starting to dull. Cenric was craving a shiny coat and fresh blood, and as tribal king, it was his right to break in the virgins, filling as many of them with his seed, so that his strong bloodline would continue.

“Move aside, Frida,” he said on a snarl.

Frida had the nerve to defy him, pushing her offspring behind her. “She’s too young.”

“She will never mature while you coddle her.” He bowed up his chest while continuing his advance.

Frida stopped him with a hand on his chest. “She hasn’t had her first blood.”

He flashed his teeth. “Then I will bleed her.”

Frida paled, her mouth falling open. “Your father never broke in young fillies.”

“My father is no longer king.” He thumped his chest with a growl. “Iam.” How dare she compare him to his father? The old mule had ruled far too long, until Cenric tired of his senility and ended his life with a spear through the chest.

“You should be preparing for a demon invasion!” Frida’s cheeks reddened as she waved to the tall lodge’s wooden doors. “Not defiling young girls!”

Flames of rage flashed in Cenric’s skull. He slapped the mare so hard, the sound ricocheted throughout the lodge. Frida’s head flew back, blood and a tooth splattering against the wall.

Cenric was very aware of the hush that fell about the hall, with the exception of young Angeline, who cried out for her mama, tears marring her pretty face.

Shaking the pain from his hand, Cenric said with a snarl, “You need to learn your place, woman.”

Frida rubbed her swelling jaw, ire flashing in her eyes. “And you need to learn yours! Only a coward king bullies his mares.”

A jolt of anger surged through him, and he snatched Frida’s braid, relishing her cries while pulling her to the ground.

“Please, stop!” Angeline thrust herself between them, clawing at his arm. “Please!”

He grabbed the filly, dragging her away from her injured mother. “Come here, Angeline.” Fury pumped through his veins as he roughly hauled her through the crowd. He would mount her here for her mother to witness and all to share in her shame.

The crowd parted, then closed in around them as he dragged her toward a pile of hay in the center of the hall.

She dug in her hooves, flailing. “No!”

He spun on her with a snarl. She wouldn’t dare defy him. “What?”

Her lower lip quivered as she hiked up her chin. “I will not mate with a coward who abuses women.”

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