Kershov raised his brows in amusement when Minaj used the term “daddy.” He knew she was kidding—but still, it was such a petty term, so fluffy and ridiculous when placed on so ruthless a monster. Ker wasn’t a “daddy,” he was a sire; he fathered children, but he was no father. There was a vast distance between the act of creating children and actually raising them. Back on his stretch of the tundra, the glacial gladiator had coupled with plenty of femmes, some of those dances even resulting in pups; however, the femmes took care of their young, and Kershov rarely saw his spawn until they met the stern requirements of surviving and purposefully seeking him out. “Family” was a loose and absurd concept in that unforgiving land. If such a bond were convenient, family ties existed. When they were not—and rarely were such painful connections a necessary thing—wolves broke off. Joined other packs. Joined gangs. And nothing, not even the sultry promise of another’s fur, could force Kershov or anyone else to stick together because of love.

As Minaj’s taunting smile warped into a dangerous smirk, Ker felt his own amused grin stretch. It was haunting, honestly, how similar the two demons were despite the night-and-day contrast of their canvases. Both nurtured bloodthirsty beasts under their charming facades. “I cannot possibly accept your congratulations, m’dear. It looks to me as if you are the one doing all the work.”

Ker briefly imagined this vicious serpent trying to be a doting parent—and was somewhat stunned to hear Marx’s declaration of family. Instantly, the white devil’s bottomless gaze was on the silver army commander, utterly expressionless face failing to portray the odd resonating respect Kershov suddenly experienced. On some level Ker had always known that Marx was a soldier . . . so why was the Ice King so floored to hear Marx’s devotion voiced? Probably because the little statement was just so damned honorable. The smoky warrior owed his loyalty to the land itself, to the very spirit of the pack, which meant his dedication to Abendrot rivaled Kershov’s own. Hell, Marx most likely exceeded Kershov’s attachment to the kingdom. After all, Abendrot was something that Kershov owned, which meant he felt fiercely, ferociously protective and possessive over his land and those that lived in it; Abendrot had been Marx’s haven, his sanctuary, and the male must see it as something more than a forest. Interesting . . . very interesting . . .

“You are free to stand down, Marx and Enigma. I can take it from here.” The bleached basilisk’s appearance remained relaxed, open to any objections should his subalterns have a good reason to stick around, though the Alpha clearly wanted some eventual alone time with the future mother of his pups. “That is, of course, assuming that you haven’t turned into a spider and are waiting to devour me, dear one,” Kershov added to the chocolate-colored Minaj, speaking with a disturbing mixture of flirtation and challenge.