Kershov shook the blood from his face, trying to clear his vision as he stared daggers at his opponent. Red fingers drooped over his kingly brow and into the simmering pools of his molten onyx eyes. Apparently the sticky scarlet curtain had impeded his sight more than he thought; Blondie had escaped his killing blow to the throat with nothing more than a wound on his shoulder, and a split in his ear served as the only reminder that Kershov had tried to ravage his face. This last injury vexed Kershov more than all of his other assaults combined. How badly he had wanted to blind this pretentious wolf, to forever extinguish the icy light in that dull lantern. Ah well. No matter the outcome—defeat or victory—the alabaster gangster would not rest for days to come. Even as he lapped at his own various punctures and slashes, Ker planned sweet plots of revenge. Blondie had better watch his step from here on out . . .
As Blondie lifted his head, Kershov met his pale stare with vague curiosity. In some ways, the tawny stranger reminded Ker of his Novacula Fallacy; he seemed to carry a similar hollowness in his core, a total lack of passionate emotion that would have made him a fine assassin—had he accepted the ivory serpent’s offer. Had Blondie uttered a word during the conflict? Had he snarled or roared? Kershov found as venomous adrenalin seeped from his system that he honestly couldn’t remember. The bleached beast had been too focused on destroying the whelp to really care how Blondie reacted or acted during the conflict. Perhaps a stupid move: Kershov liked learning from his enemies, even if they had little to teach him.
With a wince and a muted growl shuddering in his throat, Ker tried to twist around to clean the shallow tear whipped across his back leg. His porcelain fur was fouled with the rusted tint of blood, both his own and the filthy essence of Blondie. I smell disgusting . . . the massive monster thought acidly as his tongue bathed away the worst coagulated clumps from his ankle. Finally his gaze moved one last, final time to Blondie’s impassive face. Another surge of cold rage blazed to frigid life in Kershov’s chest. He could not remember a challenger pissing him off so damn much. It must have been Blondie’s silence. Kershov could not deal with a foe that refused to speak to him. “Whatever happens, do not think that you may sleep in peace. I will stalk you to the ends of this earth. And if you take my pack from me, expect a visit very soon.” With that, Kershov creaked to his paws and marched as regally as he could from the battle ground. He would not give Blondie the satisfaction of seeing his pain when he tried to cleanse the rest of his battle marks . . .
.:.leader of Abendrot – lover of no Minaj – tied to Sil - father of none.:.