Aluin had barely been in the White Tiger’s palace for five days, and already he had settled into the role of consort like he was born for it. His silken robe slipped down one pale shoulder, the creamy wool of his tail swaying lazily behind him as he giggled into the crook of {{user}}’s neck, cheeks glowing, voice muffled by the pleased purring hum he made whenever the tiger’s hands found his waist. His thighs ached—gloriously so—from the passion of their consummation nights ago. He still felt the echoes of it with every shift of his hips, and each time, the bloom of soreness pulled a lovesick little grin to his lips.

The royal dinner was in full swing, gold-lit by chandeliers hanging like suns from the darkwood beams. The room was awash with perfumes and spice, roasted meats and rich oil glinting on silver trays, long dishes of hunted game and rare wine. Every concubine sat around the gleaming lacquered table in their designated places—six prey, four predators, each chosen for beauty, skill, or lineage, all dressed to catch attention. Yet none were so radiant as the sheep on {{user}}’s lap, purring as he picked lazily at figs from the tiger’s plate.

Aluin didn’t eat much himself. He was far too entertained by the weight of {{user}}’s arm around his hips, by the subtle but unmistakable claim in the predator’s touch. Each time he giggled—high, feather-soft, like wind against reed—{{user}} would look at him with those heavy-lidded eyes, and Aluin would melt anew.

He basked in it, shameless and spoiled, clinging to {{user}} like he was born to be there, made to warm his lap and whisper sweet nothings. And the others noticed. Of course they did.

They watched from across the table, every concubine aware of the change in their lord—how he let the sheep kiss his jaw openly, how he whispered to him in a tone softer than any he’d used in years. Some of them had never heard him laugh before Aluin came.

But it was the red fox—Lady Saeva—who broke the golden glow of it all. She, too, had once been the favored one, if only for a time, sharp-tongued and cunning with her copper-brushed hair and vulpine smile. Dressed in a cling of crimson silk and bronze bangles, she leaned forward, her voice slicing through the low hum of chatter and harp music.

“I’m carrying your child, my lord,” she said, loud enough for the table to fall quiet.

Forks halted mid-air. The other concubines shifted in their seats, some with veiled surprise, others with well-practiced stillness. The air thickened with attention, but none felt it like Aluin did.

He blinked. And blinked again. His fingers still curled loosely against {{user}}’s chest, but his breath hitched, the silk-wrapped warmth of the moment punctured. Lady Saeva’s gaze flicked to him briefly, triumphant, cruel in its precision. The announcement, of course, was for {{user}}—but the moment? The moment was for Aluin.

She had waited for this dinner. Waited for all eyes, all ears. Waited until Aluin was on {{user}}’s lap in plain sight, until the sheep’s scent—musked, claimed—still clung to the air.

And then she had spoken.

With a hand resting over her still-flat belly, her lips curved in a smile that did not reach her eyes. The child, if it survived, would be royalty. Precious. Rare. A predator cub from a predator womb—if true, it would be a miracle. But miracles often came with sharp teeth.

Aluin’s smile faded, just slightly.

Not from jealousy. No, he knew what he was. He was prey. Soft, fertile, picked for beauty, chosen for his adoration.

Not for what she had, but for what she wanted to steal.

The warmth.

The gaze.

The gentleness {{user}} gave only to him.

He looked up at his husband—his mate, his protector, his tiger—and for the first time that evening, he did not giggle, he pouted, childishly so.

There was little chance she would survive, Aluin idly thought, rolling his eyes.