He was in quite a deplorable state.

Torturing Vladya had proved to be more disappointing than fun, so Kershov sought out other ways to vent the simmering aggression snapping in crackling blue flames through his chest. A very unfortunate hare provided a much needed outlet; the white King had caught the tiny bastard with embarrassing ease and wasted no time killing it, snapping the puny neck with the cold-blooded efficiency he prided himself on. Then it was time to maim the body, carrying out the destruction Ker wanted so dearly to inflict on his traitorous ex-packmate. Kershov might have been ruthless, cold to the point of emotionless apathy at times, but he was no mindless murderer. He didn’t take empty pleasure from randomly tormenting others—his demonic wrath always had a reason, and the Frost Pharaoh firmly believed that his punishments always fit their crime.

But he didn’t want to set a bad example for his soldiers. If one of them stumbled upon the horribly mangled corpse of Vladya, they might lose trust and respect for their Alpha. Kershov had shown them all that he was nothing if not fair to those that betrayed his pack. Marx—that powerful and valuable soldier—had crawled back to Abendrot long ago and been labeled as a filthy prisoner, yet Kershov had seen the eerie silver brute’s dedication and restored him to his rightful place in the pack. Marx paid his dues. Ker had not needed to publicly mutilate the grey dragon to teach the rest of the military a lesson. Depending on the degree of the misdeed, Kershov felt that most could earn their honor back. If the bleached beast violently murdered Vladya, the wretched cur would never be able to properly repent. Therefore, Ker picked on this poor, worthless rabbit. It was far more acceptable to tear the head off a bunny than it was to behead an already beaten wolf.

With a crunch, the hare’s skull shattered between the Ice King’s jaws. Tossing the crushed head aside, Ker proceeded to methodically skin his prey, flaying the weak flesh from its brittle bones until he could empty its guts on the damp forest floor. These he left where they lie, choosing the feed nature’s scavengers so that he could enjoy the rabbit’s more savory muscle tissue. Kershov had only gotten halfway through his meager meal when a low, sultry howl thrummed with haunting clarity through the forest. This was no joining howl—this was a summons for the Czar. Ker lapped the scarlet from his wetted maw. Thank the gods he hadn’t marred his coat with Vlad’s pitiable blood; the frozen devil wanted to look his best when he saw his savage lover again.

Minaj was not alone at the border. Kershov’s clever gaze quickly flicked over Marx’s businesslike stance and the somewhat rigid pose of Enigma, both Abendrot warriors casually chatting it up with the alluring espresso pythoness. And Minaj . . . she radiated beauty as always, beauty and an enchanting aura of danger, serpentine cleverness bright in the depths of those amber pools. Her altered perfume—still mouthwatering, of course—alerted Kershov to her present state a split second before his onyx lanterns caught the telltale roundness of her abdomen. A delighted shark’s grin completed itself on his mask, permanent grin blending seamlessly into the gracefully curved un-torn side of his maw.

“I do not have to ask why are you are here, sweetling,” Kershov chuckled. “I only wonder why you didn’t come visit me sooner.”