She was captured fire, held prisoner by the gentle waves that gripped her flame-born form in a possessive embrace. Delicate. Glowing. Kershov had heard the fae enter with her brother, but had kept himself hidden on the higher terraces of the falls, porcelain body cunningly concealed to observe. No particular motive drove the frost-king’s actions; it’s not as if he could discern the mystery femme’s healing abilities at first glance, of course—and his thoughts of somehow procuring a Queen were still dark, insubstantial tendrils curling around the outermost corners of his thoughts. He just . . . watched, like the cold predator nature carved him as. He couldn’t help indulging his curiosity.

She started to shiver, the icy touch of the water finally stroking past the heat of her pelt. Poor dear. She didn’t’ appear to dislike the cold. Okay . . . Kershov blinked his sly obsidian eyes and turned to focus on the bloodstains still gripping his fur. Except . . . his stare wandered back to the bathing lady. The tundra dragon did not believe in Fate unless it suited him to curse it, yet something told him to pay more attention to this pretty fire-faerie. Maybe she was . . . useful?

Ker lifted himself up so that his forelegs rested on the lip of his personal stone pool, upper body looming relaxed and magnificent and lightly haloed with those first few lurid shades of sunrise. Already, morning colors flooded the glassy surface around the wolfess. She wasn’t a faerie—she was a goddess.

“What unfortunate soul did you maim, m’lady?” Kershov called down loftily. His winter voice flowed smooth and lightly conversational from his ravaged demon’s maw, devoid of any pathetic sultry tones more desperate brutes might use. He just wanted to talk. For now. “It must have been a bloody struggle if you need to cleanse yourself so.”