As Minaj sat before him and rubbed her skull catlike against Kershov’s broad chest, the white warrior returned the gesture with curiously genuine affection—well, as genuine as any “affection” could be coming from a being born of ice. His fangs found one of her satin ears and gave it a playful tug, releasing once Minaj rose back to her paws. Her fur felt wondrous; pregnancy hadn’t diminished the she-devil’s beauty in the least and Ker relished the silken warmth of her espresso melt melting into the snow of his own. The swat of her tail was returned with a playful flash of teeth. Shameless flirts, these two.

“Ah, yes . . . her . . .” At the mention of Abendrot’s new queen, technically Kershov’s new mate, the alabaster gangster showed no signs of chagrin or guilt. In fact, his amusement seemed to heighten as he thought of the fiery little creature he’d picked up on the freelands. Sil had complicated things deliciously between himself and Minaj . . . not. As if any one female could abruptly hold sole power over Kershov’s testosterone. What a laughable notion! In the porcelain poltergeist’s humble opinion, Sil’s existence affected nothing in his life other than the hopefully facilitated management of the military. “She shouldn’t feel anything about our arrangement simply because it is, after all, between you and me . . . and the ‘little monsters.’”

When she completed her revolution, stopping at his side as if the spot were the most natural and right position in the world, Kershov tilted his head, intrigued. Bantering aside, what could Minaj have to say that would incense Ker enough to mar that lovely mask? Whatever it was . . . it must be juicy . . . he flashed her a frigid, winning smile, eyes narrowed into malevolent onyx slits that offered neither violence or mercy. “No promises,” the snowy Alpha teased, “but I’ll try and refrain, if only because your face means quite a lot to me as well.” Gesturing with his tail like a gentleman, Ker indicated the darkening woods ahead. “Shall we go then, Madame Minaj?”