He wondered why she didn’t leave immediately. As soon as she fully sensed his presence, the molten qualities of her frame stiffened into metal—a sculpture of copper and brass—stubbornness hardening that damsel’s mask into something much stronger. How . . . interesting, that she should refuse to look at him . . . it wasn’t fear, exactly, that motivated the wolfess into caution. At least, that’s what Kershov guessed—and his guesses were usually correct. If she were a fearful thing, the girl might have fled, or instantly turned to see her voyeur, or tried to prematurely establish dominance with a few petty insults or empty threats. She did none of that. And so the ice-carved dragon calmly observed the sleek flame of her tail follow behind her like the wisp of comet as she slipped toward a shallower spot, water plastering her pelt against her curves as if unwilling to part with so fine a treasure. Kershov found himself idly tracing the sloping line of her flanks before the fae spoke.

Well, if she should prove an idiot after all, at least she was fun to look at.

Then his ears perked at her reply. What felt like the faintest beginnings of respect stirred in Kershov’s chest. Wonderful—so she wasn’t a misborn, pretty little fool. Girl had some fire on that tongue to match the fire of her fur . . .

“That’s a rather bleak assessment of a perfect stranger, don’t you think?” the frigid demon countered. A false pout lowered his noble brow, as if the arctic dragga actually felt affronted at the prospect of being called “unfortunate.” He continued in a half playful, half entreating tone. “I cannot speak for you, obviously, but I prefer not think of myself as a victim of circumstance. How dreadfully existential of you.”

Here the frost-breathing phantom had to tilt his head away in order to hide the delighted grin curving up the still-handsome side of his maw. The vague shudder of his shoulders was unavoidable: his silent laughter proved too much to contain. “It’s my face, isn’t it?” Kershov replied in an obviously crafted plaintive voice. “You judge me wrongly, Madame . . .”

Abruptly, he dropped his act. It shattered into the water-slicked stones below, leaving behind a cunning, predatory gaze alight with intense interest and hungry anticipation. “I am one of the most fortunate souls I know.”

As if realizing for the first time that blood still stained the alabaster background of his canvas, Kershov brought his simmering stare back to the faint, lurid cloud spiraling in the water around him. When his onyx windows met the fire-lass once more, the easy conversationalist had returned. A cordial, slightly embarrassed expression mastered his visage. “With the exception of being born with a coat so effortlessly fouled, I cannot say nature has, pardon, fucked me over. Can you say the same for yourself?”