The electric charge of battle and jagged-metal snarls of battle drew Kershov to the border like a magnet, pulling the cold steel of his heart until the magnificent moon-white monster beheld the furious forms of Ruhani and Enigma locked in combat. He did not pause to question their actions, or even stop to see whom they were attacking—Kershov launched himself into the fray with daggers bared. It was only when he was within slashing distance that the savage Pharaoh saw the unknown male roll onto his spine; only then did he recognize the vile scent clinging to the perpetrator’s fur. It was him: Ruhani’s personal nightmare. The audacious little shit that had thought he could get away with harming one of Abendrot’s own.

Wolven code called for mercy when one wolf submitted to his superiors. Instinctually, wolves usually knew to cease violence when given the symbolic white flag of an exposed abdomen, because showing one’s vital guts meant “I surrender.” Kershov halted as his cunning gaze beheld the stranger’s tender stomach . . . but it kept every last fiber of self-control in his body not to immediately plunge his knives into the cur’s guts and give Ruhani a glistening necklace of intestines as a gift. Grudgingly, the ivory beast snarled to his packmates, commanding them to stand down and surround this foolish mutt.

“We don’t need your kill,” hissed Kershov in a voice that could carve diamonds. His whisper bore a serrated edge and left frost in the air, viciously cold. His eyes were twin pools of black ice. “If you wanted forgiveness, your own corpse would have been just fine.” A growl resonated deep in Ker’s chest, yet he still held back. His frigid glare cut toward Ruhani. Had the frost-Czar not been wrestling with his own hatred and acute indignation, Kershov’s cunning mind might have perceived the tension in Ruhani’s face, the vague torment that hid behind her windows when she saw the battered enemy. In a clearer state of mind, Kershov would have questioned the fae’s discomfort . . . but at the moment he merely tilted his head, managing to flatten his hackles with astounding effort.

“His fate is for you to decide, Ruhani. I will gladly allow the pack to carve him like a stinking carcass—but that is up to you. What is your wish?” Kershov tried to soften his voice, make it sound compassionate and caring, but the arctic dragon was incapable of feeling such warmth and his tone did nothing more than lose its razor rim. At least his ravaged face portrayed his honest intent to concede to the assassin’s wishes. “He acted against your life, so his life is yours.”